A/N: This one is hot off the presses because it's been too long! Real life has a way of getting in the road. Story-typical warnings apply, and as always please read with care.
March 15th, 1976
The ceiling was pricked with stars. In the swirls of indigo, there was night, and the suggestion of galaxies where ancient stone peeked. A puddle of moonlight pooled in his lap, turned to water by the teardrops streaking the glass above his bed. Starched sheets held him in place, precise folds becoming a linen gaol. His fingers curled against his pillow. Softer than he liked. Unsupported. The firmness of the bed made it worse; he could have adapted to a softness or hardness but not the mixture. He disliked it when the world proved contradictory in this way, and he expected Madam Pomfrey to be a more orderly sort of woman. Had the pillows been so soft last time?
And with a stab of pain, he shot upright, realising, realising. Severus was in the Infirmary, though he could not remember how he got there. An ache pulled at the left side of his body, gnawing at his cheekbone. He had fallen. No; he had been stunned. Potter. As if from a thick soup, images emerged groggily. He had to spoon them out. The storm; the stag; the knot and the tunnel and the –
Severus thrashed against the sheets, kicking and shoving until he was free of them. His feet jolted against the floor. The rest of the hospital wing was silent, lost in sleep or potion-hazed ruminations, but it couldn't wait. His left leg protested, but he gripped the dividers and the ends of strange beds until he reached the door to Madam Pomfrey's office. He had to tell her; she could send word to Dumbledore, and they could stop it, they could save people – Dumbledore, for all his faults, would see that it was imperative. Lives depended on it.
Severus knocked, hesitated, and pounded, barrelling his fists against the wood. At once, light gleamed through the crack, and the door swung open to reveal Madam Pomfrey. Fully dressed, with identical blue bruises beneath her eyes.
"There's a-"
"In!" She barked it so forcefully he complied without thinking, stumbling in after her. The door shut behind him, and the white flames of the sterile pillar candles flared to life. Paperwork cluttered the desk.
"Madam Pomfrey," Severus started again. "There's – there's a dark creature – it could attack the school -" Terror robbed him of his voice and his coherency, and he scrabbled for sense. "A werewolf. There's a werewolf on the school grounds. We need to get the Headmaster! It was loose -" Images flashed through his mind, and finally his chest tightened. He stared at her. "You knew," he said, discovering the truth only as he said it. The matron sighed, elbows on the desk and hands folded against her mouth. His world crumbled. "You knew."
"Dumbledore wished to be alerted as soon as you woke," she said tiredly. "If you will give me a moment." She reached for the cage that held a well-groomed barn owl, but Severus lurched forward, heart pounding. How could she-? Did the Headmaster know? Her job would be on the line if she had kept it from him. Not only her job – the Ministry would have their say in it. How could she? She was tasked with ensuring the health of all the students, and every month she threw it away on some beast.
"No," he said, standing his ground between her and the owl. She exhaled through her nostrils.
"Mr Snape -"
"How could you?" he demanded, disgusted with himself as he realised he had trusted her, for no reason at all but her title. He had assumed she might have sense. The walls closed in on him. "You have a duty."
"I have a duty to let the Headmaster know you're awake." She drew herself up briskly. "Get out of the way, Mr Snape, or you will find yourself with points taken." For a moment she loomed as large as his father. He wanted his fucking wand. He wanted to break something.
"If I had died, so that he could have his secret, you would allow that?" Her face turned to stone and she stormed past him, ripping open the cage door. Severus rounded on her. "You'd let me die for that – he's not even human! He's a half-breed! You'd put the entire school in danger for one werewolf?" He hoped the other students woke up, and he hoped they heard every word. As far as he was concerned, the whole school could know. He would tell them himself. Madam Pomfrey unlatched the window and sent the owl soaring through the thickets of rain. She slammed the door shut. Severus might have been thick, his eyes burned, his leg protested under his weight. Foul words twisted round his tongue until they gagged him. The walls themselves stared, gazes burning into his flesh, searing tattoos of rejection. You are not welcome. You are not wanted.
Madam Pomfrey rummaged through a cupboard and thrust a vial into his hands. He recognised the brownish liquid at once, its consistency like pudding.
"No," he said. "I'm not hysterical. I am responding properly! I'm telling the truth!" He thrust the Calming Draught onto the desk.
"Sit," she said sternly, flicking her wand and conjuring a chair. "We will hear from the Headmaster soon enough, I expect."
"No," Severus said stubbornly, stepping back towards the door. He wasn't going to sit politely and cooperate as if this was all routine. How could she act like he was a lunatic? There was a dark creature on the grounds, and apparently had been for years, and Sirius Black had nearly got him killed by it for a laugh and he was supposed to sip the potion and acquiesce to the insanity. She knew what Lupin was and didn't care. She didn't care that he had nearly ended up torn to pieces. It was always fucking Lupin and Potter and Black and whatever they wanted, whatever they did, they could never truly be in trouble. People hated him for his hair as if it mattered but would love Lupin for murder. It was worse than not being believed.
"Fine. Stand on that leg if you're that stubborn, but you'll be worse for it."
She made tea. Severus left his cup sitting with the vial beside it, and he stood even as his leg began to shake. His body begged to collapse, but he held himself together, two thoughts zipping through his nerves, holding him together.
Sirius Black and James Potter must be expelled.
The werewolf must be executed.
He could forget Madam Pomfrey protecting the monster, he could forget the years of torment at the hands of Black and Potter, he could forget how the whole school – no, the whole world – stood by and let it happen if he got this. Was it too much to ask for just two things? Two things, in his entire life? He had never presumed to escape his father. To throw off his mother's burden. He had never wished, not deeply, not with all his heart, that he had been a pureblood, or that Lily had been. He was what he was and his life was what it was. He was not arrogant enough to think he ought to be able to change the circumstances of his sorry birth.
He didn't want the past changed. He wanted the present fixed.
Eventually, a knock came to the door. Severus stiffened. Madam Pomfrey set her cup down, crossed the room, and opened it. Severus deflated. It wasn't Dumbledore. It wasn't even the Deputy Headmistress. He had nearly been killed, and they sent him –
"Snape! It is not usually you I'm called to see to at this hour!" Professor Slughorn chortled merrily, wrapped up in plush maroon robes and a nightcap that drew a resemblance to Father Christmas. All the muggle fairytales turned to poison in the end. "Are you well, m'boy? Madam Pomfrey, will he be able to walk?"
"I can walk," Severus scowled. Madam Pomfrey sniffed.
"He has insisted on standing on it. Professor, he refuses to take a Calming Draught – I have administered a pain-killing potion, but it may wear off if you keep him too long. He is to be back by three-thirty, do you understand? Tell Dumbledore."
"Ah, not to worry, I'll be sure of it. I'm certain we can smooth out this ugly little business quickly enough." Slughorn frowned. "We ought to get going as soon as possible, however, if you don't mind."
"Be my guest. But if he has any difficulty walking, bring him back immediately, and Dumbledore will just have to wait until the morning to speak with him. Is that understood?"
"Of course, of course. Come now." Severus did not appreciate being called like a dog, and it was with some reluctance that he followed.
Slughorn lit his wand and Severus' fingers flared. He felt naked without his own in his pocket. Since he had made that first trip to Ollivander's, he had never been without it. It was as though he was missing a limb. It shoved him uncomfortably under Slughorn's protection – if Black were to come running down the hall now, Severus would be at the mercy of whatever Slughorn decided best. It was horribly, crudely muggle.
"Now, Snape," Slughorn said, as they take the stairs, Severus concentrating very hard on ignoring his leg. "I must tell you it has been very fraught. All sorts of accusations being thrown about, the Peteridge boy is hysterical… But if you tell the truth, I don't see why this mess can't be cleaned. After all, you're only guilty of some adolescent wandering, and who of us hasn't been in our time?" Slughorn laughed. "It all seems to me like a little misunderstanding. Perhaps a joke gone too far, eh?" He hummed. "Sirius is a clever boy, isn't he, he has more potential in Potions than he uses… Now, he hasn't your work ethic, has he? But I don't know what the Hat was thinking, putting him in Gryffindor, it seems his talents are neglected there…" If Severus had had his wand, he might've mustered enough anger to kill him on the spot. What was it that made them all the same? Severus could have topped every subject, he could have been a prodigy, the greatest sorcerer in the world, and imbeciles like Slughorn would only have thought to give Black another chance because of his family's prestige, or otherwise tripped over himself to appeal to some mudblood. That, Severus thought humourlessly, was the funniest part of it all. People like Slughorn and Dumbledore thought they weren't prejudiced; they claimed to believe in equality and meritocracies and all those other little lies, but in the end it came down to who they favoured, on the basis of who they had once favoured and who had once favoured them. But they couldn't admit it, not even to themselves. Severus was living proof.
