Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling - whatever you recognise is her doing, the rest is mine!
Red by Rockinfaerie
Separations and Reunions
Though the bright sun was only just beginning to ascend the wispily clouded, early sky, Mrs Potter held her orange parasol aloft, shielding her pale face from its glare. It had been a gift from Mr Potter, on his return from his travels to the Orient, many years before, but the colour had not faded, and the ornate black drawings had not lost any of their definition. She held it firmly in one gloved hand, the other placed in the crook of her son's bent elbow, as they walked side by side along a meandering path, which brought them along rows of small, yellowing trees and a thin trickle of stream.
The scenery was lovely, and the morning air fresh and cool, but her heart felt heavier then she had ever imagined possible. With every step and passing moment she felt a small eruption of fear inside her, which she made every effort to suppress as she attempted to reason with her son – lest her arguments be degraded to tearful, dismissible sobs.
"Admittedly," she said quietly, after a sufficient period of silence had elapsed, "Beauxbatons is not as historic as Hogwarts, but it is highly reputed for its academic excellence, and has such fascinating grounds – not to mention the strides it has made in recent years in terms of athletics…"
James did not answer, and plucked a tiny leave from a branch as he passed it, but appeared to be otherwise attentive.
"I could ask Isabelle to write to her former colleagues, to make inquiries – I'm sure it could all be arranged quite easily –"
"Mum…"
"Or you could complete your studies right here," she continued rather breathlessly, "– Isabelle has a wonderful collection of Transfiguration books, and we could retrieve our own things from the apartment in Paris… it could all be done -"
But she knew it was hopeless.
Ever since the WWN had announced that, as of the end of the present week, all access and egress to and from the island of Great Britain would be denied, both he and Sirius' moods had become increasingly melancholic. Only yesterday had it emerged that they were fully dedicated to their plan to return for the last year of school – which had, at the start of the summer, not seemed so serious an objective.
At first, she had been astounded by the apparent stupidity of their intentions. Returning permanently to a land that was, according to media reports, descending rapidly into violent, uncontrollable chaos, at the risk of being tortured, murdered or worse, and all for the sake of one academic year? She had likened it to dashing wandless into a perfectly signposted dragon's lair, or drinking clearly labelled poison to which there was no antidote.
As he walked calmly beside her along the sun-dappled path, she thought fearfully of the prospect of never seeing her son or Sirius again, thinking of that poor neighbouring Muggle who had lost both of his children in the War. It was the first time, she realised, that she had ever felt any sort of affinity with a member of the 'other' world, and it was a curious sensation.
She plotted their discussion, mentally tuning her voice to a mild and gentle key, but still her question leaped desperately away from her, and she knew, deep in her heart, that it would never receive a satisfactory answer.
"Must you go?"
"Yes," he answered shortly, looking straight ahead of him at the wide, tranquil fields. She closed her eyes for a moment, being too acquainted with his obstinate nature to envisage convincing him otherwise.
When she opened her eyes the stream gurgled lazily around the small rocks and stones behind him, glinting in the sunlight, and she almost half-expected him to break from her and run down the grassy verge, kick his shoes off and wade in, as he had frequently done at Godric's Hollow when he was a little boy. Instead, he stayed put, his expression determined, but his young face as pale as a unicorn's clear coat.
"Because," he elaborated, thrusting his free hand into his pocket in what struck her as a very school-boyish manner, "our country's being destroyed by a…" his face contorted into a scowl of deep hatred, "… menace, who seems capable of everything except being defeated – and it will remain that way unless there are people left to fight him…"
She was filled with a cold, dizzying sense of dread, as though every part of her maternal instinct was predicting the worst. Her eyes welled with tears, and both mother and son stopped as she wiped at her cheeks with a lace handkerchief, and he put a comforting arm around her.
"Oh don't," he pleaded, trying to smile at her. "Nothing enforced by the Ministry ever works these days – I'm sure we can make it over for Christmas. And if the border's still closed, you know that Sirius and I are experts at rule-breaking –"
Mrs Potter laughed from behind her mascara-blotted handkerchief. "Yes, as I have constantly been informed over the years by your deputy headmistress!"
She sighed, pulling him into her as she had done several months ago, in a place far removed from this narrow dusty path. Taking her parasol back from her son, she twirled it in her fingers, the black designs blurring momentarily as the frame spun around.
"I suppose," she said wistfully as they began to walk again, "I never did expect that your youth would be so different to mine… that was a time of peace, with little dwelling on my mind but the thought of what I would wear to the next... ballroom dance, or masquerade ball."
Fond memories of her youth rushed back to her – the tastes, the smells, chamber music flowing through high-ceilinged rooms… those distant days when she had just emerged from Hogwarts and into society - the fine gowns, the banquets, the garden parties flowing with exotic fruit, the lavish décor and palatial country mansions – how wonderful it had been.
Through it all, she had never once thought of that life as being a fleeting one. However, shattering developments in the decades since had brought about grave changes in Wizarding life, not least the devastating occurrence of the War of Grindelwald, and now, this wave of violence that was spreading the length and breadth of their home country.
Up until recently, alterations in Wizarding lifestyle: the demise of luxury and carefree social excursions, the enduring economic slump, the increase in crime, had been frequently discussed by members of her own generation. It was often concluded by such commentators that the significant rise in the British Wizarding population since the early part of the 20th century that had been the greatest contributor to plummeting living standards. This was a rise not brought about by increasing birth rates, but by the reintroduction at the time of magical education for Muggle-borns, which had been abolished in the late 1700s, owing, apparently, to "increased Muggle awareness of Wizarding existence."
Though she found it difficult to tolerate these social commentators (due to the fact that during "the heyday," as it was so termed, it was they who had been among the most drunken and unruly, and were therefore incapable of dispensing advice to the public on how best a society should function), she did find herself resenting the current, ugly situation for what it was, and could not help but wonder if the influx of Muggle-borns had been to blame.
In any case, it was hard to accept that her son should be subjected to such a nightmarish situation as the current escalating war, and wished she could instead provide him with the luxury of her early adulthood. She had thought, that if the British threat to Europe could be contained, she would introduce the boys not just to French social circles, but to her old friends in Italy, Austria, Spain, Germany, Greece and elsewhere, in the hope that their minds might be broadened further by meeting new people, outside their own immediate circle at home, which, she had often found, could be incredibly dull. That way they would not only be safe, but be entertained, able to forget their homeward grievances and start a new life for themselves, becoming acquainted with other old European Wizarding families, perhaps with a view to the future…
"Oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "How silly of me - I almost forgot. I received a lovely letter from Lucius yesterday, informing me of his engagement to Narcissa Black – Sirius' cousin. Lucius, married, can you imagine it?"
