A/N: This is coming a day later than I would have liked, but it's out! University has been very, very hectic. So I'm glad this chapter is finally done!

That said and done, please read this chapter with care. There are allusions to bullying, violence, and death amongst other things, and please keep in mind all the story-typical warnings.

There is a section later in the chapter you may recognise - dialogue and some action is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and does not belong to me!

Also, the end of the third section - Regulus' section - contains underage drinking and a scene of emotional abuse that discusses some disturbing topics and contains discomfiting undertones. Writing this scene made my skin crawl and was at times triggering. Please, please take care of yourself in reading this part, if you choose to. It includes discussion of incest and CSA (though none actually occurs). To avoid this, please skip from "Still. Taste can't be helped." to the section divider (March 21st, 1976).


March 17th, 1976

Eerie orange light flickered from the torches, lining the icy dungeon corridor. The floor sloped beneath his feet, rougher than the well-used corridors that connected classrooms and favourite alcoves. Thick, damp air grazed his throat, protesting the visit of any wizard. The green-grey stone walls were bare, saved for carved inscriptions. Snakes from centuries back watched him with their wand-slit eyes, enchantments long worn away, left forevermore as lifeless decoration. The castle didn't care to expend energy on these parts. Rust nibbled at iron knockers. The chill swept into his robes and spread from the inside out. His Warming Charm, though O-worthy, had given way to the depths, and his robes weren't the sort with enchantments and runes sewn into the lining.

He would manage regardless.

Severus came to the fourth door and knocked twice, biting back a shiver at the cool touch of metal. Tonight, he would be calm. He would not flinch at their accusations and he would not rise to the bait of their attempted humiliation. He didn't need to. He had something more powerful than they could have hoped for. He had something greater than the whisperers knew. He wasn't a stranger to enduring embarrassment and he wouldn't let it unbuckle him now.

The door squealed as it opened. Severus turned his wand in his grip and entered.

It was rather disappointing, for something that had required such a long walk. A dirty carpet sprawled across the floor, and candles burned low on a half-rotten desk. Mulciber and Jugson stood tall, acting like men come to punish him. Severus muttered under his breath, and with a flick of his wand the door shut behind him. Jugson shifted, but Mulciber did not. Severus folded his hands behind his back, the way he'd seen others do, and held his head high. They could think what they liked.

"You could say hello or something," said Jugson, his gruff voice breaking through their airs of pomposity.

"So could you," Severus replied flatly. Mulciber snorted and wiped his nose, reaching into his pocket. From it he withdrew an unmarked bottle and thrust it out.

"Drink?"

"No."

Mulciber shook the bottle. "Go on." He raised is eyebrows. Severus hesitated. To take it would be to give in, but not taking it would make him seem stubborn, or worse, like a kid. Frustration bit at him.

"I'm not here for a social call," he said finally, whipping his cloak threateningly and storming off to another corner of the room. There was little to see, but he feigned interested in the rusted implements. "I have work to do," Severus continued imperiously. "Why are we meeting here? Are you being bullied?" Jugson's shadow grabbed the bottle from Mulciber's hand and swigged. Mulciber snorted again.

"Oh, yes, terribly bullied," Mulciber drawled sarcastically. "John and I have things to do too, you're not the only one being inconvenienced."

"But it was your idiotic proposal," Severus muttered to himself. "What is it, then?"

"Turn around, at least," said Jugson. Severus sighed heavily and made a show of turning, lifting his chin so that his curtains of hair fell back. Jugson leaned against a bench, drinking and looking bored. Mulciber scratched his dark hairline.

"The shit between you and Potter and Regulus' brother," Mulciber said. The names sent a bolt through his body, but he'd known that was what they'd want to discuss. "We need to know what's going on. If you're getting – 'saved' – by blood traitors, there's a problem." Mulciber stepped forward, his dark eyes unreadable. "Are you friends with Sirius Black?"

Severus had not expected that. He gaped. "Am I friends with that – that lazy, insolent, traitorous scumbag, who lolls around the school, draping himself over furniture like he owns the place -"

"Sirius is the heir to an ancient fortune," Mulciber said quietly. Severus stopped abruptly.

"I – he's a blood traitor. They'll never give it to him." Mulciber nodded slowly.

"Regulus would be my choice," he said, shrugging. "But Sirius is the eldest son. He's – what, sixteen? There's months before they have to decide what to do with him, and there's every chance he'll grow up." Mulciber blew out a breath. "What's a few stupid comments at school?"

Severus tried to reconfigure. "He's – he's against everything we stand for. He's gone. Nobody hangs out with Potter and Pettigrew and Lupin," Severus shuddered, "and comes back to us."

Mulciber laughed and shook his head. "I'm offering you advice, Snape," he said, smoothing down his robes. "Don't go sprouting that bullshit off to everyone you meet. The Blacks are an old family and for now, Sirius is the heir. Mind your pints and quarts. That's all." Jugson handed him the bottle, and Mulciber drank deeply. Severus' heart pounded. This was not where they were supposed to be. He had meant to guide the conversation and to get it to a place where he could gloat, where their eyes would shine when they realised what he had discovered for them. They weren't to be telling him off as though he was some idiot first-year.

"Might I let you in on something?" Severus asked. Mulciber paused significantly, the bottle an inch from his lips.

"Go on, then," he said. "What is it?" Severus let his words hang in the air, and waited for Mulciber's nose to twitch in frustration. Mulciber sighed and shoved the bottle back into Jugson's grasp, stepping forward with an open mouth. At the last moment, Severus spoke.

"I wasn't saved," he said. "I was ushered away. They have a secret, hidden beneath the Whomping Willow."