Professor Slughorn gave the gargoyle the password, and Severus was thankful that the Headmaster's stairs moved of their own accord. His leg was rather troubling him, loathe as he was to admit it. They stopped before the inner door, and Slughorn smoothed down his robes.
"Ah, I might see if they are ready for us, eh?" He smiled at Severus. "Don't you worry." He knocked on the door. "It's me." Illuminating.
"Come in, Professor." Dumbledore. Slughorn nodded at Severus and slipped inside. The moment the door shut, he pressed against it. Hearing the Headmaster's voice awoke something in him. He had been failed every time, but nevertheless – foolishly, hopelessly, stupidly – he hoped that this might be different. After all, he had never been in danger of being killed before. Perhaps it explained why Madam Pomfrey was so resigned. Perhaps at this moment, a dozen Aurors stood inside, preparing to ambush the Whomping Willow, and Black and Potter sat Silenced in the corner, waiting for lawyers or mothers or some such thing before they were taken for questioning. What else could wait for them? They couldn't be allowed to get away with it…Dumbledore couldn't be so blind…
The door opened, and Severus jumped back. It was the Headmaster himself who stood before him, grey hair stretching to his chest, dressed as though he had been about to go for dinner, in a fine hat and spangled robes. He regarded Severus through his half-moon glasses, blue eyes piercing, and Severus barely suppressed a shudder. It was most unnatural.
"Come in, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly.
Candlelight blazed on the shimmering metallic surfaces of the whizzing equipment that lined the Headmaster's shelves, and the blue-grey of the night glowed behind the large orb that took up much of the office's upper level. The moon, obscene and silver, hung in the very corner of the window like an accusatory eye. Severus straightened upon seeing it. He had nothing to be accused of. He had done nothing he was ashamed of. And he would stand by it, damn Potter and Black and Dumbledore and the rest.
His eyes fell upon the other boys, sat in leather armchairs beside a bookshelf's ladder. Potter was missing. Severus saw him in the tunnel again, shouting, holding his shoulder, lying – a cold fear bolted through him. Had Potter been bit? Killed? It would be the least that he deserved, but it was still monstrous to think – Potter deserved it, but to be attacked by a werewolf –
Severus swallowed hard. Potter would be expelled at once, if he lived. He needn't fret over some fool who had been asking for it.
Black looked terrible. Waxen, with dark crescents beneath his eyes. Severus' stomach tightened. Don't be stupid. Black could do nothing here, in the presence of two teachers, and even if he did he would immediately be restrained. All the same, Severus itched for his wand. Pettigrew's face was red and pelted with tears. He whimpered as Severus raked his eyes over him. Idiot. Severus' chest glowed with warmth. They would see that they couldn't get away with it. They weren't untouchable. He straightened his back and lifted his chin.
"Headmaster," he greeted. "Thank you for seeing me." He needed to be poised, perfect.
"Thank you for seeing me," said Professor Dumbledore, bowing his head. "Please take a seat, Mr Snape." Severus went where he gestured, sitting beside Professor Slughorn in front of the ornate desk. Dumbledore himself sat, steepling his fingers, and regarded Severus once more.
"I would like to ask you some questions, if you have no objection," he said smoothly. "About the events that have transpired upon the grounds these evening."
"I have no objection," Severus said very clearly, eyeing Black and Pettigrew. Had Black objected? Had he been questioned yet? Surely, if they were here now, Dumbledore had already spoken to them. But why did they get to listen to Severus' testimony and he did not get to listen to theirs? Another unkindness. Another favouring of them.
"Professor Slughorn is here to support you," Dumbledore said, and Slughorn nodded, adopting a look of solemnity as his hat jiggled. "I understand your night has been, perhaps, overexciting. I do not intend to keep you here any longer than necessary." Severus looked him in the eye. He felt that strange invasion one more, and he clenched his jaw, trying to resist it. Dumbledore's expression did not change.
"I will stay as long as necessary to get the justice I deserve," Severus said plainly. Black made a small, derisive noise. Severus glared. Black lifted his head haughtily, as though he did not resemble a barely warmed scab of a wizard. The candlelight coloured his skin in shades from jaundice to lemon curd. His bloodshot eyes narrowed in dislike.
"Very well," said Dumbledore evenly. Severus expected him to withdraw a quill, but he only leaned forward. "Mr Snape, did you venture onto the grounds this evening?"
A stupid question. "Evidently," he said. He had not moseyed into the hospital wing on a whim.
"Were you alone, when you did this?" Severus touched his tongue to the back of his teeth.
"I did not take company."
"Did you conceal yourself in any way, such as through the use of a charm, potion, or enchanted object?"
"I did not." People are just terribly unobservant.
"Did you tell anyone that you were going on a walk? Or did anyone see you?"
Severus stared. "I'm not so co-dependent that I find myself overcome with the urge to blather about how I'm going to spend my afternoon to everyone I meet." Dumbledore's eyebrows gently arched, and Severus cursed silently. It wouldn't do to make an enemy of Dumbledore now, no matter how condescending the Headmaster was being. "Two younger boys saw me. I thought they were foolish to be wandering about in weather like that and told them as much." The conversation had been slightly longer, but it really didn't change the fact that Black had tried to get him killed and that they were happily hiding a monster on the school grounds, so he didn't bother mentioning it.
"Do you know those boys' names?"
"No. They were Gryffindors."
"I see."
The questions continued, and Severus kept his tongue bitten. Mercifully, Black shut his fat mouth and didn't presume to make little noises. If the weather had been so inclement, why had Severus gone out? Well, it was scarcely a crime to exercise, and had they forgotten the school was in Scotland? It was bound to rain most of the year. He hadn't seen, by any chance, two young Gryffindors being hexed? Oh, no, he'd seen nothing. When had he first encountered Potter, Black, and Pettigrew?
He took a deep breath.
"Excuse me, Headmaster," Slughorn said jovially, and indicated Black and Pettigrew. "I hate to interrupt. But mightn't Severus here be – perhaps – a little intimidated to speak truly, with Mr Black and his friend – erm – present?" Precisely, Severus thought, feeling a foreign gratitude for the bumbling fool they put in charge of his house. Dumbledore looked down his nose, blue eyes unreadable.
"Would you prefer to be questioned alone, Mr Snape?" he asked softly.
Severus swallowed, and regretted that he had ever thought positively of Slughorn. Intimidated. Now, if he said yes, he would prefer to be alone, Black would think him a coward. The taunts of the evening before – well, two evenings before, as the clock had struck midnight somewhere in Dumbledore's pauses – rung in his ears. He was no coward. He simply did not throw himself brashly into any and all obstacles.
But Black would want to stay and hear, no doubt. Try to influence him. Severus sneered at the other boy, stalling.
"If you would like them to remain, Headmaster, I have no issue with it," Severus said finally, trying to keep his voice liquid smooth, "but I think it would only be fair if I got to remain for their interrogations." Dumbledore smiled, as though amused. Severus' temper flared.
"Perhaps it would be best if we keep these conversations confidential," he said. "Mr Black, Mr Pettigrew, please come for me. I will send for Professor McGonagall to mind you." Mind. As if they were children. Dumbledore turned his back on Severus and Slughorn and Severus smiled gloatingly. Farewell, Black. Wait til your ears start to burn. Black, just to annoy him, didn't even look his way. He hung his head like a petulant toddler and sulked out, while Pettigrew tripped over himself in his rush to do as Dumbledore said. Severus laced his fingers together and glared at the moon as they waited. It was several minutes before Dumbledore returned, and Slughorn started humming, the idiot. After concluding a song, he looked and Severus and yawned.
"Quite late, isn't it?" he murmured. "Ah…if Dumbledore could only wait until morning, we could all sleep on it…It's past my bedtime, I'm afraid!" He laughed as if he had said something very funny. Severus subtly turned away. It seemed each other house had a reasonable staff member to lead them, but Slytherin alone was trapped with an old fool who cared more for parties than pedagogy. Slughorn was frustratingly frivolous.