"No," James answered, with surprising coldness. In fact, suddenly he barely seemed interested, looking instead at the stream, which was crossed in the distance by an arched stone bridge. His arm where her hand rested had tensed suddenly at the sound of his uncle's name, which perplexed her greatly.
"Well," she continued, though still mystified by her son's reaction, "I do hope things work out happily for them. I believe they have just moved to Belgium, and though Lucius has not said anything in his letters to that effect, I believe that to be the case. I simply couldn't be happier for him, my dear little brother –"
"Stepbrother."
There was a long silence between them, during which they continued to walk, and the only sound heard was the flow of water beside them.
"That's the first time I've ever heard you refer to him as that," she remarked eventually, keeping her eyes to the ground.
That one terse word, though true, had both startled and upset her.
She had been enjoying the whims and excesses of her youth when the Malfoys, an old family her own family knew well, had been beset by tragedy. Lucius' mother, who had been barely older than herself, had died subsequent to his birth, leaving poor white-haired Mr Malfoy in a state of overwhelming loneliness and despair. Shortly afterwards he married her own mother, who had been a widow for quite some time.
Her mother's attitude to this marriage, which had been purely based on pity for this poor, aged friend, she could remember clearly. She could easily picture the small church in which their wedding took place, her mother standing dutiful and proud on the altar, next to the stooped man who, for the short remainder of his life, would be her stepfather. She had sat in the front pew, keeping quiet the little baby who was then quite oblivious to his surroundings, and who would grow into a mischievous little blond boy, before becoming the confident, talented young man that he was today.
Mrs Potter had wondered at the abrupt change which was wrought in her son's relationship with Lucius, with whom he had been on the best of terms in his younger years. She had never sought to find out how this apparent fray had occurred, but as it was a subject her son seemed reluctant to discuss, she thought it might be best avoided, and hoped that whatever argument they had had would soon resolve itself.
"I'm sorry Mum," he said quietly, looking genuinely upset. "I didn't mean to –"
"No, no, it's perfectly all right, darling," she answered, shaking her head to indicate that she knew he had meant no harm. "But I did think that you, of all people, having forged such a fantastic fraternal relationship with Sirius, would understand."
He nodded, but his expression, though upset, remained somewhat aloof. Her son looked tired, as though he had slept little the previous night. There were shadows under his eyes, and she wondered if his reluctance to eat had had anything to do with his impending return to England.
"James," she said gently, "If you're in any way frightened –"
"I'm not!" he exclaimed immediately, as though greatly offended. "Not…, not frightened, exactly… I mean, sometimes I get anxious for my friends, and you, and –"
He exhaled again, stopping, and casting his eyes downwards, before finishing sadly, "I don't even know if some of my schoolmates are even alive, let alone coming back for seventh year."
"Well," she began, in the hope of comforting him, "Peter and Remus are perfectly all right, aren't they? You've been receiving letters from them practically daily since we arrived here."
"Yeah," he acknowledged, beginning to smile a bit. "Remus has been at home, and Peter is staying at some sort of a seaside resort – they sound happy."
"You see? Not everything is as bad as the radio or newspapers make it appear."
Still he did not seem convinced. He was certainly determined to return, but she knew by his eyes that he was not sure what he was returning to. Their was an element of dread about his face, as though he thought his worst fears were about to be realised, and as though he too sensed that it would be best not to go.
She could not bear to see him unhappy. If, by staying with her, he continued along his current behavioural path – eating less, sleeping less, becoming more pale and withdrawn, she would never forgive herself for her selfishness.
Yet the memories returned, this time of her husband. She knew that, even in his later years, the War of Grindelwald had still haunted him... the experience had, in a sense, erected an unspoken, insurmountable barrier between them. The war had erupted within a year of her marriage, and he was frequently absent in its duration. He was initially one of the most privileged, issuing tasks and ensuring the upkeep of Wizarding Secrecy standards. When all order disintegrated, however, he went to the front, and she knew that, whatever ordeals he had experienced there, he came back with only the traces of the man he once was; all else had utterly changed.
A large part of her fear, therefore, was rooted not only in the possibility of her never seeing her son again, but the fact that he would - most certainly - be altered irreversibly by experience. The same silly wish returned, one which had frequented her thoughts throughout the summer - that she could mother him as a little boy again, issuing sensible direction and doing for him whatever she wished, free of any outside interference. But she knew that it was mere foolishness to imagine such scenes, and knew that whatever she wished, his wishes took precedence - they always had.
She then resigned herself, out of necessity, to a sort of vague optimism that things were better across the channel than they appeared to be from afar - the same idea that her son had just heard her promote, and walked slowly, dwelling on certain matters which had pressed on her mind whenever she had thought seriously of his returning. She retuned her voice - gulping away the pain that had risen in her throat, returning to its mild, business-like tone.
"You will call into Arabella's, won't you?" she heard herself say as the sun strengthened and blazed in the sky. "She'd love to see you - it's been so long. I think she lives in Surrey - I'll give you the address. One wonders, at these times, how everyone is managing... And don't forget that the Chelsea house is in perfectly good condition - the furniture has been covered over, of course, but other than that... Write frequently and please be careful - I can't bear the thought of losing you..."
Her voice briefly lost its footing and threatened to tumble into a clatter of broken sobs, but with a deep inhalation of the warm summer air she regained it, surveying the calm flowing waters of the stream and all its buzzing insects among the reeds.
"And," she continued, saying these last words with a sudden hint of a smile, "do behave. I don't know if Professor Minerva McGonagall knows our whereabouts, but I'm sure she's perfectly capable of tracking us down...!"
Her son, who had nodded and murmured affirmations throughout this little, rather rushed, speech, now looked immensely relieved, as though she had granted him a reprieve from some sort of terrible penalty. There was, however, a hue of sadness in his eyes which she knew reflected her own; for they stood together on the dusty, stretching path, wincing in the hot, now near-intolerable sun, facing a separation of indeterminate length.
As usual, the candles, their multiple flames casting a warm golden light about the cavernous room, were held aloft in the high ceiling, which perfectly resembled the one outside – streaked horizontally with the greys and oranges of a clouded, fading sun. But the Great Hall looked false: the House tables were bare and empty as props on a minimalist stage; benches and aisles devoid of chattering students.
The only table occupied was that of the faculty, which was sparsely surrounded by the older staff members, some looking very dishevelled from a long journey that preceded their arrival, others grave and pessimistic, as though they expected the Great Hall to remain equally empty during the approaching academic year.