"A secret," Mulciber repeated. "I don't care about their magazines, Snape."

"Better than that," Severus said. "I saw it. I know what it is. The thing they'd do anything to protect."

Mulciber exhaled a laugh. Severus flinched. "Right, then. Have fun with that. There's no need to antagonise them, and I don't care about your fifth-year politics. I was trying to help you."

"But -" They didn't understand. They didn't realise the significance of what he was telling them. Mulciber and Jugson bumped shoulders and made for the door. Did they want him to keep clear of blood traitors like Black or pretend Black was magic's gift to man because he happened to be an eldest son? Jugson wrenched open the door, muttering something, and Mulciber laughed loudly.

"I'm going to create another spell," Severus declared boldly, the idea flooding him. Yes. Yes, that's what he would do. He would defeat Lupin and Potter and Black with it. He would give something of use to the Slytherins. Something that would impress them – something better than an enchantment against eavesdropping or a jinx to hoist someone by the ankle. Something beyond the schoolyard.

"A spell?" Mulciber looked over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with interest. "What sort of spell?"

Severus' heart beat in his mouth. "A weapon." Mulciber's eyebrows arched. Jugson's gormless face creased with confusion.

"Right, then," Mulciber said, lifting his chin. "Give us something good, Snape. Need something to cheer me up." With that, the two older boys left the room. The door swung shut behind them.

Severus was left alone in the dungeon, veins pulsing, a concept knitting itself together at the forefront of his mind. A spell would do it. There were books he knew of already that would give him a place to start. He needed to create something beyond the magic of now. He needed to create something that would earn Mulciber's respect, that would terrify Potter. Something that would make Lily see him as he was, not as the little boy from Cokeworth. Something the Dark Lord himself would be impressed by.

Something that would prove Severus' abilities, once and for all.

They had never yet devised a spell to kill a werewolf.


March 18th, 1976

James couldn't sleep. It was infuriating.

All his life, he'd slept like a log. He'd slept through the night when his parents had first brought him home from St Mungo's, the story went. He was active, and avoided caffeine in the evenings, and approximately two minutes after his head hit the pillow, he was gone. His circadian rhythm was perfect. He never needed an alarm, and he seldom shuffled about when he got out of bed, stuck in a daze of exhaustion. Nope. As soon as he sprung awake, he was ready to go.

Needless to say, waking at one in the morning – and being unable to return to sleep – was really fucking bothering him.

James sat on the edge of his bed, drumming his fingers against the firm mattress and concentrating on not yawning. Yawning would be a sign of defeat. If he'd woken up at this time, there was obviously some reason for it. Did he need to go to the toilet? Had there been a noise? He poked his head out of his curtains. Peter and Dale snored away, and he could make out Remus' light breathing, too. After five years of sharing a room for nine months, he was well-acquainted with the sounds of his dormmates' sleeping. That meant, too, that he was acutely aware of the absence of Sirius' discontented groans. His eyes moved to the ensuite door, adjusting to the darkness. Only the waning moon cast shades of grey across the still. No light outlined the door, but his gut tingled – he had a feeling.

James slid out of bed and crossed the room quietly. The gentle creak of bedsprings suggested that Peter was rolling onto his side. That was probably better than sleeping on his stomach, the way he favoured. James paused at the door, listening, but it was either empty or the person inside was perched completely silently on the toilet seat, which would make for a humorous enough sight. He opened the door.

The toilet, unfortunately, was empty of any bird-like master-of-stealth humans, but the shower had an occupant. James' stomach clenched. He couldn't rightly be surprised, not really, but seeing the other boy's face was like a blow to the head.

Sirius sat up in the corner of the shower, eyes shut, a blanket pulled over him. He looked younger in his sleep, face smooth and peaceful. James' hand closed around the edge of the door. Sirius hadn't returned to the dormitory since their falling out almost two weeks ago, and James had assumed he'd been sleeping in the common room or else in the Party Room, which could create beds if it needed to. He certainly hadn't been camping out in the shower this whole time – Remus got up regularly through the night, and James was fairly sure he would have heard about it if he'd stumbled in for a piss and found Sirius asleep on the floor. James took a long, deep breath, pulling in the cool midnight air. Sirius had showed up in their lessons yesterday, albeit on the opposite side of the room. James had spent that first day looking for him, but he'd skived off and there'd been a pain in James' chest at the idea he was continuing the habit. But on Wednesday morning Sirius had come into Charms and planted himself in the second row, amongst a chorus of bewildered Ravenclaws, and James had got the message: don't talk to me. Which was fucking rich, actually, considering if it weren't for James, Sirius would probably be in fucking Azkaban for getting Snape murdered.

But maybe it was to keep the peace. Peter was absolutely furious; he'd sheepishly apologised to James after that morning in the Infirmary, but when Sirius started making appearances at mealtimes, he made no secret of glaring at the side of his head. James couldn't mention the S-word without Peter balling his fists.

"Give it up," Peter said, angrier than James had known he could be. "He tried to get Remus killed. He told his secret! He betrayed us! All of us!" Because that was the other thing: Sirius had not taken the Animagus potion, and as of yet, neither had Peter. The memory of being an animal was like a dream; that whole night seemed unreal. How the hell had he managed it? It seemed more of a miracle with every hour that passed by. That double beat of his heart was etched in his chest. He hadn't had the chance to try it again, and part of him was afraid that he wouldn't be able to. That he'd fluked it. Which was stupid, honestly, because he'd done the work and he was bloody good at Transfiguration – good enough to be going to an international tournament, at least. That had to mean something.