Dumbledore returned, and the door shut behind him without his hand so much as touching it, nor his lips uttering a word. It was the kind of magic that pulled at Severus' very core. No fewer than forty glossy self-help books, stowed in the newer part of the library, promised that by following their tricks one could become a master of wordless, wandless magic in as little as twelve weeks. Bullshit. The truth lay in tomes in the Restricted Section, Severus suspected, due to the damage one could do to themselves in the effort. As if they were all idiots with no self-control.
"I hope your thoughts have not been overmuch disrupted," Dumbledore said, retaking his seat.
"No," Severus said. Slughorn pressed his knuckles to his mouth and attempted to hide a yawn. It was a poor effort.
"Might I ask you, then," Dumbledore continued, "where and at which time you first saw Mr Potter, Mr Black, and Mr Pettigrew?" Severus' lip curled.
"On the Hogwarts Express. I believe it was the first of September, 1971, but I can't recall the day of the week." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows mildly. Slughorn chortled.
"I see. And this evening?"
"I wasn't wearing a watch." He could not name the stubbornness that rose in him. He ought to be delighted to tell Dumbledore the details of how they'd ferociously attacked him, but something held his tongue. It suddenly didn't seem the sort of thing that should be talked about in the Headmaster's office. It was personal. Heat rose into his cheeks. He would seem an idiot, going under the Whomping Willow on the word of someone he hated. He should have known better than to believe a word out of Black's mouth. And now Dumbledore and Slughorn wanted to treat him like a child. Like a victim. His skin crawled.
Dumbledore levelled a look at him. Severus swallowed.
"On the grounds near the Whomping Willow. Just Potter and Pettigrew. This was after dinner."
"Did you have dinner?"
"No."
"Did you know that Mr Potter and Mr Pettigrew were going to be at the Whomping Willow at this time?"
Severus hesitated. "No," he said. Dumbledore still had not asked why he had gone.
"It was a chance encounter?"
"I s'pose." Severus toed the floor. Potter's face shone in the wandlight in the tunnel, and there was something about the Animagus potion – total rubbish, but how did Potter even know what that was? – and there was the growl and the earth and the stunner heading straight for him and his lungs lost half their capacity while he was just sitting there, opening and closing his hands. Dumbledore stayed silent for far too long. Severus found his eyes tracing the creases in his shoes, and the worn, thin grey mark of wear where his smallest toe rubbed through.
"You went into the tunnel," Dumbledore said flatly. Severus did not look up.
"Yes."
"To the end of it?"
"Yes."
"And Mr Potter was already in the tunnel?" Severus inhaled. Slughorn rubbed a ring on his finger and yawned into his shoulder. Three astrolabes rotated slowly upon a shelf. One of the headmasters in the endless rows of portraits hanging above coughed.
"He was behind me," Severus said. "He followed."
"Did he speak to you?"
"He did." Severus spread his fingers until they hurt and pressed them against his legs. "He said it was Black's idea. A trick." A trick of poured Stinksap, Potter claimed, but Severus knew the truth.
"Mr Black intended for you to reach the end of the tunnel?" What else could he have wanted? He told me how to do it. He wanted me killed for the crime of not worshipping their egos. It was the answer, but he could not get the words out. Dumbledore surely took him for a fool. Tricked by Black. Idiot, he would think. Slughorn too. The old man frowned. Nausea rolled in Severus' stomach. He won't want me in the Slug Club after this.
Severus snorted disdainfully. "He wanted me to get scared and beg Potter to save me, I expect. He wanted to humiliate me." Severus emulated that casual indifference. "I got to the end because I was curious. I'm not scared of the dark or a few noises." He pursed his lips. "Potter and I don't get on. When he appeared it only made me more determined to get down the tunnel and away from him."
Dumbledore sat so still he might have been cursed. Slughorn clicked his tongue a few times. Severus pulled his fingers into claws until the tension in his joints offered some relief. One painted headmaster poured himself a glass of scotch.
"Albus?" Slughorn said eventually. Dumbledore leaned forward again, his long nose protruding into Severus' personal space.
"What did you expect to find at the other end, Mr Snape?" he asked, his voice so quiet Severus strained to hear him. Grey hairs brushed the older man's upper lip, and his face was wrinkled and spotted with the brown fingerprints of age. Many fine hairs formed his thick beard, each meticulously combed.
"The truth," Severus said.
"What truth?"
"The truth." The core of it, the only thing that truly mattered that night. "And that's what I found at the other end. Remus Lupin," Severus said. "The werewolf."
March 16th, 1976
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Mr Black," Flitwick called, voice high and squeaky. "Mr Black, if you're finished, please come out."
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Sirius stood over the sink in the toilets nearest to Dumbledore's office, watching beads of water form at the nozzle of the tap and fall into the drain below. Hot saliva swirled through his bone-dry mouth, and his stomach rioted at the injustice of being forced to stay awake. Shards of glass littered the basin, reflecting a jumbled mosaic of his face. Hair stuck to his forehead. He had hoped he might throw up. If only to purge the last of the alcohol. He'd not had anything to drink in at least ten hours, which was the longest he'd lasted in the previous ten days. Drip. He swiped at the washers until cold water trickled, and vaguely splashed his face. Droplets hung from his eyelashes, blurring the world.
"Mr Black!" A light knock came at the door. "Mr Black, please answer, or I will have to come in." Sirius wiped his forehead. It had been at least ten minutes. Dumbledore would probably expel him on the spot for wasting so much time. But Dumbledore would expel him on the spot anyway. It didn't matter.
He left the bathroom. Professor Flitwick jolted. The corridor was dark save for Flitwick's lit wand, and the nearest portraits hunched beneath their cloaks, grumbling. It was at least one in the morning and they were utterly alone. Snape had been sent back to the hospital wing where James lay behind curtains, monitored to ensure they had not missed a scratch or, Merlin forbid, a fucking bite, and Peter had been questioned first and sent back to bed. He'd been in tears when he emerged from Dumbledore's office, and Professor Sprout had taken his shoulder and steered him down the stairs before they'd had a chance to exchange so much as a word. He took that to mean Peter had said everything. Should've been fucking nicer to him. He tugged his lip. Rat.
The walk was painfully short. Flitwick gave the password. McGonagall awaited them on the top step.
"Thank you, Filius," she said, not looking at Sirius. "You may return to your chambers." Flitwick nodded.
"Goodnight, Minerva." He stepped down on his stunted legs, then paused. The teachers exchanged a look Sirius could not read. Probably that he was fucked, and useless, and that Flitwick hoped McGonagall didn't have to spend too much of her night sending him home. Sirius leaned against the wall as Flitwick disappeared into the darkness below, steadfastly fixing his eyes on a bulge of stone opposite. It was strange, how the castle shifted and changed and rearranged itself so often, but kept imperfections it could easily smooth. Was some damage unrepairable?
"Mr Black." McGonagall's voice tightened. He pressed his thumb against the back of his earring. Would Peter be packing for him? He'd forget to return the inkpot he'd borrowed, and probably to find Sirius' things that had been taken for washing. But those probably weren't things worth writing for. None of it mattered very much. Fuck Hogwarts. Fuck Peter and fuck – Sirius tilted his head to stare at the ceiling. None of it mattered. It would all disappear, like a raft floating out to sea. Once his wand was snapped maybe Mother would blast his face off the tapestry. He'd be as bad as a squib. He could run off and find Andromeda. He thought she lived in the south somewhere, from the weather she mentioned and how soon her owls returned. Ted was a muggle-born. Maybe they'd get him a job in a shop. Wouldn't his parents hate that.
"Sirius." He jolted at McGonagall's saying his name. Her dark eyes bore into him, filled with something that made his insides prickle. He slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Professor," he said, maybe for the last time. Her lips thinned, and he flinched instinctively, waiting for the blow. But she didn't curse him, or scream. She didn't even glare. Her eyes brushed over him, up and down, and she gave a short, sharp shake of her head and looked away. Disgust, he thought. He could not fault it. He was a disgusting little beast. Remus would know it, when he woke up, before they killed him.
Sirius' stomach spasmed and he lurched forward, vomit rushing to his mouth. His body turned itself inside out and his eyes burned with the purging. McGonagall cleaned it up with little fuss. Sirius wiped his mouth and huddled against the wall. It's all fucked up. It's all gone. Everything's fucked. And Dumbledore was going to send him home. He couldn't do it. He couldn't go back there. Some people could, people who were cleverer and stronger and better, but he wasn't clever or strong or good. He was nothing. Why hadn't he leapt through a window when he'd been walking with Flitwick? Why hadn't he opened his wrists in the toilets? Why had he done any of it? James hated him and Peter hated him and Remus hated him and there was not a single fucking person in the world who could stand him. He had done that. He wasn't Remus, with the weight of his curse hanging over him his whole life, and he wasn't a muggle-born like Evans where people hated him just for who his parents were. He'd had a family willing to love him and wealth enough to live forever if he could only tow the line. But he couldn't. He'd thought resisting all that rubbish made him a good person.