Minerva, her hair smoothed back in its customary tight bun, sat up straighter as Albus Dumbledore re-entered the room, having disposed of his dusty travelling cloak in the adjoining chamber. His robes, which were now revealed, were of a deep purple and exquisitely tailored, but were somewhat worn at the hem, reminding her forcibly of young Sirius Black's. In spite of this, he appeared to be in higher and more energetic spirits than those of his colleagues, for though he moved to his chair at the head of the table, he remained standing, looking around at them all appreciatively.
"Friends," he began, his long beard shining magnificently in the candlelight, "I cannot begin to articulate just how grateful I am for your loyalty. These are tremendously difficult times, times I don't think any of us throughout our long lives could have imagined in our wildest hours of dread."
His listeners nodded grimly in agreement.
"As we all know," he continued, "the situation has grown rapidly more urgent over the summer months. The European Wizarding Authority has unwisely closed the British border, effectively trapping the innocent and rewarding the guilty. This 'reign of darkness' – as Voldemort has termed it with a twisted, venomous pride – is worsening."
The rest of the table has winced in unison on hearing the name of the feared Dark Wizard, but he did not appear to have noticed. Albus' eyes held a hint of that fiery, burning anger, which she knew aroused insurmountable fear in his most powerful enemies. He placed a closed fist on the grooved surface of the table as if to steady himself, inhaling softly before speaking again.
"Rumours of Hogwarts' closure alarmed many students and parents alike. Few are privileged enough to escape to safer climes, and a substantial proportion, as we know, come from Muggle society, which as yet is unaware of the violent and frightening turbulence in our world."
"It is my firm belief," he said, gesturing at the space about him, "that this school is one of the very few safe havens left. And I take it as my personal duty, which I hope each of you understands, to protect each and every one of my pupils from Voldemort's horrors and influence alike."
He paused once more, and in her close proximity to him Minerva thought she saw tears of gratitude glistening in his eyes, though his voice remained as powerful and steady as ever.
"By joining me in doing so, I can only express my deep admiration for each of you. Coupled with this is my faith that by remaining in our besieged country, you make one of the greatest social contributions of our time – the provision of an education and shelter for our war-stricken youth."
The chair scraped along the floorboards as he sat into it, modest in his acknowledgement of the light applause that issued from his staff. His eyes travelled around the table, greeting people individually with his warm smile.
"I'm delighted to see you here, Horace," he said with a low voice and a tired grin to the Potions Master, who sat to his left and opposite Minerva. Professor Slughorn had aged somewhat since June, though he was no less portly – something she derived strange comfort from.
"Well old chap, I'm hardly getting any younger. Besides, I supposed that you'd find difficulty in procuring another Potions professor with teaching standards as high as mine."
Horace said this with a laughing wink, but there was an anxiety about his countenance that Minerva could not help observing, and she wondered at his remaining in Britain, when she had imagined, prior to her arrival at Hogwarts, that he would presently be gallivanting happily about casinos on the continent.
Rebekah Scotch sat to her left, tucking a wayward grey hair behind her ear as she addressed Minerva.
"There certainly are very few of us here," she murmured, casting her eyes around the table. Professor Binns was there, of course, having quickly settled into his customary sleepy demeanour, and so was Filius Flitwick, talking energetically to the enormous Hagrid, whose black eyes twinkled behind his scraggly mane. She was, as usual, correct, for in spite of these familiar faces, there were others whose absences were marked by the empty spaces between her colleagues.
Franz Gudgeon, last year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and a quiet, experienced, thoroughly unassertive man, was nowhere to be seen. Frederick Boone, the absent-minded but brilliant Arithmancy Professor was also missing – Minerva had heard of his intentions to take refuge in Greece, and she hoped that the kindly man had reached his destination safely.
Minerva nodded in agreement, but before she could answer the Quidditch trainer, Albus had stood up again, this time tapping his glass lightly in a request for silence.
"Our stock has, as we all know, depleted substantially. However, I am most pleased to inform you that I have secured a new and very worthy young man to fill our recently emptied Defence Against the Dark Arts post. I'm sure," he said with a smile, "you will all remember him clearly."
Albus nodded to the doorway that adjoined the Great Hall to the one where he had left his travelling cloak. There stood the young man to whom he referred, his black robes blending smoothly with the dark shadows around him. He was a rather short man, with a prominent forehead and quite a stocky build, but when he emerged fully into the hall, she recognised his young, intelligent face instantly.
"Carodec Dearborn," she exclaimed in some surprise from the table, and he raised his dark eyebrows and nodded his head slightly by way of greeting.
For a moment, he appeared quite awkward and isolated at the edge of a group of his former teachers, who were reminded that he had always been quite a shy student. But with a flurry of robes he was almost immediately surrounded by their welcome handshakes and inquiries as to his well-being.
"Now then Carodec," Albus said as he led him to the table. "Might I offer you some tea? – You've made quite a significant journey here."
Before his new colleague could refuse, Albus had conjured a tray above the table, and instantly a large mug was filled by an obedient red teapot.
"That should do the trick," the Headmaster said, sitting Carodec down on a chair he had pulled up beside his own. Minerva's former student clasped it gratefully with his hands - which she saw were pink and raw with cold - before drinking deeply. During his loud gulps of tea the rest of the staff fell silent, watching him and marvelling collectively at how fast time seemed to have gone by – it felt like a very short time ago that he had been sorted into his House in this very space.
As Carodec finished, setting the empty mug on the table in front of him, Horace clapped a fleshy hand on his broad shoulder. "Dearborn my boy, I must say it's a tremendous joy to see you back. How many years has it been?"
"Seven, Sir," the younger man answered. Minerva had expected him to look up nervously, as he had done in her classes those years ago, but he seemed to have grown more confident during this elapsed period, and was entirely more relaxed now that he had revived himself from the journey.
"Ah yes, seven long years…" Slughorn sighed wistfully. "Merlin knows a lot has changed since."
"So Slytherin isn't still winning the Quidditch Cup, then?" Carodec asked, grinning. Minerva knew that he must have clear memories of incessant green-and-silver victories.
Slughorn appeared quite taken aback. "No," he said falteringly. "No, our fortunes have strayed from that area, sadly, which I can't help but blame entirely on the admittedly intimidating talent of one particular student… whose name I shan't mention lest I prejudice you against him with my somewhat resentful tone."
"Do you mean to say that Ravenclaw has climbed the ranks?" the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher asked hopefully.
"Not quite," Filius laughed, tea splashing from his cup as he added a lump of sugar. "These days Quidditch has been dominated by the boys – and indeed girls – in red."
Carodec nodded with a slight but knowing grin at Minerva, who nodded proudly.