He scratched his head. Horns. Antlers. He'd turned himself into a bull in the school round of the transfiguration tournament and, according to Peter, he'd been a stag when he transformed on Monday night. A stag. He hadn't expected that, but then he didn't know what he'd expected. A lion would've been nice, fitting, or a griffin – James would've loved to have been something that could fly. He thought a bird would fit his personality, the way the Animagus forms were supposed to. The whole stag thing seemed a bit thin, honestly.

James had found Lisbete yesterday, curled up in a chair at the back of the common room, Cathy sitting on the armrest, the both of them pouring over a magazine. His stomach swooped whenever he saw her now, but for different reasons than it was meant to. Guilt beat in his veins. What the hell was wrong with him? She looked up, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, cheeks pink. He felt a bit sick at the thought of talking to her. They'd danced around each other since the party, and James had had better things to do than worry about if she was pissed off at him. She'd kissed someone else. Wasn't that reason enough to drop her? He tried to fill his head with the image of Lisbete snogging Gumboil the way she snogged him, hands in his hair, smiling against his lips… and it left him concerningly empty. So what? Maybe he'd gone mental. He was supposed to go and hex Gumboil until he resembled a spotty egg, but it felt like too much effort, to be honest.

It might've been different if people were laughing at him about it, or if things in his dorm were normal. But everyone just regarded Lisbete with cool eyes and even the Slytherins hadn't been pricks about it. Maybe they didn't know. Who would pay that much attention to the snogging of some random third-years anyway?

"What are you doing?" James had asked, after shaking the thoughts from his head. Cathy snorted. Lisbete's throat bobbed, and she turned the magazine to him.

"It's a personality quiz," she said, voice very high. "It tells you what your Patronus is." Easier to answer a few questions to figure it out than to actually cast one, James supposed.

"Give me a go, then." Lisbete pulled the magazine to her chest, and James thought they would have it out then and there. But she readjusted her grip and cleared her throat.

"Pick your favourite class at school," she read off. "Arithmancy, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures…"

He answered all of the questions, and in the end she turned a page and tallied it up.

"Stag," she said plainly. James coughed.

"What?"

"It says your patronus is probably a stag," she repeated. James leaned over to look at the glossy pages, and their fingers brushed. Lisbete's breath hitched, but she didn't move. His skin burned at the point of contact – it just felt wrong. He pulled away from her, instead running his hand down the page. 'Mostly Fs – Stag. You might be a noble and brave protector who shines when leading your team. You're a great mate and you always stick up for the ones you love! Just mind you don't get too full of yourself – nobody likes a Bighead Betty!'

"How do they come up with this stuff?" James wondered, frowning as he rifled through the pages. Lisbete elbowed him, ducking out of his reach.

"Hey!" she protested. Cathy snorted again. "I don't know how they do it. I suppose the writer does some research and puts it in." She smoothed down her hair. "I'm a swan. Do you think that suits me, Jamie?" Her silky voice and use of that nickname got on his nerves. James swallowed his frustration.

"Yep, just like you," he said vaguely, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. "I've got to go. See you later." He hesitated. Usually he kissed her goodbye, but today he didn't want to touch her. All this relationship stuff was the last thing he needed. If she liked Gumboil, couldn't she get rid of James and go saunter off with him? But on the other hand, he didn't want to get dumped by a third-year. Irritated, he quickly pressed his lips to her forehead and hurried upstairs.

So he was a leader or protector or something else as clear as mud. Right about now he didn't feel like a protector. An icy breeze crept up the back of his neck and he swallowed. Better not to think. Just get it done with. He stepped forward and nudged Sirius' leg with his toes.

"Get up," he said quietly. Sirius' eyes opened at once, the colour of slush. He looked worse conscious.

"You can't kick me out of the shower," Sirius rasped, voice still leaden with sleep. James arched an eyebrow.

"I could," he said, but he didn't. He nudged Sirius again. "This is pathetic." Sirius' eyes narrowed in a way that might've precluded a fight, but he did something stupider. He flashed James a rude hand gesture and pulled the blanket over his head. "Sirius," James said, trying to put force in his voice, but it was so ridiculous – he grabbed the blanket and wrenched it off. Sirius sucked in his breath.

"That's very unkind," Sirius said. James stared at him, a million retorts running through his mind – telling Snape about Remus was very unkind, buggering off instead of watching the game I specifically asked you to watch was very unkind, lying to me about it was very unkind, refusing to tell me anything was very fucking unkind when all I wanted to do was fucking help you! He clenched his jaw.

"Pete and Remus are going to be very unkind if they come in to piss and stumble upon you," James said, forcing his voice to stay even. Sirius flinched at Remus' name. So you should. Tension knotted James' shoulders, threading worry through his muscles.

"I don't care if they hex me," Sirius said, blowing hair out of his face. "I don't care if they curse me. Wake them up and get them in here and tell them to do whatever they want. I don't care." James swallowed and folded his arms.

"I care," he said. Sirius' grey eyes darted to him, a question flickering in his irises. James cleared his throat. "Pete was up til midnight trying to get through those Charms readings and I'm partnering him tomorrow – today – in Defence. If he loses anymore sleep trying to turn your ears into radishes, I'll end up bollockless." Not that it'd matter. Not to my girlfriend. But it never had. They'd never got that far, and the thought of it made his stomach cramp up. His skin prickled. Just dump her, for Merlin's sake. It's not going to get any better.

Sirius didn't even smile at the jab about Peter, and guilt singed the ends of James' nerves.