He was worse than any of them.
There was snot in his mouth and salty tears and he couldn't see or breathe or think except just let it end just let it end just let it end just let it end and McGonagall touched him and said something and wrapped her arms around him and he thrashed don't curse me don't curse me please please please Mum please please please please. He staggered back into the wall and hit his head and there was blood pouring from his nose, but then there had been for quite some time. Not Remus, he thought. Don't let him die. Not him. He could feel the ridges of Remus' scarred wrists under his fingers, like they'd already put him down and he was a phantom, haunting his heartbeats.
"Mr Black."
McGonagall's hand hovered behind his shoulder blades, and Sirius somehow stumbled up the stairs and into the seat in front of Dumbledore's desk. As soon as he sat, he wanted to sink through the floor. He'd barely slept the night before, and now it was well into the early hours of the morning – it was too much work to focus on the clock, but he could tell it was long past midnight. His eyelids drooped.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Dumbledore asked brightly. He flicked his hand and a shiny kettle began to boil. Sirius pressed his thumb against the sharp back of his earring.
"No thank you." Veritaserum. It was illegal, technically, to use it without someone's consent unless the giver was a parent or guardian. Did Dumbledore count as a guardian? Sirius didn't care. He had no intention of lying anyway. Where would it get him? He was already doomed.
"Very well." Dumbledore curled two fingers and the kettle raced over, pouring hot water into a patterned teapot. Dutch, Sirius judged, by the baby blue scene painted across it. A windmill spun gently in the distance, and a pair of thestrals munched happily on a carcass, while a wizard waved his wand and attended to a broken-down carriage.
McGonagall drew up a seat beside him, and the candlelight dimmed suddenly. Sirius bit his lip.
"How are you feeling?" Dumbledore asked, as if it were a social call. Sirius swallowed.
"Tired."
"Tired." If Dumbledore expected him to say more, he would be disappointed. But the older man only summoned three teacups, each from a different set. The one that settled in front of Sirius was a warm, fresh-baked shade of taupe, with two brown rabbits in aprons cooking together in a cosy kitchen, standing on their back legs. It was cool to the touch.
"He had best be sent to bed, when this is done," McGonagall said. Dumbledore smiled.
"That is ever my intention, my dear professor." Sirius thought of his room in Grimmauld Place. Kreacher had likely been in and polished it back to inhospitable perfection, and no doubt Mother had looked in every drawer. Even if things were left in the same place they'd put them, he could feel the way her eyes had raked over them, critically assessing each item as though determining what evidence was admissible in her case against him. He wouldn't be able to sleep there. Especially not if they took his wand. He couldn't lie there like a lamb and leave himself undefended. He would have to run within ten minutes of arriving, or he would not make it out at all.
The tea brewed, and the pot filled their cups. A cold draught brushed through the room, but Sirius resisted the temptation to drink, instead pressing his fingers against the cup, leeching warmth in that way. His scalp was still damp from the rain, and his robes were drying awkwardly, crunching. Dumbledore sipped from his cup and smiled again.
"Is there anything you wish to tell me?" he asked. His eyes met Sirius', but Sirius quickly looked away.
"Peter and Snape would have told you everything." His chest tightened. "James too." Dumbledore and McGonagall had a silent conversation.
"What we have been led to believe," Dumbledore said, "is that on Sunday evening, you confronted Mr Snape with a little force and told him how to freeze the Whomping Willow, and encouraged him to go underneath it the next day – that is, last night. Then, last night, you realised that you had endangered Mr Snape, and you went to Mr Potter and Mr Pettigrew, who were on the grounds because, for some reason, they believed they might have been able to hear a werewolf. You told them what you had done, and Mr Potter went beneath the Willow to stop Mr Snape, and thereby injured himself in the process. After a time, Mr Potter and Mr Snape emerged, with Mr Snape stunned, and Mr Pettigrew and yourself raised the alarm." There was a long silence. McGonagall swallowed a mouthful of tea. The rabbits on Sirius' cup drifted around each other in perfect synchronisation, tending to the stove and the kettle, reaching for the icebox and the cupboard, catching each other's gazes to smile and rub noses. Sickeningly sweet.
"Mr Black," Dumbledore said eventually. "Would you say that this is correct, to the best of your ability to recall?" A chill seeped into Sirius' bones.
"Yes," he said. McGonagall inhaled. Dumbledore did not look surprised.
"And you are aware that, given you have been granted a suspended sentence already, the Ministry will not look kindly upon your endangering other students' lives?"
"I get it," Sirius muttered darkly, aiming a kick at the floor. "What do you want from me? I'll admit it all. Is Mother here yet?"
A muscle in McGonagall's jaw clenched. Sirius leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Fine. "Do you want me to beg?"
Dumbledore did not address Sirius. He set his gaze upon McGonagall. "Leave us, please, Professor." Sirius watched her go. She said nothing more, but when the door shut behind her the room seemed quieter. Dumbledore turned away from him, opening a drawer. From it he withdrew a faded handkerchief. Sirius expected him to blow his nose, but he only closed his hand around it and pushed the drawer shut.
"Sometimes," said Dumbledore, "we find ourselves born into a family in which we do not fit. We are thoroughly unlike them. Perhaps they are plain where we are clever. They are unremarkable where we are prodigious. They hold views we do not." His finger twitched over the handkerchief. Sirius bit his lip. Dumbledore raised his eyes to the portraits above them.
"But," Sirius said.
"But," Dumbledore agreed. "We often feel the need to distinguish ourselves from them. We must prove that we are unlike them. It is human nature. We do not want to be wrongly assumed to be part of their whole. In some instances, it is merely youthful rebellion. In others, it is the breaking of shackles." What's mine? Dumbledore had a verdict. Of that there was no doubt.
"What has no end and no beginning?" Sirius stared.
"A circle," he said flatly.
"A spectrum," Dumbledore said, drawing a circle in the air with his finger. "We think we are linearly opposites of our family, and that makes it easier to disown them. We could never be like them. We have nothing in common." He smiled, as if making a private joke. "We carry them with us. In different aspects. We can try to escape them, but they always remain. All does. Good and bad. Light and dark."
"So my family is always with me," Sirius said. "Excellent."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "You may be the very best of them, or the very worst, but you may not be rid of them." He looked at Sirius through his half-moon spectacles. "I would not ask you to complete detentions, Sirius. I would only wish that you might speak with your brother."
"Regulus?" A dark ice gripped him. "You want me to tell him about Remus?"
"Tell him about Remus' courage," Dumbledore said. "The enjoyment you have of one another. I do not expect you to share anything about Mr Lupin that Mr Lupin himself would not disclose to your brother." Dumbledore dropped the handkerchief onto the desk and smoothed it out. Black embroidery marked the corner. A.D. "Tell him anything you like. I am certain you will think of something."
Sirius waited, but Dumbledore said nothing else. "I'm not expelled, then," Sirius said eventually.
"I have no intention of it," Dumbledore smiled. "I regret that we did inform your mother and father. They will not be required to visit." Hogwarts. He was staying at Hogwarts. His hairs stood on end. He wouldn't have to see his mother, or nick a broom and fly off after Andromeda, or work in some muggle shop.
"And Remus'll be alright?" he managed, emotion swelling in his throat. Dumbledore's lips tightened. Sirius' gratitude burst like a balloon. "What?"
"He will experience no consequences from myself or the Ministry." Dumbledore seized the handkerchief and crushed it in his fist. "Mr Snape has agreed not to tell." He levelled his gaze at Sirius. "I cannot say what consequences may be faced from your actions. That is not for me to determine."
Sirius pressed the pad of his thumb against the back of his earring until it dented his skin. Dumbledore opened the drawer and put the handkerchief away. He looked directly above. Sirius followed his eyes to the chandelier. A hundred portraits scowled down on him. He found Phineas Nigellus, his great-great grandfather. The wizard's nostrils flared, and his pointed beard trembled.
"Protecting a half-breed," he sneered into the silent room. "See, I disagree, Dumbledore. That he had an iota of the Black blood in him."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "We are so quick to deny our family." He waved his hand, and the office door clicked open. "Go now, Sirius," he commanded. "Sleep well."