"I was never much of a player," the young man said to the table. "But it's a great spectator sport –"
"Unless you happen to be me," said Slughorn curtly.
The rest of the table laughed at his childishness, but he merely pulled haughtily at his long moustache. Edward Carlyle, Professor of Ancient Runes and linguist of some renown, passed him the sugar bowl with a grin.
"Well, it gives the students something else to think about, at any rate," he said, and Horace had to agree.
Carodec nodded. "It's difficult to think all right, what school would have been like for me had all this stuff been going on at the time. Are many students expected this year?"
"The numbers will have dwindled, of course," Albus acknowledged seriously, adjusting the spectacles on his crooked nose. "But, as I was saying before your arrival, we still have numerous people to cater for, particularly those from Muggle backgrounds."
Carlyle drummed his fingers loudly on the table surface, as though playing a quick piano piece in staccato. "Lak-shul," he said hoarsely, with the wide, distant expression of a man steeped in the sounds and tones of ancient tongues, "– that's the expression for 'magic-less' in thirteenth-century Elfin Tongue - a word they took very seriously - which is thought to have been derived from the ninth-century 'Lackur-sha', meaning 'duty'. The fact that both concepts are so evidently intertwined is fascinating, due to..."
"Speaking of duties," Rebekah Scotch interjected (knowing, as they all did, Carlyle's ability to carry a discussion into sheer irrelevance), "have you decided who will be our Head Boy and Girl this year?"
Albus smiled enigmatically, leaning back on his chair and habitually pressing his fingers together. Like most things, Albus rarely discussed these matters before he had to, but she assumed that Remus Lupin, who was so well-mannered in spite of his monthly debilitating condition, would deserve the role of Head Boy.
Any colour in the ceiling above them had faded into an inky black, and any stars to be seen in the night sky were smothered by thick clouds. The candle flames dilated and contracted, sending dancing shadows across the room, and the edge of Albus' mouth twitched, as though in on some sort of joke to which all others were oblivious.
"Albus," Horace admonished after several minutes of silence, "please don't keep us in such suspense!" Minerva knew he was hoping that at least one of his own House members would reach the coveted student position at Hogwarts, and didn't want to prolong the wait any longer.
"As Head Girl," Albus said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, "I have decided on Lily Evans."
A wide beam spread across Horace Slughorn's face. Though she was a Gryffindor pupil, it often appeared that he considered her one of his own.
"Excellent choice, Albus!" he exclaimed victoriously, and there was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the staff, including Minerva.
This was one of those rare times, she realised, when she agreed with Horace Slughorn. Lily Evans was a lovely girl – a diligent, hard working student who was respected by her fellows, with many friends and admirers alike. The previous year had issued a shattering blow to her life, with the tragic death of both of her parents in a Muggle accident. She had dealt with it exemplarily, but she knew that Albus was not giving her this position out of sympathy – out of all seventh years, Lily Evans was the most suited to the post.
"She's top-notch," Horace happily explained to an unacquainted Carodec. "One of my best and brightest students – it's a privilege to teach her, it really is."
"Is she by any chance a relation to Jerry Evans, who was in my year?" he inquired with a furrowed brow. "He's just finished his Healer training."
"Oh no," said Slughorn instantly. "She's Muggle-born, actually. You'd never know it though –"
Albus cleared his throat loudly. "Are you not interested in finding out who her male associate is to be, Horace?"
"Of course I am," Slughorn said serenely, "– fire ahead, old chum."
Again, Minerva saw the slight twitch around the Headmaster's mouth as he looked at the expectant faces around him. He studied his long bony fingers for a moment, and then, looking up at them all with raised eyebrows and a confident smile curving his mouth, he told them.
"James Potter."
It was only when Horace Slughorn emitted a horrified half-scream and the rest of the faculty expressed their shock with questioning glances at their Headmaster, that she realised that she had not misheard him after all. Albus merely sat back to survey the stifled chaos he had caused by uttering these two highly-charged words.
Slughorn, his face pale, forced a grin and began an attempt at laughter. "Oh Albus, up to your old tricks again – you very nearly had me this time!"
While it seemed to the staff that this sort of decision could only be accepted as some sort of joke, Albus was thoroughly unmoved by their reaction.
"My dear Horace," he said, his mouth breaking into a wide grin, "I'm being perfectly serious."
"Albus!" Horace exclaimed, now in a sheer and very obvious state of panic. "But that's simply preposterous – what? Potter as Head Boy? The very idea fills me with cold dread!"
He downed the remainder of his tea as though it were a shot of hot whiskey, and for a moment stared straight ahead, possibly envisioning the horrors that such a development might bring about.
Minerva herself, though nowhere near as distressed as Slughorn, was quite perplexed by Albus' decision. True, she held him in high esteem for his tremendous talent in her subject and often found him very entertaining, but James Potter seemed like a very odd choice for a position which required so much responsibility.
"Realistically, Albus," began Slughorn in obvious desperation, "has he not moved to the continent?"
"My sources tell me otherwise," the Headmaster answered simply, thoroughly amused by Slughorn's reaction.
Slughorn scowled at Minerva as though this was her doing.
"Besides," the Potions Master then attempted, "it's hardly fair to have two Gryffindors in charge, when –"
"All right, we'll find a replacement for Ms Evans," joked Rebekah, aggravating Slughorn even further.
"You know that's not what I mean," he snapped.
"Does anybody mind telling me," asked Carodec Dearborn politely, "who this Potter lad is?"
Carlyle sighed, not, however, without some amusement showing on his brown-bearded face. "Forgive us, Carodec – he's something of a household name around this neck of the woods. He is the aforementioned Gryffindor Quidditch player who understandably causes Horace a considerable deal of woe."
Carodec nodded, looking, like Albus, as though he was rather enjoying himself.
"And what has inspired me to put position him as Head Boy this year?" Albus asked rhetorically, looking around at his colleagues. "It is neither madness nor foolishness. It is because, as in Lily's case, I believe James to be the most suited for the job."
Albus ignored Slughorn's look of exaggerated disbelief, and continued.
"Other students look up to him – his influence is testified even by the number of younger boys who self-consciously mess their hair up every morning. We know from the Gryffindor team's successes that he is a very effective leader," – Slughorn's nostrils dilated in annoyance – "and he receives exceptional grades in almost every one of his subjects."
"Albus," Slughorn said, followed by a large intake of breath as if to keep his calm, "let's be reasonable. Just because there is a frankly dangerous number of Potter look-alikes running about the school does not mean that he –"
"Please, Horace," Albus said, raising a hand to stop him mid-sentence. "He has, I believe (and I'm sure none of you has failed to notice), matured a great deal over the past several months. And, in spite of disciplinary problems we may have had with him in the past, his integrity cannot be brought into question after what occurred just under a year ago."