"Look," James said. "I don't know when you snuck in here, or why you decided to sleep in the shower, but if you're trying to stay out of our way, this isn't it. It'll cause a bigger fucking deal if someone trods on you trying to brush their teeth." James ran his fingers through his hair. "Just go to bed. The curtains have been closed all week anyway, so long as you don't start getting yourself off, nobody will know the difference." Sirius' brows drew incrementally closer. James rubbed a circle on his jaw with his thumb. Why are you putting me through this? Was it too much to ask for everything to be normal? Weren't O. and the bloody Transfiguration Tournament enough? Not that he was nervous about either – but the teachers seemed to think he ought to be, and it was enough of a nuisance without adding Sirius and Lisbete on top.

"They'll see me when I get up," Sirius said, pulling at his earlobe. "I don't want – Moony doesn't need to see me." You don't get to betray his secret and call him 'Moony'. James wanted to hex Sirius and he wanted to hug him.

"Sirius," James said, and the word caught in his throat. He grabbed the blanket and roughly tried to fold it. His mum had charms that did the work, but a handful of times his punishment as a kid had been to help her with the laundry, doing it muggle-style. He normally managed a couple of socks and by the time the bedding came around, he was sent off with a biscuit and a ruffle of his hair. The stupid fucking thing wouldn't fold. James laboured with it, trying to match the corners. "I'll give you the Cloak," he ground out, balling his hands in the fabric to resist throwing it at the other boy.

"What?" Sirius said. James struggled to hold the corners together as he fumbled with a crease.

"To borrow," James clarified. "Go to bed, shut up, use the Cloak to go to the toilet or to class or wherever it is you're fucking off to. Until -" James didn't know when. The end of the school year? The end of Hogwarts? He realised he had assumed this entire time that they would make up, somehow, in some way. Life without Sirius was too painful to contemplate. His heart seized. They couldn't – they couldn't be at each other's throats forever. They couldn't.

But James had no idea how to get to that making up. Putting everything behind them was impossible.

"Are you serious?" Sirius asked. Once, there would have been an easy answer for that. A joke.

James threw the blanket at him so that it covered his head, and left the bathroom.


March 20th, 1976

Regulus folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, trying to still his racing pulse as the stairs corralled him upwards. The message was infuriatingly vague. He prayed that no more had been said of Alfreck and Deborah's marriage. Marriage. The word still felt surpassingly strange to use in relation to two of his classmates. The whole situation was sketched in shades of ludicrousness. He could not believe the sham of a ceremony had legally held up. He could not believe his mother hadn't murdered him for it. But then perhaps she would like to see the Rosiers knocked down. Aunt Druella would be the one to criticise, if any of them did. She was the only one of the Blacks who stood to lose.

He was delivered to the Headmaster's door, where he took the knocker in hand and brought it against the door twice. It swung open at once, and Regulus' pounding heart stopped altogether.

"Darling boy," Mother beamed, showing all her teeth like a shark posed to attack. "You've come to visit!"

Mother wore a wide-brimmed hat embellished with a large, blooming black dahlia, and black velvet robes trimmed with lace, and stood in the centre of the office, with Professor Dumbledore just behind her. She opened her eyes wide as if expecting an embrace. Regulus retrained himself and shut the door carefully. Mother's smile did not falter. He crossed the room and kissed her cheek.

"Professor," he said, bowing his head. Don't let it be Alfreck and Deborah. They had single-handedly made laughingstocks of themselves amongst the Slytherins, and Regulus was thankful his name had been suppressed in the ruckus. Alfreck had no shame for himself – ("Why should I be ashamed of being with the girl I love?") – but he respected Regulus enough not to pull him any further into the fray.

"Regulus." Mother slipped her arm around his waist. They were of a height now, and she leaned her head on his shoulder with almost no trouble. "I've missed you terribly," she lamented, and smiled at Professor Dumbledore. "So cruel, to separate us from our children for so long."

The Headmaster only smiled. "That is, of course, precisely why we allow such visits. And I am certain you are well aware of the Easter holidays' approach."

Mother returned his smile quite without humour. "Indeed." She stepped in front of Regulus, clutching his biceps. "I do hope I haven't intruded on you – I know how busy you must be, my darling. But I've been so lonely, at the house, and I thought you might be feeling a little overwhelmed with all the work they make you do. I thought a day out might cheer us both, hm?"

Regulus inhaled. "Of course, Mother. That's very thoughtful." His Charms coursework would have to wait, and undoubtedly Vanity would skin him for missing their practice, but Professor Abbott and Vanity both fell behind his mother in importance.

"Very good. And do thank your Headmaster for allowing this little visitation." Dumbledore had an unnerving look about him, and Regulus was painfully reminded of their last encounter. He had been terrified of expulsion, but Mother had ensured it would not come to that, neither for him nor Sirius. Regulus had never thought himself frightened of some Ministry wizards until they had been sitting on the other side of the Headmaster's office, with Mother holding his hand and Father by her and their lawyer on Regulus' right. He had known it would come to nothing bad… he had done little but sign his name… but he was a Black. Had they need to question him?

"Thank you, Professor," he said.

Mother strode into Dumbledore's fire, sprinkling floo powder over the grate.

"Diagon Alley," she said, flashing him her all-knowing, all-seeing smile, and disappeared in a swirl of flames. Regulus followed, taking a pinch from the Headmaster's phoenix-shaped pot. The Headmaster cleared his throat, and Regulus paused on the precipice of the fire, fear curling.

"Enjoy yourself, Mr Black," Professor Dumbledore told him pleasantly, blue eyes twinkling. His stomach clenched.

"Thank you," he said, and stepped into the heat. "Diagon Alley."