March 16th 1976
He floated.
The Infirmary swelled to life around him, a strip of white light behind his lids, the sounds of quiet chatter and Madam Pomfrey's enchanted broomsticks dusting the spotless floor drifting into his ears. Sheets bound him to the bed, and his pillow was soft, enveloping his skull. His arms and legs were heavy, but not in pain. His sinuses were light and clear, and a weightlessness cradled him. He felt rather better-rested than he had in weeks. His chest fluttered anxiously, but he could not bring himself to worry. Was it so unlikely that once, just this once, he had been lucky?
"Is he awake?" Peter.
"I dunno."
"Should we get Madam Pomfrey?" He slowly fell into his body, pulled from the bliss of unconsciousness. James inhaled.
"I want to see him before we do." James' fingers beat like butterfly wings against his robes, passing the quietest patters to his ears. "Just. To know he's alright. See what he says."
"You think he remembers?" Peter's voice dropped even lower. "I thought he couldn't, after…"
Life slammed into him, and Remus opened his eyes. Their shapes blurred, and then James and Peter came into sharp relief. He had to blink before he could truly take them in. James' face shone faintly with newly-healed, pinkish skin in jagged strips, and Peter worried his lip as he leaned over, uncharacteristic dark smears beneath his eyes. They radiated a lethargy as Remus had never seen before, especially not from James. Their gazes fell on him, and burned. Remus' chest hollowed.
"What is it?" His body numbed. Peter's eyes glistened, and he looked away. No. Some dull panic blunted the edges of Remus' nerves. Terror stuffed his mouth with wool. James swallowed and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Moony." James' voice cracked.
Remus threw up.
The worst part wasn't the content of his guts hanging in strings from the corners of his mouth, or the stained blanket, or Peter stumbling through cleaning charms. It wasn't the waves of nausea, and it wasn't the screaming fear tearing at his wrists. It was that neither James nor Peter laughed. They should have made some joke at his expense, or even at their own. There should have been some note of humour somewhere, but Peter only squeakily asked if Remus was alright, and James stared at nothing. Remus poured himself a glass of water, hoping to muster some kind of courage.
None came. James pressed his face into his palms. Peter twitched.
"Did – did – did you have, erm, did you have, have, did you have a good night?" Peter asked, bottom lip wobbling. Remus comprehended suddenly. Horror hit him like a tsunami.
"I killed someone." His voice said it, but he couldn't remember forming the words. Peter's eyes reddened.
"What?" James yelped.
"Didn't I?" The sleep had been unnatural. Wrong. As though he had been sedated. James ran his fingers through his hair. Remus pushed himself up – Peter adjusted the cushion to support him – and tried to keep his lungs working. No. No, I can't have, I can't have, no, no – please –
"You didn't kill anyone," James said, with less certainty than Remus would've liked. Remus pressed his palms against his forehead.
"Maim? Dismember? Paralyse?" His tone was light, but inside terror beat a manic path from his chest to his frying synapses. Merlin, he thought. Will Slughorn accept a late submission if the excuse is imprisonment pending execution?
"It wasn't you." Peter said that, hugging himself and sitting back in his chair. Remus inhaled sharply.
"Someone was -?"
"I was the most hurt, and it was nothing, really, just the bloody Willow." James pulled aside the collar of his robes to show his collarbone. "Broken. But Madam Pomfrey fixed it up in no time."
Remus went cold. "What were you doing at the Whomping Willow?" he whispered.
James and Peter exchanged looks in a silent conversation. James tapped his knee.
"I don't know how to tell you," he said throatily.
"I don't care," Remus said. "You have to tell me." He knew that much; he knew it from the air's viscosity. James laced his fingers together and dropped his head, his face contorting in an agony Remus had never known him to have. James opened his mouth and a wretched, strangled noise emerged like that of a wounded animal. He tore off his glasses and set them on the side table.
"It -"
"It was Sirius," Peter swiftly cut in, possessed of a newfound surety. His features hardened. Remus' heart plunged into an abyss.
Sirius.
It followed. The party after quidditch had sealed it. Remus' whole body cramped. In less than two weeks Sirius had turned himself into a stranger. He had a new girlfriend and new priorities and a pointed disregard for birthdays and traditions and everything that mattered. Striding had asked Remus where Sirius was in Charms last week, as if he would know better than her. He watched her in the halls, at dinner, and hated himself for it. She was intelligent, he judged based on their shared lessons, and he'd never heard anything awful about her. It was only that thinking of Sirius was like picking at a wound. Down every corridor he simultaneously hoped of and dreaded glimpsing him. Maybe it was lucky that Sirius was never where he needed him to be.
"Sirius broke your collarbone?" It seemed incomprehensible that James and Sirius could fight about anything. But they had and they were and the impossible was more real than Remus had ever cared for it to be.
"No," James said, as Peter said, "Yes." James' eyes fell sharply upon Peter.
"It wasn't his fault," James said. Peter scoffed darkly.
"If it weren't for him, you'd be fine," Peter said. James glared and opened his mouth, but Peter talked over him. "You can't defend him for it! You can't, James! Maybe you're fine with being fucked over, but I'm not, and I doubt Remus is, not like this." James' mouth hung open. Peter balled his fists, blinking furiously. "It's not fucking fair. Would you forgive me for it?"
James laughed hollowly and stood, turning away. His fingers brushed through his hair. Remus pressed his hands hard into his legs to keep from shaking. Every sidestep around the issue only spiked his anxiety.
"I would," James said, to the curtain. "I would, Pete. Because you're my best mate." Peter gave a short, painful laugh and hid his face in his hands.
"You don't get to make that decision," Peter mumbled. "You don't get to decide for Remus." Remus felt a sudden rush of appreciation for Peter, but his fear mounted with every word.
"Thank you," he said, doing everything in his power to stop himself from screaming, "but I really can't decide anything until I know what the fuck is going on." And from the sounds of it, it involves me more than anyone, so you owe it to me to tell me! He swallowed that thought like a razor blade.
"It was Sirius," Peter started again, and James swore, spinning back.
"It's not all his fault! If Snape -"
Remus' blood ran cold.
"Snape?"
James quieted as if Silenced. Peter went green. James' fingers slid through his hair until they gripped tufts.
"Sirius told Snape," he said. "About you. Being a werewolf."
Remus froze.
"But he's been going through a lot of fucking shit, and you know what it's like for him at home!" James rounded on Peter, shaking furiously. "You can't hate him for it, he's our best friend!"
"You sounded like you hated him!" Peter got to his feet, red-faced. "You didn't have a problem saying it was his fault last night! Why can't I say it?"
"It's different!"
"How is it different?"
James stood so hurriedly his chair slammed into the floor.
"I can't do this," he said, and before Remus could force the words out, James slammed through the curtains and knocked the dividers outside to the ground and disappeared. Peter ripped the curtains aside
"You coward!" Peter screamed, drawing the eyes of half the hospital wing. "You fucking coward, James Potter!" The doors to the Infirmary swung shut. Remus' neck burned, keenly aware of the attention falling upon his bedside. Peter stepped back and quickly drew the curtains, affording them some privacy. When he turned to face Remus, his features coloured tart.
"Sorry," he said quickly, scampering back to the seat. "I didn't mean – I shouldn't have –"
"It's fine," Remus said, strangely warmed. Peter, who could scarcely stand up for himself, had stood up for Remus against James. It was as if the world had been flipped upside down. But that gratitude lasted only a moment, and then he was dumped in the earth. Sirius had told Snape. Sirius had betrayed him. To Snape. Almost anyone else could have been forgivable. He would have forgiven it if it were Lily. He would have dealt with it, begrudgingly, if it were Marlene McKinnon, or hell, even Dale, who some might claim had a right to know by virtue of sharing his dormitory. Remus could have understood if it was Regulus, if Sirius had slipped it in some drunken attempt to reclaim a relationship with his younger brother. Fucking hell, if Sirius had gone to a teacher, or a prefect, or even his family, Remus could not have hated him for it. He knew what he was. He knew that he was dangerous. And part of him had always known it was only a matter of time before one of them found their senses and went running on him. He hated himself for ever thinking it might have been Peter.
But Snape. What the fuck did Sirius get out of telling Snape?
That bothered him almost more than the fact he was going to die. That realisation crept in like hypothermia. Of course he would die. Snape would tell the world and if there was the slightest, smallest hint that Remus had put another student in danger, that was it. He was unregistered. His parents would be fined for not telling the Ministry, and he would be taken away and put down like a crup belonging to an unlicensed owner. It was simple. He had imagined there might be more panic in it. His throat thickened.