The staff, including Slughorn, fell silent at this. Only Carodec looked quizzical at the mention of this, his wide blue eyes searching the table for an answer.
"What… what happened?" he asked quietly.
"He saved another student's life," the Headmaster informed him, "at great risk to his own, something the large majority of his fellow students remain ignorant to, for reasons I will discuss in detail with you at a later stage."
"Above all," Albus proceeded, his voice deepening in sincerity, "I believe that by issuing him with this responsibility, it will dramatically improve not only his own behaviour, but that of his closest peers."
Slughorn still looked far from convinced, but did not object vocally as his colleagues agreed openly with Albus' motives for giving the position of Head Boy to someone so unexpected. Instead, he turned to Carodec, his mouth widening in a semi-forced grin.
"Let's forget this business," he chuckled, "- which, as you have perhaps observed, is unpleasant to my ears! Have a glazed pineapple piece - go on, they're better than they look..."
Minerva sat back, knowing that under this grandfatherly demeanour the Potions Master was still fuming like a wind-ravaged chimney. She pressed her lips together, looking around once more at the darkened Great Hall, listening to the muffled silence which enveloped the walls - always strange during the summer months - which now had an undeniable, unsettling tonality. She couldn't help but wonder at the condition the students would be in on their return; the summer had been saturated in strife, and she had yet to know what traumas they might have endured. This tore at her heart for, as cold and stern as her demeanour was often perceived, there was not a moment when their welfare was far from her thoughts.
He took a cup gratefully from the plastic tray, cradling it in his hands for a moment to allow the warmth of the contained liquid seep into his skin. As he sat back into the lumpy sofa, drinking slowly from the chipped rim, he cast his eyes about the sitting room, which was beginning to darken on this rainy summer afternoon.
A small bay window to his right revealed the narrow road that he and Sirius had walked. The large, square houses were all incredibly alike, each with rather shallow front gardens and small, neat hedges. It was a confusing place, a labyrinth of residential streets full of such dwellings, and though it was obviously quite densely populated, it seemed strangely remote; there was no evidence of war or ruin, or violence of any kind.
The only unsettling sound heard was a constant, buzzing moan, which seemed to emerge from the garden of the adjacent house. Their host, however, did not seem encumbered by it, and for a moment James wondered if, after the long motorbike journey a few days before, he could be imagining it. He was relieved, therefore, when Sirius asked, gesturing to the garden window as she handed him a spotted pink mug from the tray,
"Um, what is that noise exactly?"
"Oh," she laughed, her slippers shuffling against the rug as she moved towards the source of the sound. "That's just Mr Stevens, mowing the lawn. Don't worry – it's no threat to you."
She smiled vaguely, and then moved to the mysterious, cubed contraption in the corner of the room, twisting its dials and assembling the crooked dual aerial perched on top.
"Have you lads acquainted yourselves with the telly yet?" she asked, a look of satisfaction spreading across her face as a fuzzy moving image appeared on the front surface of the machine. "I hope you don't mind if we have Coronation Street on in the background – I have to say, I'm hooked at this stage."
Having no clue how to discern what she meant, Sirius and James merely mumbled their consent, shifting uneasily on the flat cushions.
"And help yourselves to some soup if you'd like it," she said, pointing to the tray where there were three bowls of a dark green, watery substance. "It's cabbage soup. I'd have gotten more ingredients if I'd known I'd have guests tonight, but you see, I like the taste of very little else."
Taking her own bowl and a steel soup spoon from the tray, she nestled into the armchair nearest to the "telly". And though she had just declared her addiction to some sort of entity that emitted from it, it soon became apparent, to the relief of the boys, that she had more interest in conversing with them.
"Now that we're finally settled," she said, tugging a shawl around her shoulders and looking at James, "I think I can ask how your mother is."
"She's fine," he replied automatically, though he guiltily suspected that she was far from it upon his departure. "She's living in France at the moment – she asked us on our return to drop in and see how you were…"
"And how am I?"
"I… I beg you pardon?" he asked, taken aback.
"What do you intend to report?" she elaborated, looking amused. "A good journalist should always validate his or her facts before relaying them to others. Though I don't suppose either of you have become journalists – do you have any intentions of doing so?"
Bewildered, they both shook their heads in reply.
"I thought not. It's a shame. We're a dying breed, you know. I used to write for The Prophet – in the old days. It was the only proper job out there for someone as atrociously magic-less as me."
She wistfully at the small fireplace, where a fat tabby was purring contentedly.
"Then, of course, I got the sack. They claimed they wanted to change their angle to a more 'exciting' one. Have you seen what it has become?" she asked, to no-one in particular, before answering herself with a flick of her hand. "Sensationalist rubbish… Good riddance, I say!"
She floated her spoon on top of the thin soup, filling it before lifting it to her mouth. Having finished his tea, James thought it impolite to refuse the meal she had prepared for them, however frugal, and cautiously tasted from his bowl. It wasn't the worst thing he had ever tasted (ill-advised dares throughout Slughorn's Potions classes had provided him with the ability to realise that the horridness of food is all relative), but that said, he would have rather eaten one of Mrs Figg's doilies if it hadn't been lacking in propriety.
"So," she began, after a short, awkward silence which had followed her outburst elapsed, "are you still at Godric's Hollow?"
"No," James answered, looking up from his efforts at soup-depleting. "I haven't been there for ages."
"It's a shame," she said, scratching the thick fur of the tabby absent-mindedly. "It's such a pretty place – and a far cry from here, at that."
She sighed, as she looked around the small purring living room, and out at the identical houses along the road.
"It doesn't seem so long ago that you were a wee one, no higher than that table, running around, and my sister chasing after you into some ditch or whatnot…"
James smiled at the memory. Her sister, Helena Bartley, had been his nanny and parents' housekeeper for years, and he fondly remembered her. There had been many times when he had dragged her out into the lashing rain, only to pet the winged horses, or had refused to sleep simply because he knew it irked her. In retrospect, he knew that he must have been a demanding child, but she was always patient, and though she could be stern, she always had such a kind manner that it seemed impossible that she could ever be truly angry.
The sisters had lived in the centre of the village, in a low terraced feline-filled house opposite the only tavern, with shallow steps leading to the door and moving stained glass in the kitchen window, and some clucking chickens in the yard behind it. He knew that Sirius thought it an odd expedition to make, but in truth, these women had been as much a part of his childhood as the silver sky or the dew-soaked heather of the vast grounds of his home.