Regulus kept his elbows tucked in as he spun through the floo network, keeping his destination firmly in mind. It was a nuisance that Mother had such nerves about side-along apparition. He attempted to settle his nerves as he twisted past grates, catching glimpses of living rooms; some sparse, some brimming with life, some with house-elves thrusting pokers into the flames and others with children running across plush carpets.

Mother wanted something, that much was clear. Word held that Sirius had been in another altercation at the start of the week, though if Mother wished for information, Regulus had none to give. Supposedly he had been involved in something to do with that Snape poking around the Whomping Willow… Potter had had to save the Slytherin. It was a humiliation for the whole house. Regulus carefully tugged at his sleeves. If Mother wanted company, he could give her that, and by all means it seemed a possibility… Or else she was in need of some retort to throw at the Rosiers. Perhaps she and Aunt Druella had disagreed again.

Soon enough, his path slowed, and he stepped out into the Leaky Cauldron. Mother waited him, and Kreacher beside her. At once the elf snapped his fingers and cleared the soot.

"Master Regulus," Kreacher bowed. Regulus smiled.

"Kreacher," he greeted. "You threaten me with homesickness." Mother laughed deeply.

"Oh, Regulus." The pinched look around her eyes was clear. He offered his arm to her and they proceeded through the pub, ignoring the glances thrown their way. It was unusual to see a boy of Hogwarts age in London during the term. The pub was full of Sunday-lunchers, laughing over pints and chips, and it was a tight squeeze between the tables. They bid good day to the Parkinsons and a woman Mother had been at school with, before snaking their way to the back courtyard.

Regulus inhaled deeply. The air smelt of magic.

"Very common of the Parkinsons to be there," Mother grumbled, tapping her wand primly across the bricks. "Especially with her baby nearing so soon. Why anyone would thrust themselves into that dinghy pub for lunch whilst in that way, I can't imagine." She sighed and patted Regulus' shoulder as the wall rearranged itself to reveal the shopping district. "It is the greatest unfairness that we who do no long must be subject to others' poor choices."

Diagon Alley was close to empty, especially for a Sunday. Perhaps everyone was busy eating. A handful of people spoke on the street, and a little girl threw herself onto the cobblestones while her mother tried to soothe her, and with her concentration broken, the Levitation Charm broke and their shopping fell to the ground, spilling across the walkway. When Regulus inhaled, he took in only smog and the stink of a wet street, drying slowly in the lazy glimpses of sun. A man in colourless robes stomped along with his head down, muttering and siphoning up puddles. He shook his wand and droplets sprayed across a window. Measly advertisements flashed from posters stuck to shop doors, and even the mannequins drooped. It was warm enough that he shifted under the bundled layers that had been reasonable in the Scottish Highlands, but itched in London.

He followed his mother around the crying girl, pretending that he hadn't seen. Mother smiled sympathetically at the woman and scowled as soon as they were out of sight. Gringotts loomed at the crossroads and the dark streaks of rain made it look almost mud-splattered. The radio blared out of Broomstix, with two commentators discussing Puddlemere's training strategy as opposed to Chudley's. Nobody saw the Blacks enter the narrow alleyway that connected Diagon Alley to Knockturn Alley; nobody was around.

This part of the shopping district was slightly busier; Regulus said a polite hello to Walden Macnair, and Mother exchanged pleasantries with the elderly Mrs Nott. Regulus kept hold of his mother's arm, as any respectable man did, but it was she who led him in truth. They turned up Immorte Alley and Mother sneered at the workmen streaming in and out of the dark little alleyway that led off to their right. They rolled cigarettes and whacked their wands against their legs between spells. To Regulus, it looked as though nothing of note was down the alley, unless you had a particular predilection for dustbins. A few shabby signs hung from the grimy stones.

"I don't see why they don't spend their money on cleaning it up," Mother said, glaring. "It's an eyesore, but instead of doing the sensible thing, these businessmen swan in and think to spin gold from gizzards." She put her lips very near to Regulus' ear. "They think to put in a discotheque. As if the one wasn't enough, they build another." She scoffed and smoothed her robes. "No interest in the arts, no interest in our history. If they can't sling it at a goblin or a half-breed they want nothing to do with it." Regulus knew where they were going before they arrived, and slowed.

Eternity stood three storeys tall, from the outside, marked by an exquisite door, curtains of red velvet, and an impeccably dressed wizard speaking in low tones to a thuggish security troll. It was not so garish as to declare its name on some jutting bit of wood. Instead, a red circle, with its concentricity broken only by one jagged peak pointing upwards, was painted above the door. The Philosopher's Stone. Supposedly Reginald Lowe, whose project Eternity had been, had met with Nicholas Flamel himself, and been so inspired that he had known he must create the restaurant as a homage to such magic. Regulus wondered at there being such a stone in existence, and that Flamel had not tried to sell it. Mother was right in that regard; so many sought only profit. He could not help but consider that Lowe may have been one of them.

The doorman bowed at their approach. "Mrs Black," he smiled, and his eyes flitted over Regulus. "Ah... And of course this must be your son. Master Sirius, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Regulus winced at the sudden grab of his shoulder. Mother's fingers pressed hard through his robes, threatening to bruise.

"This is my youngest son," she said. "My Regulus. My good boy. He has insisted on lunch with his dear old mother."

The man bowed again. "My apologies. You are very fortunate to have such a dutiful son. Good breeding makes good men, of course." He opened the door and gestured for them to enter. "Please."