"Remus," Peter croaked, and Remus could have kissed him for not saying Moony.
"Thank you," Remus said slowly. "You've been a good friend to me." And James had been, most of the time. It was understandable he'd be like this now. They were always going to realise he was a monster at some point or another. His body shook, but he fought to keep his mind serene. No use crying over spilt potion. He couldn't put the boggart back in the box.
Peter gave him a watery smile. "Thanks," he said. "I just – I don't think it's fair. Just because Sirius has been…whatever…" Peter kicked one of the bed's legs, and the metal rung softly. "It doesn't mean he gets to be shitty to us. And not to you. Now Snape's going to hold that over you – I told Dumbledore he should get rid of the memory, but he said he couldn't… but how can Dumbledore know he won't go to the Ministry and give you up? And why does Sirius always get to make choices for us? If I went and told his parents something private he'd never ever forgive me, but he does pretty much the same to you and we're meant to feel bad because his parents don't like him or something…"
Peter's words dimly penetrated the haze of fear encircling Remus' mind, and it took him a few moments to realise what had been said.
"Snape…hasn't gone to the Ministry?" Was that why Remus woke here, and not in a cell?
Peter fixed him with an odd look. "Wouldn't they have come already if he had?" Peter fidgeted. "I dunno what Dumbledore said to him, but he's shut up. He wasn't at breakfast this morning." Remus frowned thoughtfully.
"I still don't understand," he admitted. "Why was James at the Willow? When did Sirius tell Snape?" His pulse returned to him with a little relief, but there was a knot in his stomach that told him he was missing something. Something important. Peter's face echoed his confusion, and then his eyes widened.
"Oh." He fidgeted again. "Sunday night. Sirius told Snape how to get under the Whomping Willow, dared him or something, and last night while we…" he clamped his mouth shut and strained. "While we were out on the grounds, me and James, we saw him hit the knot and go underneath. And Sirius ran out and found us and was yelling and James… James went after Snape so he wouldn't get to the end where you were. So he wouldn't see you. But he wasn't quick enough. Snape was safe but he saw you. And James had to put a Stunner on you. A bunch of them, really…Werewolves are a bit resistant." Remus flinched at the word. Coward. But today the word felt more than ever like a marker for death.
"I'm sorry," Peter said, blinking hard, and Remus knew he was being genuine. "I'm so sorry, Remus."
Remus pressed his lips together. "It was bound to happen," he said, with a serenity that didn't match the ache in his chest.
"It's horrible," Peter countered. "You don't deserve it. It's not your fault." He glanced at the curtains, hesitated, and then leaned over and threw his arms around Remus. The physical contact jarred, at first, but the pressure of being squeezed soothed him too. His words fell away, and Remus awkwardly hugged Peter back.
March 16th, 1976
Sirius had his head in his hands when the door clicked open. He looked up, and the last person he wanted to see stood in the archway, eyes puffy. He wanted someone to fight with, but barring that, he would have taken someone to discuss nothing with, or to talk fucking revision with. He would have taken Regulus coming to antagonise him or thank him or just sit with him in silence, and he would have taken James, just to hear his voice even if what he said destroyed him. He would have taken Peter, because nothing he did could change anything, and part of Sirius wanted to wallow. He would have taken Remus.
Fuck. What he would have given to have seen Remus.
But none of them came. Instead, it was the one person he couldn't scream at.
"Striding," he said. She smiled with wet cheeks.
"Aren't we past that?" She slipped inside and shut the door behind her. She wore school robes and a bulging satchel, and a new fringe dusted her eyebrows. She set her bag down on one of the many tables that littered the disused classroom and joined Sirius where he sat on the teacher's desk, their thighs brushing. She withdrew a cigarette, muttered the spell to light it, inhaled, and passed it to him. He took it wordlessly. For a time, they passed it back and forth in silence, filling the room with smoke. But when he went to return it to her again, she shook her head.
"You've had a falling out with your mates," she said. It wasn't even a question. Sirius shrugged. After seeing Dumbledore, he'd traipsed back to Gryffindor tower under McGonagall's supervision, but he had never made it to the dormitory. He'd slept in an armchair until the quidditch team started coming down the stairs, and he'd slipped out to wander the corridors. He'd convinced a second-year to run to the Infirmary and tell Madam Pomfrey he was ill, and he was counting on it working, for he had no intention of note-taking or question-answering today. He wiped his bleary eyes. Rose leaned back on her hands. "Apparently Potter and Pettigrew screamed at each other in the hospital wing in front of everyone."
Peter screamed back? Sirius was too tired to even feel surprised. Were they arguing about how best to kill him? What had Remus been saying? 'Oh, I don't mind, so long as you're sure to cut off his cock and shove it down his throat before you rip his heart out'. Maybe he'd still been asleep. Maybe he'd been speechless.
"Is it about a girl?" Rose asked, pinching the cigarette from his lips.
"No," Sirius breathed. "It's about a boy." She looked at him as though she expected an elaboration, but he just stared at the door. Rose blew a perfect circle of smoke.
"We had the funeral on Saturday," she said. It took him a moment to join the dots.
"I'm sorry," he said. She nodded.
"Yeah." She dragged again on the cigarette. "He was mean, you know. He wanted something better for me than magic tricks. Didn't want to let me come at all. To school, I mean. He would've much preferred I got my O Levels, but here I am. Turning owls into opera glasses."
"O Levels are like O. ?" They'd touched on it a few times in Muggle Studies.
"Virtually." She touched his arm and he flinched. Rose frowned, drawing her hand back. "I thought we might have talked," she said. "Since the party. About what happened." Sirius moved for the cigarette, but she held it out as far as she could to the right, out of his reach. Sirius swore and rummaged in his pockets. He'd restocked when he crept into the dormitory in the dead of night, when Peter and Dale had both been snoring. He lit his own cigarette.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice gravelly. Why was it so easy to apologise to a stranger? "I shouldn't have fucked you." Two sentences and it was done. Perhaps that was the problem. This thing with Remus, with James, with Peter was so knotted and tangled and woven in the webs of threads they'd hung years ago that there was no good place to start. One sorry didn't cover it. He'd broken so many rules that he'd forgot half of his transgressions. Filch's cabinet only held the ones where he'd been caught.
"Don't apologise for that," Rose said crossly. "It was nice. And I'm not mad at you. I just thought we might have talked." She smiled, jerked like she was about to elbow him, but stopped short. "You're a bit of a celebrity, you know. So many girls have come up to me, asking what it was like, wanting to know how to get into your bed. I should start charging for advice." Sirius frowned curiously.
"What do you tell them?"
She barked a laugh. "Start smoking." And for the first time in several days, Sirius cracked a smile. Rose finished off her cigarette and stubbed it out on the table. "You could have any girl you want, though," she said, crossing her ankles. "People really dig the whole mysterious, broody thing. They can't figure out why you don't have a girlfriend."
Sirius' smile dropped as quickly as it came, and he looked down. Was it another thing he was fucking up? He blew three perfect rings of smoke.
"Don't think I'm cut out for the being-a-boyfriend thing," he said. Rose snorted.
"That's the mysterious thing. Everyone's a would-be bad boy reformer."
They sat a while longer, until Sirius' cigarette was gone too. Rose clicked her heels against the front panel of the desk.
"You and your lot have been mates since first year, haven't you?" she said finally.
"Yeah." Since they were eleven. Since he met James Potter on the train and Peter in the dormitory that night and finally got Remus to open up to them with the gold baubles hanging off the twelve Christmas trees lining the Great Hall ringing his head like a halo.
"You're lucky," Rose said. "Most people fight too much between then and now. Or grow apart. Get boyfriends. Choose different classes. The dormitories do half the work in a friendship, but it's not enough to save something really doomed." Excellent, Sirius thought. Not even being forced to see each other several times a day will salvage this. "The point is, Mr Mysterious, if you've hung on this long, you should just keep hanging. After five years, there's not much you wouldn't forgive a friend for. Unless you tried to kill each other or something." Sirius' heart squeezed painfully. "But even then. And you lot are kind of famous here. It'd be like the Beatles breaking up all over again."
Sirius looked up at her, eyes narrow. "I didn't know they broke up." He didn't know much about them at all, honestly, but they were popular enough in the muggle world that probably even Regulus would have a passing familiarity with the name. Rose shook her head.