Ms Bartley, he remembered, as he stared into the thin cabbage soup, had been a far superior cook, and many a morning had been spent in the kitchen of the cottage at Godric's Hollow, staring at the swirling flour that seemed to settle everywhere, and the sweet, warm smell that always promised a very pleasant dessert. She had died some time after his entry into Hogwarts, and for some time afterwards he would take refuge in accessing these untroubled memories... before this habit, like many of his childhood, drifted beneath the surface of his mind.
It had only been during his school holidays that he was able to observe the demise of the tiny wizarding village of Godric's Hollow - traditional residence for a few old, respected families, and a refuge of sorts for retired professors and ministers alike. It had experienced a gradual exodus since his childhood; the growing climate of fear and its very remote position being clear contributing factors. On his last visit, the old tavern was silent, the redbrick houses lining the main street lifeless and empty, and the cottage gardens abandoned and sadly overgrown.
He had always known Arabella Figg as Helena's thin, widowed sister - a curious, though utterly benign, cat-loving entity. It interested him, staring around the room in which they sat, to see remnants of that old life still present in this calm, Muggle suburb - a gloomy oil painting on the wall to the left of the "telly" had once hung in their tiny hallway, and the delicate floral plate which rested, dust-covered, on a modern side-table in the corner, had once belonged in their kitchen. Thinking about the possibilities of her neighbours discovering the slow animation of the framed painting, and the fruit-producing abilities of the little plate, led him to conclude that Mrs Figg didn't actually receive many visitors. This made him wonder, with a sudden pang of sadness, at the extent of her isolation; trapped, as she was, in a maze of identical streets, unhappily forging a Muggle identity (being blamelessly cut-off from her own world by her incapacity to produce any magic of her own).
"...I remember you used to get yourself so muddy. Have you finished with school?"
He had been brought back into the cabbage-smelling sitting room by Mrs Figg's wavering voice, and he looked up from the soup, which he had been stirring automatically, to see her lined, inquisitive face peering at him from the armchair.
"No..." he replied. "We've got another year left - we're going back on the first of September."
The woman nodded, returning her gaze to the cubed and aerialed contraption, and offering the bowl of soup to a black cat that had emerged from the adjoining kitchen. He remembered instantly that she would never have gone to Hogwarts - would never have experienced dormitory-life, breakfasts in the Great Hall, parchment essays by firelight, or midnight trips to the kitchens. Perceiving Sirius's slightly desperate glance in his direction, he pondered upon these issues only as he downed the remainder of the broth - unpleasant, but not entirely intolerable.
"Sorry 'bout all that, Padfoot," he apologised some time later, as they walked together towards a supermarket at the end of a quiet residential street. It had been a rather lengthy, uncomfortable visit, which he knew his best friend could not have enjoyed - yet he did not regret making it; he knew that she had appreciated it much more than they had. "We've still time to get the food."
"Just about," Sirius replied mildly, looking at his watch as he walked the motorbike along the path. "Milk, bread and perhaps some butter. I don't intend to live on curry chips for the rest of the summer - much as I love them," he added wistfully.
In the few days since their return to England, they had both undergone a massive lifestyle change. Gone were the formal, salad lunches in the refreshing shade of Mme Demarchalier's farmhouse; instead was the aforementioned diet - procured from a chipper conveniently situated in a very battered Victorian building, a few doors away from the flat Sirius' uncle had left him.
Their manner of dressing, likewise, had had to undergo a change - it was always necessary to act inconspicuous in the Muggle world. This had elicited a day-long trip to a tailor's - an apparently exclusive establishment expensively furnished with long, flattering mirrors and rather unctuous assistants, whose initial attitudes towards the boys - who had arrived dressed in a strange array of mismatching and poorly-fitting Muggle garments - had quickly developed from disdain to servitude on noting the intonations of their accents and the amount of money they were willing to spend.
This behaviour never impressed James, but he felt that it had to be endured (without, as he had eventually convinced Sirius, their snobbish hosts incurring certain penalties usually reserved for the similarly oily likes of Snivellus Snape). The result, admittedly impressive, of that trip into Knightsbridge was that they currently strolled, not as wizards, but as Muggle teenagers - extraordinarily well-dressed teenagers, but Muggles nevertheless.
The quiet street of houses sloped onto a wide, tarmac roadway, which featured a smooth, whizzing flow of Muggle cars, a tall series of residential buildings, and one modern supermarket. As the boys approached this cement structure, eyeing the bright signage and lines of metal trolleys, James was filled with a certain degree of apprehension.
"So, is this the same as one of our shops, or...?" he asked suspiciously, watching people emerge with plastic carrier bags. Even the exterior was so far removed from the little shop-fronts of Diagon Alley; he was beginning to question the very nature of this strange establishment.
"Oh, you poor country-boy," exclaimed Sirius in a friendly mocking tone, "confused by this electrically-lit realm of civilised suburbia!"
"Nonsense, you're as lost in this world as I am," James retorted, and his best friend did not venture to disagree.
A sudden downpour of rain quickened their entry into the shop. The glass doors rushed closed behind them as they silently surveyed the interior, a sight alien to anything either friend had every witnessed; a massive variety of brightly-coloured packages lined infinite aisles of shelves, the floor was compiled of plain, shiny tiles, and everything, from the withered vegetables to the mysterious electronics, was icily bathed in a dazzling, harsh light. The loud words and symbols, which seemed to scream at them from every angle, were confusing to wizarding eyes, accustomed to the dimmer, softer tones of small magical franchises such as Madam Malkin's and Quality Quidditch Supplies.
Sirius began to examine their wares, trailing his finger along the cardboard and plastic packaging which housed each individual item.
"Look at this one," he exclaimed, pulling down a lurid pink box and reading its caption. "'Fade-Out Washing Detergent' - promises to eternally banish stains from shirts and jeans..."
With a slight twist of his mouth, he pried it open with his fingertips, but the box unbalanced and fell, issuing a shout of juvenile laughter and a cloud of pale-blue powder all over the floor, and down Sirius' expensively tailored front.
An anxious-looking freckled boy approached them at a run, wearing a red shirt and apron (bearing the word "staff") and energetically wielding a mop. Knowing that such garments stood out from those of the general Muggle public, James had pulled out his wand, but the boy had knelt down to where the powder had spilled.
"No bother sir, I'll get that," his yet-unbroken voice said cheerfully.
Sirius eyed the mess and its cleaner curiously as James pulled him away, directing him quickly along the aisle.
"You can never be too careful, these days..." he murmured, as Sirius freed his arm and pocketed both hands.