Stepping into Eternity was stepping into another world. The lobby shone with low-burning candles, and dramatic art deco paintings swirled within their elaborate frames, setting Regulus at a slight unease. The high, arched coffered ceiling shone as though it was cut from cloth of gold, punctuated by intricate crests of all those families who had donated over the years. Regulus recognised them all, and did not miss the repeated inclusion of his own family's. The patterned tiles underfoot dried his shoes off the splatters of water he had accumulated on the street, and a mirrored tray full of a mysterious sparkling blue cocktail floated towards them. Regulus looked to his mother in question, and she only raised her eyebrows, taking one for herself. He took another.

Another wizard, in the uniform robes of midnight blue, led them into an ornate lift.

"Very like the one at the Ministry," Mother commented. The wizard pulled a bronze lever. The lift soundlessly carried them to the highest floor, where leadlight windows lined the corridor ahead. Regulus peered outside as they walked. Through these windows, muggle London did not exist – and nor did his home. Diagon Alley finished at an unpaved path, and beyond that stood stout villas with red-tiled roofs and then the bend of the Thames, unmarred by a giant clock or grey soulless buildings. A better time. The carved doors at the end of the hall opened for them, and Regulus took a brief sip of his drink before offering Mother his arm once more. It was a shock on his tongue, both lighter and spicier than he had expected. He forced it down.

The dining room on Eternity's top floor was dressed entirely in white and gold, doused in the light of the overlarge chandelier that rotated in mid-air. Marble pillars stretched to the glass-paned ceiling, which shimmered with thick defensive enchantments. Despite the grandeur and the spaciousness, Regulus could not see a single table. Dividers that better resembled pieces of art ensured the utmost privacy, leaving would-be eavesdroppers to gaze at the rich embroidery that depicted waves crashing upon a rocky shore, or the expanse of the African savannah, in the same white and gold monochrome.

With a wave of his wand, the wizard directed Regulus and his mother's drinks from their hands to a nearby table, and the dividers curled up to permit them access. Two plush velvet chairs with backs that rippled like clamshells sat opposite one another, with a white table between them. Regulus pulled out the nearer chair for Mother before taking his own seat. The wizard left them and the dividers closed in, affording them privacy.

Sirius would look at it as if he was trapped, Regulus thought, tapping the nail of his smallest finger against the smooth tabletop. He wished he hadn't thought of that. It wasn't as though he had any intention of leaving. It did not matter that he had his mother's full attention, nor that he was subject to her whims until she tired of him. And if it did matter, it could only be a positive thing.

"I fear I'm underdressed," Regulus said, regarding his robes. Mother laughed so high it was almost a singular cackle, and took a mouthful of the nameless blue drink.

"Don't you worry," she told him. "You are dressed perfectly. We've no need to stoop to the crude behaviours of others, do we? We don't need to parade ourselves about in costumes. We are Blacks." Regulus smiled uncertainly. Mother drank again. "I've never brought you up here, have I?"

"No, Mother." He had come to Eternity before, of course, but as a family. They had sat on the lower levels where you could hear the other tables, if you listened closely enough, and where the occasional child would whimper or wail. There were never tantrums, of course, though Sirius had come close every now and then. Regulus ran his fingers over the edge of the table. Sometimes he had imagined that reaching the top floor of Eternity would be some great endeavour, a marker of his coming-of-age, even, but now it had come and he had forgotten to be nervous. It was only a room and a table. Nice ones, yes, but ultimately only a room and a table. His Charms homework seemed rather more important.

"Sirius has never been here either," Mother continued, wrinkling her nose. "But that… well. He wouldn't appreciate it the way you do." Regulus didn't know what to say to that. He reached for his drink, but Mother grabbed his hand, eyes widening. "You mustn't think I'm being cruel," she continued. "No, no… But it's the truth, isn't it? He doesn't appreciate things the way you do. He isn't as deep."

"He's… physical," Regulus said. Sirius cared not so much for grandeur as he did for the rush of flying. But even with that considered, Regulus played quidditch and Sirius did not. "It is very beautiful here," Regulus added, not wanting Mother to think him shallow. "The architecture… The spellwork must be astonishing."

"Yes," Mother said shortly, looking up. "But then… well, it's garish, isn't it?" He'd thought she liked it. "Still. Taste can't be helped." Her fingers closed on the stem of her glass. "Like that Rosier boy. What an idiot. All for some slut." Her features sharpened, and Regulus feared his face had betrayed a distaste for the word. He wasn't especially fond of Deborah, by no means, but it was hardly fair to call her… that. "Don't give me that look," Mother said roughly. "What, you're too precious to hear it? People might not like it, but that's what she is: a slut. I'll tell her father as much, I don't care. That's the thing, Regulus. Nobody wants to say the unpleasant things. Nobody wants to admit it. But I'm not afraid. I'm not a coward." She sipped. "What do you think of her, Regulus? You must know the girl. Your brother dragged you along on that mockery of a marriage; what is she like?" Mother's grey eyes narrowed. His hand was trapped beneath her many-ringed fingers, and there was no chance for reprieve in the form of a drink.

"She's very plain," Regulus said, shifting in his seat. Mother laughed and let go of him. Cool imprints of her grasp marked his hand. The ring with the family crest had twisted as she held him, and now it left its shape on the back of his hand, stamped over the blue of his veins.

"I'm sure she is," Mother said. "It's an awful business, distasteful. Her father must have taught her what to do to get a boy's attention… Shown her himself, I'd wager -"

"Mother." The reproach slipped out without Regulus' realising, and he choked on it the moment his mind processed what he had said. No, no. She raised her hand and he braced for impact, but she stopped short of his face. He could feel the heat radiating through her skin. Mania flashed through her gaze. His breaths shortened. Finally, she made contact, grasping his cheek so firmly that his ears rung. But it was only a caress.