"Honestly." She slid off the desk. "I should get going. But I think you should try to make up. I don't know. I don't know what happened. But I wish I had friends like that." Rose shrugged. "I hope it works out for you. And if you ever want someone to talk to – or a shag, really – you know, I don't mind." She smoothed down her robes. Sirius swallowed.
"Thanks," he said hoarsely. She inhaled, nodded, and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. Human touch. He put his hand to the spot of skin, feeling the warmth flow through him.
"Don't worry about it." Rose crossed the room but stopped in the doorway, looking over her shoulder.
"They said Potter's looking for you," she told him. "Good luck."
The door shut, and Sirius rubbed his cheek, letting himself soak in the heat of hope, if only for a moment.
March 16th 1976
The term's end loomed large, with less than a month spanning between now and their mock examinations. It neared eleven o'clock, but the Ravenclaw common room remained all but full, taper candles burning low. Dorcas occupied the corner of one long table, reviewing the flash cards she had created for Charms. Next to her, Cynthia gave a dry sob and laid her head on the desk.
"I'm so tired," she said, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. Dorcas lifted her inkpot and withdrew Cynthia's schedule from underneath.
"We agreed on Charms until quarter past eleven," she said. "Then you'll shower and be in bed by midnight, to wake at -" Dorcas tapped her wand on the sheet of parchment so that the date changed, "- eight, for our Charms lesson at ten past nine."
"I don't even want my O. , not really," Cynthia mumbled. "I don't see why admin work needs N.E.W.Ts."
"It demonstrates your commitment and perseverance," Dorcas said absently, handing the timetable to Cynthia and returning to the flash cards. Cynthia folded her arms and pressed her forehead against her wrist.
"I wish I was a Hufflepuff," she informed the tabletop.
"No you don't," Dorcas countered firmly. "They value hard work too. I expect Gryffindors are the only ones not yet revising." Or at least some of them. Mary came to tutoring every week perfectly on time, and it was obvious she did all of the assigned readings and more, even if she did not always entirely comprehend the subject matter. Cynthia turned her face up.
"I could be a Gryffindor," she mused. "I do look good in red." Dorcas smiled to show Cynthia she thought it was funny. Sometimes she forgot to do that, but she knew Cynthia appreciated it. Only the other day she'd teased Dorcas about having no sense of humour, which wasn't true. It was just difficult to remember how she ought to respond sometimes.
The door to the common room opened – rare, at this hour, when even the seventh-years were supposed to be back. Dorcas started at the figure who entered. Cynthia sat up so quickly she knocked her schedule to the floor. Florence streaked across the common room like a smudge of ink, flying up the stairs with a shake of her dark hair.
"Where's she been?" Cynthia whispered furiously.
"I don't know," Dorcas said, trying to focus on her flashcard. What is the most crucial component to perfect when casting the Doubling Charm, and why? It was a simple question – she was ending the night with the easiest things to remember. Cynthia swallowed a mouthful of water and tapped her long nails against her inkpot.
"You don't think she lied?" Dorcas nearly dropped her card. Cynthia brought her knuckles to her lips and gnawed. Florence had returned to the common room after dinner and then begged off to return a library book. She had been gone for almost four hours. Dorcas' stomach hurt to think about it.
"I don't know," she said again. The most important thing to remember when casting the Doubling Charm is… the most crucial component is… it's about…
"Or did something happen?" Cynthia conjectured. "Maybe she ran into someone at the library – maybe someone asked her for help? But until now? Unless it was something really bad – maybe she's upset and that's why she ran right past us. But -" Cynthia lapsed into silence. Dorcas pressed her lips together. When casting the Doubling Charm, one must be sure to… it's all in the…
"She would have told someone to come and let us know," Cynthia said quietly. She hastily rolled up her parchment and tied a tight ribbon around it. The key to the Doubling Charm is in the wand movement. If one flicks rather than…
Cynthia seized her wrist, eyes wide. "We have to go up and see her," she insisted. Dorcas gripped her flashcard, blinking. She wanted to talk to Florence, to hold her hand, to run her fingers through her silky locks, to ask her what was going on, to sit on her bed, to feel her lips against hers… She looked at the clock.
"We have six minutes left," she said. If they didn't finish this now, then Dorcas would have to find the time to do it elsewhere, and that was difficult indeed. She had free time allotted tomorrow afternoon, but she had intended to write a letter to her mother and father, as she hadn't spoken to them since the second week of term. She could move that to Thursday, between Herbology and her Magical Theory preparation lessons, but then she would have to clean up her part of the dormitory during her lunch hour on Friday. And if she did that, then when she met with Professor Nicholl she would already have a headache (cleaning always gave her a headache), and she would be in no mood at all for Herbology and Defence, and admittedly her marks were lower in those than she would've liked. And now she'd lost another minute thinking about it. She pressed two fingers to each of her temples and screwed up her face, making a quiet noise as she tried to calm herself.
"Oh, I'm sorry, it's alright," Cynthia said, letting go of her. "Sorry, I know it stresses you out. We'll go up at quarter past?"
"Sixteen," Dorcas managed.
"Alright. Do you want me to test you?" Dorcas nodded. Cynthia plucked the card from her fingers. "What is the most crucial component to perfect when casting the Doubling Charm, and why?"
She knew this. She just needed to concentrate. "The wand movement requires perfection because… because if one incorrectly flicks their wand towards the object, rather than tapping it, and have muddled intent, they will be at risk of casting the Geminio Curse instead, which will cause the object to double infinitely when touched." She steadied herself and looked expectantly at Cynthia, who turned the card over and nodded.
"Yes, correct. Wow. That's a bit scary, isn't it? I try to be good with the movements but sometimes it's a bit – you can't really truly be bothered, can you? But I suppose I don't want to go around accidentally cursing things…"
At eighteen past –the time by which they had packed up (for they were still learning cleaning charms) – Dorcas and Cynthia hooked their bags over their shoulders and made for the girls' staircase. Most of the dark wooden doors were shut and silent, though beneath a handful the sounds of music or laughter slipped through. Their dormitory was on the fifth landing, and it was ajar. Dorcas pushed it open and stepped inside.
Around one bed, the curtains were drawn – Kenna, Dorcas thought. Two, Dorcas' and Cynthia's, were made neatly, untouched since the house-elves had visited. One was rumpled and strewn with shoes, and the fifth had a satchel bag dumped atop it and a picture of a pretty girl and her big brother on the bedside table. Light leaked through the gaps around the door to the ensuite.
Cynthia looked at Dorcas significantly, though Dorcas couldn't tell its meaning. She went quietly to her bed and put her things away neatly. Water hissed through the pipes. She picked out her pyjamas and folded them on the end of her bed. Cynthia brushed her hair with tight lips.
"We have to talk to her when she comes out," Cynthia whispered conspiratorially, joining Dorcas by her bed. "It's odd for her, don't you think? Not to tell us where she was going?"
Dorcas thought about it. "I suppose," she said. Florence usually told them where she was going, yes, but did that make it unusual for her to omit the information once? It was a difficult thing to quantify.
"We shouldn't have secrets," Cynthia said, dropping her brush onto Dorcas' bed (Dorcas tried not to think about strands of blonde hair tangling around her throat in the middle of the night) and stating to braid. "You know you can tell me anything, don't you, Dorcas?"
Dorcas hesitated. Not anything. She couldn't tell her about the Occlumency work she was doing, because that was, she felt, supposed to be a secret. And she couldn't tell Cynthia about her and Florence. Florence wouldn't like it. Sometimes it felt like Florence was ashamed enough that Dorcas knew, and Dorcas was participating in it.
Cynthia's eyes moistened. "Well, you can," she said, twisting locks of her hair around each other. Dorcas had never had the fingers for braids; she could just barely suffer through a hairdresser doing it. Her fingers felt too fat and clumsy to manage it. Doing her hair was one of the great dreads of the morning. And wrapping it up at night. "And I know I can tell you anything."
The water finally shut off, and Cynthia tied a pink band around the end of her braid. The two of them crept towards the toilet door. The rack rung as Florence pulled a towel down; the shower caddy clinked as a product was returned; fabric rustled and the floormat shuffled as she dressed. Despite the situation, Dorcas' pulse quickened. It was an absurd fantasy, and one that burned her cheeks, but it was one too stubborn to be thrown from her mind. She was devoutly thankful to be learning Occlumency. She shut her eyes and slowed her breathing, trying to focus on a box, and nothing but a box. It almost worked. Only the spray of floral perfume tore her from that brittle peace.