"Please," he laughed dismissively. "As if anyone would b choose /b to inhabit such a guise..."
"Where's the milk?" asked James, ignoring Sirius' accusations of paranoia. "You can't find anything in this bloody place."
"Y'know," said Sirius thoughtfully, as they walked past repeated rows of regular shapes and patterns, "some wizard has probably made a mint out of those products - a simple household spell is all most of this stuff takes."
Finally, they arrived at what seemed to be a map of the building - it appeared embarrassingly small. Having located the dairy and baking sections - both at opposite sides of the store - they decided to separate and make their own way to each. On his own, the place seemed even more foreign, as though the yellow threshold had been a secret border into a distant land. Knowing it was useless to seek any form of familiarity, he continued with his task, imagining the countless distractions that Sirius would probably face along his way.
The milk was cold and thoroughly un-milkish, dressed as it was in a curious cube package and decorated with a sunset and smiling Friesian cows. He focused on the labelling on the items before him for some time, before picking up three of said cartons and a foil-wrapped block of what claimed to be butter. Hoping that the transaction would go smoothly, he set about to find Sirius.
The condensation seeped against the front of his Muggle suit as he carried these groceries, searching the limited and at times unintelligible signposts for some clue of where his best friend and the bakery might be. He was just thinking about how useful a marauder's map would be for such places when he bumped into someone.
"Sorry," he muttered, stepping out of her way, annoyed at his own lack of self-awareness. He glanced at the "staff" emblazoned apron, and began to ask, "Could you tell me where the..."
He trailed off, silenced by the vision of the face who stared incredulously back at him. Instantly he felt hot, his face colouring, and his mind racing thought the improbabilities of meeting her here, of all places.
Her face was completely different in this severe electronic light; her skin looked ghostly pale, and her straight hair clashed oddly with her Muggle clothing - garb which struck him as totally incongruous with the girl he knew. He perceived a definite and unnerving sadness in her brilliant eyes, but her pretty mouth widened in a smile of disbelief.
"You look," she began, sounding almost as embarrassed as he felt and setting down a stack of small boxes on the shelf behind her, "as though you've just raided the BBC costume archives."
"Well, I felt like I should try to blend in," James answered somewhat vaguely, unwilling to admit that he hadn't the least idea of what she was talking about.
"I'm not quite sure if you've succeeded," she laughed.
"Why are you... wh..." he stammered, trying to establish the phrasing of his question. "What are you doing here?"
"I think I have more of a right to ask you," she answered, folding her arms. Though she still looked amused at the sight of him in Muggle clothing, it seemed to him that she was beginning to close her expression, as though unsure if it were actually him. The same thought suddenly occurred to him as to her identity, and he wondered why the growing distrust of others, which had been cultivated by random attacks and fearful headlines, had not unleashed itself on seeing her.
"I'm..."
The repetitive music which seemed to pipe from invisible enclaves wove through the otherwise empty aisle, and for a moment he focused on her, deliberating. Through this sterile, life-sucking environment came the soft smell of leaves and twigs, the cool grass and burning fireworks. He knew only that her current breathing sustained the same rhythm, and that her stature had the same unintentionally graceful air... and though this seemed to confirm that he was definitely looking at Lily Evans, it scared him that, though he knew her so little, he recognised such fundamental details.
"I'm..." he began again, clearing his throat, rubbing his one empty hand through his hair, "here on a visit - someone I know lives on..." The address evaded him.
"What's her name?" she asked bluntly.
"Arabella Figg," he answered uncomfortably. "She's... a friend of the family. Likes cats," he added pointlessly.
She looked down at the alternately tiled floor, and up the aisle, as though searching for a reason to move away. Her hand was in her pocket, and he knew well what she was clutching.
"All right, well..." she began, as if about to make off. She was not convinced.
"It's me," he exclaimed earnestly. "James Potter - I've played Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team for a year - Seeker before that..." she narrowed her eyes, still looking alert, but remaining stationary. He tried desperately to think of some other fact, known only to them. "We... sat together for a while, after the final - I threw leaves in your hair... and then you threw some in mine."
He fell silent, blushing wildly, but closely watching her reaction. This little speech had made him feel quite pathetic, and he wondered at the power of his rapidly beating heart, which had made him so desperate for her to acknowledge him for who he was. It had taken the desired effect, however; she relaxed, a sincere smile spreading across her face, a relieved expression lifting her painfully sad eyes.
"Sorry," she then said, in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. "I just... I mean, what with the attacks and everything... and the extreme strangeness of meeting you here, I just didn't know..."
"So..." he began, seeing another customer enter the aisle, examining what was stacked on the shelves.
"I work here," she answered, having seen his inquisitive expression. She gestured at her apron vaguely, as though faintly unhappy about this declaration, but unwilling to show it.
"You're going back though, aren't you?" he asked, slightly panicked that she had entered a career already. "To school, I mean."
She paused, smoothing her red apron. "Of course," she then said. "And you, I take it?"
"Of course," he repeated cheerfully. "Right now I'm staying in Sirius' flat in London - he's here too - I think he got lost in the... bread section."
"This is mad," she exclaimed, glancing around as if expecting to see Sirius beside her. "I've been working here every day, since the holidays began... my sister lives nearby - I've been living there..."
Her words trickled off into nothing, and she looked at the floor. This scene might have evolved into one of dull, uneasy awkwardness, had there not been a massive crash nearby. Both, following the sound to the bottom of the aisle, were beset by the sight of the Muggle customer, who gesticulated in an irritated manner at the mess of glass and splattered jam on the floor.
For an instant, Lily looked as though she was about to cry. Instead, she walked briskly over to the woman, and told her in a false, cheery voice, that it was nothing to worry about - the very same assurances he had recently heard from the boy wearing the same apron. The woman sighed loudly, as though the girl was to blame, before stalking off, leaving Lily kneeling over the mess.
He knelt beside her in the aisle, watching her glare silently after the perpetrator. He wondered how, having heard her smart classroom retorts on many occasions, she had remained so subservient.
"Don't -" she implored him, seeing that he was about to perform a vanishing spell.
"What - you expect to do this by hand?"
"Muggle area, James!" she said exasperatedly, tearing a roll of cloth from her apron. "Do you know how many times I've gotten those stupid letters - 'The Ministry of Magic has been informed... this is a warning... indecent magical exposure...' even when they - the Muggles - haven't actually seen anything..."
"Ok, well I'll help you anyway," he said stubbornly, picking sticky shards of glass out of the spilt jam and putting them aside. She nodded, and, though his knowledge of Muggle cleaning was undeniably limited, he flattered himself that his assistance quickened the process.