"Don't play the fool with me," she chided. "I know more than you think I do, Regulus Black. I know what boys your age are like. All about sex, aren't you? You just want to shove yourself inside someone." Regulus' skin crawled. "And – I'm not sorry to say it, but her father must have taught her. You can tell by looking at him." Regulus felt sick. That couldn't be true. Something about Mother's tone made him want to shower. "I'm just surprised she didn't go after you. Maybe she knew you were too clever to fall for it. You'd never be stupid enough to marry the first girl you fucked."

"Mother," Regulus said, stomach turning, "I – I suppose she thought I was too clever, yes. But she and Alfreck… in some way they think they like each other. I expect that's why they did it."

"I know what he likes about her," Mother said. "The only thing men like about women, but he'll get sick of that in time. She won't be exciting anymore, they'll be too equal." She cleared her throat. "That's why I married your father in part, of course. To consolidate the fortunes, yes, but I knew a younger man would be easier to control… Don't get that look in your eyes," Regulus hadn't had any look in his eyes, but he dared not protest, "you're old enough to hear me speak frankly about it. If you want any power in a relationship, you should be older, and by a good deal. Four years was barely enough for me, and means less as you get older. If you married a girl your own age I'd hex you for being so stupid. The first-years at your school now, even they'll be too close to you in time… They get their own minds. It's a pain of a thing to deal with."

Regulus was saved from answering by two leather-bound menus appearing on the table.

"I'm hungry," he said, taking one. Mother raised her eyebrows.

"Of course you are."

Regulus selected a seafood entrée and tapped the menu with his wand to place the order. His eyes roamed to his Mother, who gave him a short nod, and he tapped a glass of red wine next. Mother ran her long nails across the glossy pages.

"You know," she said. "This is all very unsatisfactory." She shut the menu. Regulus tried to find the right words.

"It's appallingly limited," he said, though he didn't agree. But it was the only fault he could come up with.

"Yes," Mother said, her eyes locking on him. "You don't really want seafood, do you? With red wine?" Before he could reply, she rapped the front of the menu thrice with her wand. A pleasant pop signalled the arrival of a waiter.

"Mrs Black," said the wizard, bowing. "How may I be of assistance?" Mother smiled her Ministry-gala-smile: all teeth and freezing friendliness.

"We were hoping," she said, including Regulus with a pronoun and conspiratorial glance, "that we might be able to try something more… ah… exquisite."

"Of course," said the waiter. "What would be to your tastes?"

"Le cheval-aigle Écossais au poivre." For the slimmest second, the waiter's face betrayed surprise, and Regulus pitied him. "Is there a problem?"

"No," the waiter said. "No, never, Mrs Black. Ah – we will procure this for you as soon as we can." He made bows to them both and apparated away. Mother laughed again. Their menus vanished.

"I have never tried this, Mother," Regulus said, sipping at his drink again. Mother swiped her lower lip, and for a moment she resembled Sirius.

"You will like it," she assured him. "Well worth the price. I wouldn't waste it on your brother, but you – well, as I said, you appreciate these things. My darling boy. Fifteen galleons a dish, don't you know? But for you I can't mind it." She held him by the chin. "My good boy. I wish your father was more like you, you know. As clever as you. He has not your will. If he did…" She let go of him. "He's selfish. Terribly selfish. He and your brother both." Regulus stayed silent, doing his best to pretend the alcohol wasn't making him foggy. "You're going to be the one it comes to. Your brother may inherit… But you're the one who will make us proud."

That warmed him. And – perhaps it was immodest to think, but it was true. Father was happy managing, not venturing out, and Sirius had never had a taste for what their position in society required. But Regulus could do it. He was the second son, but he could do it, if Mother would let him. She smiled then, a real smile, and the sun had come out.

"Thank you," he said. She rolled her eyes.

"Don't be a girl."

The wine came quickly, and she scolded the bottle for pouring them the usual half-measures.

"We're to finish it either way," she said. "Fill." It did so. She gave the first glass to Regulus, who stared into the crimson depths with an uneasiness creeping over his shoulders. He had had alcohol before, of course, but so much in one sitting. Not with Mother's eyes upon him so carefully. She raised her glass and he mirrored her, clinking against each other. She drank deeply, and he sipped at his, trying to pick the notes in it the way he'd seen Father.

"Do you not like it?" Mother asked. Regulus shook his head quickly and swallowed a mouthful.

"I do," he said, too nervous to savour the taste. Did she? Or was it not to her standard? Was he wrong? But she smiled again.

"I forget how young you are," she purred. "My baby."

Their meals soon followed; slabs of meat drizzled with peppered sauce, accompanied by a leafy salad he couldn't name. Mother smiled and cut in eagerly; Regulus followed her lead. He brought the first mouthful to his lips and chewed thoughtfully. It was unlike anything he'd tried before; a sweeter steak, with something of turkey too.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Is it to your taste?"

"I do like it." Mother smiled mysteriously, and Regulus' heart dropped.

"Le cheval-aigle Écossais," she said. "Scottish hippogriff. Endangered, but some twit is trying to breed them back." She waved her hand dismissively. "Then every half-blooded halfwit will be having it for dinner."

"Oh." Regulus stared at his plate, appetite vanishing. The lump of meat caught in his throat. "Very rare, then. The expense is understandable."

"Very rare," Mother smiled. "But very good. Eat up. I thought you loved it?"

"Of course, Mother," Regulus said, wrists limp as he lifted his knife and fork to cut into the meat. "I love everything you give me."