The door slid open.
Florence stood in a nightgown with a bathrobe pulled over it. Her dark hair spilled across her terrycloth-clad shoulders. Her eyes widened. Dorcas almost stumbled into her eyes like blue pools, like Ancient Roman baths, thick with elixirs of life and healing properties hitherto unknown. She forgot how to be concerned, or accusative.
Cynthia gasped. "Your neck." She pointed, as if Florence was a multi-necked hydra.
Dorcas glimpsed the marks as Florence pulled her clothes around it. Red blotches and faint teeth marks marred the sparkling skin. Florence reddened as Dorcas had never known her to. Florence was never embarrassed. Never furious. Dorcas distantly noted the marks as though taking notes for an assignment. Approximate diameter. Age, at a guess. Length of teeth. Potential jaw width of the giver.
"You've been seeing someone," Cynthia said, bubbling with energy, wagging her finger. "Haven't you? That's what this is about!"
Dorcas had kissed Florence there before. Her marks had not been that shape. Her teeth were bigger.
"It's late," Florence said, dropping the handfuls of material. She smelt of water lilies. "Go to bed, Cyn." She pushed between Dorcas and Cynthia and strode to her bed. Her hand closed around a bronze tassel. Dorcas stared. Cynthia darted, following her.
"You have to tell us," she insisted, her hand closing over Florence's. "Who is it? Who's the mystery man?"
Don't play stupid, it doesn't suit you, you're clever and we both know it.
"Come on now." Florence smiled like she was sharing a private joke. "It is late."
It's bound to happen eventually.
Cynthia sat on her bed. "But I want to know now. I won't be able to sleep otherwise."
We're happy, aren't we?
I just feel like you're ashamed.
Of course a boy.
Who?
"Not Glen?" Cynthia bounced on the mattress. Florence's face rapidly returned to its normal colour.
"Merlin, of course not." Florence attended to her bedside table, dipping her fingers in a pot of cream.
Perseus –
"Padgett?"
Dorcas froze. Florence's eyes flittered across her and back to Cynthia.
"Well," and she smiled, and Cynthia gasped again. Confirmation, Dorcas guessed, from Cynthia's reaction. "I thought it was time to stop playing games and grow up."
I like being liked and I like being asked to dances and I like boys.
Cynthia launched into a barrage of questions. "Did he properly ask you out or are you just seeing each other? Do you like-like him? When did you know you liked him? Is that the first time he's kissed you like that? What are Slytherin boys like? Has he – you know?"
Dorcas scooped up her clothes and marched into the ensuite, slamming the door shut. The mirror was still fogged from Florence's shower. She undressed and stepped onto the wet tiles, turning the taps so the water ran over her. Dorcas tried not to think of anything at all.
I feel like I really like you.
Tell me you don't like me. I need to hear it. You don't like me in that way.
It has to be a game. It's all just nonsense.
Dorcas flinched as the warm water hit her eyelids.
Can I touch you?
I saw you, when I woke up.
Steam rose around her. A grey shroud between her and real life.
Oneiromancy.
Tell Florence about the mind link.
Oneiromancy.
Dorcas?
I saw you.
Please kiss me.
Voices swirled like water down the drain. Lovegood. The boy from the party months ago with the odd way about him, talking about Occlumency like it meant something to him. She could feel her fingernails in her arm. She brushed over the long-gone marks. The perfume. November fourth. His pale eyes on her brown ones. A kaleidoscope of images burned through her brain – Florence's lips, Professor Nicholl laughing, showing all her teeth, I'm excited to tell you.
Her skin tingled as she stepped out of the water, scalded in the water and born anew. She slipped on her pyjamas, attempted to wrangle her hair and took a deep, shuddering breath before she opened the door.
Strong feelings towards her, then. Positive or negative.
Your magic, enhanced by the magic inherent in the castle, attempted to forge a link with her.
Dorcas had never told her.
She needn't know what the true cause of her seizure was.
But then as now, Dorcas thought she ought to. It had happened to her because of how Dorcas felt about her, because of the way Dorcas had dreamed about her, even when she hadn't wanted to admit it. She deserved to know. And if –
Dorcas swallowed. If she was seeing someone else – if she was growing up – Dorcas' heart contracted painfully – then – then…
It was stupid, she told herself. Of course Florence was going to move on. They had never really dated, they had never really been together. It was just kissing. And it could never be anything more.
She blinked back tears and opened the door.
The curtains around Florence's bed were shut, and Cynthia waited on the end of her own with her clothes bundled. She offered an odd smile.
"It's a bit awful, isn't it, Cassie?" Cynthia whispered, standing and joining Dorcas in the middle of the room. "How could she keep it from us?" Dorcas feared if she spoke she would be overcome. Cynthia patted her shoulder. She did her best not to flinch. "It's okay to be upset. I'm upset too." With that, Cynthia disappeared into the ensuite. Dorcas stood alone with her dirty clothes.
She deposited them in the wicker basket and then stood outside Florence's curtains, softly flapping her hands. She had been here dozens of times before, gathering up her courage to slip through the curtains and into Florence's bed. It was almost perverse to be in the same position with a completely different stone sinking in her heart.
Dorcas didn't knock. She thought if she knocked and had to wait for Florence's assent she would completely fall apart. She shook her wrists once more, hard, and slipped through the sapphire hangings.
Florence looked up. She was curled on the bed in a thin nightgown, a book between her fingers, a waxy pallor to her face.
"Have you come to tell me off?" she asked. "To shout at me?"
"I don't like shouting." Dorcas sat on the end of the bed, which creaked slightly under her weight. Florence drew her knees to her chest and propped herself up on one elbow. The pages of the book fluttered shut and she didn't bother to mark them. Dorcas' hands wiggled. Anxiety ached in her joints.
"Do you remember when you had that seizure, on November fourth?" Dorcas asked. Florence's forehead creased.
"Obviously," she said, shifting. Dorcas tried to find the words.
"It was my fault."
Florence stared, and set the book on her bedside table. "I'm sorry?"
"It was my fault," Dorcas repeated, enunciating carefully so she wasn't mistaken again. "I did that to you."
Florence grabbed one lace-edged pillow and held it against her stomach. Dorcas searched her face for clues. A tiny red pimple welled at the corner of her mouth; Dorcas flinched. She had never known Florence to have a pimple before. Her skin was eternally unblemished.
"I don't understand," Florence said. Her voice was an octave higher than usual.
"Magic," Dorcas said simply, because that was the easiest and truest answer. "Olfactory memory is the strongest. Smells. I latched onto your perfume and my magic somehow used the castle's ambient magic to try to forge a connection with you. A mind link." A finger of fear rose inside her, but this part she knew Florence needed to hear. It didn't matter how it made Dorcas feel. It would fix things for both of them, eventually, if they could only accept it. "You never liked me. Not really. It was only the mind link. It was only a magical compulsion."
"On November fourth?" Florence balled her blanket in her hand. "What, on November fourth I magically started – feeling – whatever – because of a mind link? Because of magic?"
Dorcas bit the inside of her cheek. "I should have told you sooner." It was a betrayal of the highest order. Guilt seeped into her bloodstream. She had let it go on for months just because she liked the way she felt when she was with Florence. Just because she dreamed about her. Her eyes stung. It made her horrible. No wonder Florence wanted someone else. Padgett. It just didn't fit. They were two corner puzzle pieces; they didn't work together. The image was incomplete.
"You really think that?" Florence said. "And what – now I've just snapped out of it?"
"I don't know," Dorcas said quietly. Florence covered her face with her hands and groaned, throwing herself onto her back.
"So we're ending this?"
Dorcas blinked. "You – you have Padgett." Florence didn't answer. "Doesn't that make it done?"
"Maybe," Florence whispered, hoarse. Then she flung her hands from her face. "Go away!" Tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked as if painted by Titian. "Get out!"
"I'm sorry," Dorcas said. How could you do this to her? But she had to know. She had a right to know.
"I can't -!" Dorcas flinched as she shouted, frightened that Cynthia and Kenna could hear, and Florence pulled herself from the bed, draped in sheets. She shoved an angry finger through the curtains and grabbed Dorcas by the shoulder. "Get out! Get out!" Her face crumpled and steered Dorcas through the blue. Cynthia stood in the doorway to the ensuite, dripping wet, gaping. Kenna looked through her curtains with wide eyes. Florence clapped her hand over her mouth and flung herself back onto her bed, the curtains closing around her. Silence fell upon the dormitory, only punctuated by a sob.