The paper cloth absorbed the red fluid from the glossy floor as though cleaning a wound, and the smell of preserved strawberries lingered in the stuffy air. Soon all that was left was a faint stain on the floor, which Lily deemed adequately clean. Still, they remained kneeling.
"Are you all right?" he asked her seriously; he had never seen anyone look so downtrodden, so close to defeat... and he couldn't bear to witness the misery of anyone he cared about.
"Fine," she answered lightly, untruthfully. Seeing that she was not about to retract her statement and elaborate, he offered a hand to help her up; she accepted, unusually, and they stood silently for a moment before a loud voice broke through the unpleasant piped soundtrack.
"Prongs," Sirius exclaimed, grabbing his arm, "Where in Hades have you been?! I've been looking everywhere, and then got lost among what I was told was the toiletries section... this place is bizarre."
He was clutching a variety of things - a bare loaf of bread was just visible beneath a cluster of tins and condensation-covered packages.
"It's just Tesco," objected Lily, laughing at his astounded expression when he turned and recognised her.
"No," he replied in a fluster, as though this were a rapidly disintegrating dream he no longer comprehended and from which he wished to escape, "I haven't the faintest idea of what this is..."
James bent down to retrieve the milk and butter from where he had left it on the floor, when suddenly a light above them flickered off, leaving the illuminated area in a gloomy shade of grey.
"Oh," Lily exclaimed, looking around her as a muffled announcement projected from some mysterious place, "we're closing - they're telling the last customers to leave."
"Where will we pay?" asked James quickly, wondering how much Sirius' collection would amount to in Muggle money.
"Just take them," she answered, beckoning them hurriedly "- there's a door over there."
"Look," said Sirius, maintaining the selection in his arms with an admirable degree of skill, "I'm all for nicking stuff from Honeydukes, but... stealing lettuce?"
"There's a first time for everything," she replied, opening a narrow door to reveal an empty and puddled car park.
"You won't get into trouble?" James asked her, concerned, as he squeezed through after Sirius.
"Nope," she replied, with a certain glint of steeliness in her eyes, "I'm quitting tomorrow."
Sirius stood still, freeing a hand and pulling from his pocket a battered pencil and throwing it on the wet ground. "C'mon," he called, looking at the sky, "it's getting dark!"
"Do you want to come with us?" James suddenly blurted out, and he felt himself redden again.
She seemed understandably taken aback - she stood in the doorway, her face conveying a mixture of amusement and anxiety. "No," she then replied with a laugh, lowering her head and turning, on the verge of retreating inside, "I… I'm sorely tempted! - but I don't think I should."
"Bye then," James said sadly, absorbing the prettiness of her face as Sirius grabbed his arm and began to pull him away.
"See you in September," she called, and there was an audible note of determination in her voice, as though such casual words were voiced as a vow.
The back of the shop was bare and windowless, and, the door having been closed, devoid of ways in which curious Muggles could view this rear car-park.
"You do the honours," Sirius said, nodding towards the pencil, half-submerged in a puddle. "My hands are full."
James sighed, looking around, ensuring that the gated lot was fully enclosed by a high wall. Then he quickly performed the task, until instead of a pencil, standing in the puddle in all its shining metal glory, was Sirius' motorbike.
They were soon flying, invisibly, through a misty evening sky. The forceful wind rendered conversation impossible, but even if they had been freer to communicate, James wouldn't have known what to say. His thoughts were a confused jumble, producing images and sounds which connected and disconnected as excitedly and uncontrollably as bludgers. He found it difficult to believe that this encounter with Lily Evans had actually occurred - it seemed so utterly unlikely - yet he forced himself to acknowledge it. He knew perfectly well that, once they returned to Alphard's bedsit, with its oil-stained floral wallpaper, carpet worn to grey and curious oriental tea set, Sirius would jokingly taunt him with allusions to fate. Though he knew he would scorn them in reply, James could not help dwelling on the strange odds her being employed by the only Muggle supermarket he had ever entered.
For him, this summer had been one of painful separations and rather awkward reunions; the knowledge that he was now independent, relieved of the constraints of childhood, had evolved from these. Those wild, flour-dusted mornings, and afternoons of beautiful, carefree leisure, were left behind in a disappearing trail of exhaust, and as they descended upon the dense, chimneyed rooftops of North London, he looked into the darkening future with mixed sensations of rumbling trepidation and soaring excitement.
So, so sorry about the enormous delay; I've just had a very stressful academic year - I've been writing bits of this throughout it, but the non-HP books demanded a lot of attention! Please leave a review if you wish...
Charlotte Donahue: Thank you – I've finally updated, much later than I had anticipated, unfortunately!
Stargazer777: That's all right – everyone has their own tastes – thanks for reviewing anyway!
faithwings: Thank you, thank you for your lovely review! You've probably thought that it actually has been discontinued at this stage, what with the year-long hiatus – sorry about that – hope you like this chapter.
Drajl719: Thank you – hope you like this chapter!
stag-star: Thanks – it's definitely continuing – unless the seventh book rips the plot to pieces – hope you liked this instalment!
Chelz: Thank you for the tremendous encouragement – keep reading, and hope you like this chapter (which I know is a bit long, but I feel like I owe people)!
Jasu: Again, thank you for your lovely review – I really appreciate the detailed ones! I agree that the members of "pure-blooded" families would be expected to be able to communicate in other languages (French particularly - it's always been associated with aristocracies outside France, I think)… Also, because the tradition of pure-blood marriage is kept within such a small, elitist group, it would be necessary to become acquainted with similar families in other countries, if the tradition were to continue. As you can see, James and Sirius do not become Henri Champney's adopted sons – though it was a very nice idea! – but you will hopefully see a bit more of him. As for James' parents' marriage, I completely agree – it is impossible to imagine that pure-blood marriages were not without tension, and there is nothing in the books to indicate that it was a happy family situation. We've seen that his character has obvious flaws, but if he's painted as being part of a 'perfect' or ideal situation, where did these flaws come from? With regard to the mistress question, he was vaguely aware of it because – as you have stated – 'straying' would have been seen as quite a normal activity. I will hopefully develop on that issue later on. Sorry about the long delay – I hope you like this chapter!
MySite: Thank you – a year later, it's finally been updated – hope you're still reading it!
Jay: Thank you for your lovely review! I do like paying attention to the details, which I usually draw from real observations (to the detriment, I think, of the pace of the plot!)… Another very long chapter – perhaps my longest yet, which I hope you like! Regarding fan art, I had been thinking of making my own – now that I finally have some spare time on my hands - but, depending on what's involved, I'd also be interested in seeing someone else's ideas.