March 21st, 1976

Lily dressed warmly, and borrowed one of Marlene's cloaks to keep out the cold. She and Mary shoved on knitted hats and slunk down to catch the end of breakfast. The weather's chilly turn confined most students to their common rooms, it seemed, but that meant she and Mary got a prime position in front of one of the fireplaces. Lily buttered a piece of toast and swung round on the bench, holding out the soles of her freezing feet to face the flames. Mary sipped her tea beside her.

"What is Swivenhodge?" Mary asked eventually, shivering. Even the castle's enchantments couldn't penetrate the blanket of ice that fell over the school.

"Something with brooms," Lily said. She supposed she ought to have read up on it, but with everything else it had slipped her mind. The school had been alight with talk and the teachers had dumped more work on them than ever, it seemed, in an attempt to stop the gossip. As if they didn't have enough to be getting on with, with their usual assignments. Mary looked up, and Lily followed her eyes to the dense grey sky above, which threatened rain.

"You don't think they'll cancel it?" Lily lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"I couldn't say." She didn't know anyone else who played Swivenhodge. A knot of regret settled in her stomach. Why had she agreed? She could be up in the dorm, having a lie-in, or at least be curled up in the library getting work done.

"Oh." Mary took the last swallow of her tea, and Lily grabbed another bit of toast, chewing half-heartedly. Mary stared at her empty plate and fidgeted. She hadn't eaten anything. Lily felt like getting a bowl of porridge and flinging it in front of her, but that wasn't going to help. She took a deep breath – as best as she could, with her mouth full. Mary can make her own decisions. I'm not her mother. Forcing it won't help.

"Are you alright?" Lily asked instead, holding off on another bite. Mary shook herself as if coming out of a daze.

"Yeah," she said, and Lily only watched her. "No, I am, really. Just cold and a bit tired." Lily touched her gloved hand and flinched.

"You are cold!" She felt in her pocket for her wand. "I'll have to charm the both of us." Mary nodded and rubbed her hands together.

"Thanks, Lily. It's supposed to be spring."

After a bit of wandwork, Mary went off to the bathrooms. Lily had intended to go with her, but Mary wanted her to find out if the game – match? Performance? - was still happening. They weren't to start until quarter past nine (why it was so specific, Lily didn't know) but she couldn't think of where else they might be, so she wound her way through corridors to cut through the castle to the Training Grounds. If she could slip out through the North Tower, it would save her five more minutes in the cold. The corridors were all but deserted, but she kept her head down more to conserve energy than anything. Swivenhodge. She couldn't even find a place to start guessing. If they were on the Training Grounds… Was it something to do with brooms? Marcus had never struck her as a broom-y type.

"Lily."

She nearly slapped her assailant, but her left hand was clumsy and missed. Sev flinched. Shit. She dropped her hand and wrenched her sleeve from his grasp. His face was as pale as the dull sky beyond the glass-paned windows, and his dark eyes were unreadable. She stepped back, folding her arms, and had to tilt her chin a little to look into his eyes. Lily resented that. He was still growing and she was stuck.

"You could have started with 'hello'," she told him. His cheeks were a little hollow – had he been eating? Did everyone lose their appetite when they were stressed except for her?

"Hello," he said. "I need to talk to you." Of course. Lily hesitated. She couldn't deny him a conversation. She glanced down the corridor.

"Alright," she said. "Walk with me, then." Severus blinked, but Lily didn't give him a chance to argue. She walked quickly, rubbing the bridge of her nose. His longer legs kept him up.

"I feel like I haven't seen you," he said in that quiet way of his, so that Lily had to slow to focus on his words.

"It's been busy," she supplied. "You'd think O. were next week, with the amount of work they're giving us." She made for a stairwell.

"And with your boyfriend?" Lily tensed. Glen, he meant. Though he'd have a fit if he knew she was going to see Marcus. She wrenched open the wooden door.

"I don't have one," she said flippantly. "What's it to you?" She hurried down the stairs. Sev huffed indignantly, footsteps clattering behind her. She burst through the door at the bottom and strode into the courtyard.

"Well, you went out with him, didn't you?" Severus insisted. "You're supposed to tell me these things."

"I did go out with him, once. It's none of your business who I see or don't see." And it was better that way. Lily's heart quickened with his every word. Just leave it alone.

"But you're going off seeing – Vane, but you don't have any time for your oldest friends. And I thought we were supposed to be friends?" Lily inhaled. "Best friends?"

"We are, Sev," Lily said, straining to keep her voice even. "But I don't like some of the people you're hanging around with!" He matched her stride-for-stride now, and his face glowed with indignation. As if he had the right. "I'm sorry, but I detest Avery and Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev?" Severus opened his mouth, but Lily cut him off. "He's creepy!" Her jaw set, and she looked into his eyes, searching for some kernel of truth in them. "D'you know what he tried to do to Mary Macdonald the other day?" Severus opened his mouth once more, but no sound emerged. Her breath caught. They neared a pillar and she rested her back against it, hoping it might give her the spine she needed. Her knees felt like water. Why were they always arguing? Why was she always the one to end up upset? It wasn't fair.

"That was nothing," Severus said finally, and Lily knew he had no idea what she was talking about. He steered in another direction. "It was a laugh, that's all -"

"It was dark magic," she improvised, and the colour drained from his face. In truth, Mulciber had done nothing but intimidate and use a charm so simple second-years routinely mastered it. But it wasn't the recent incident that came to mind. Midwinter bloomed at the forefront of her memory, and Mary lying unresponsive in the hospital wing. She didn't know for certain – not for certain – "And if you think that's funny -"

"What about the stuff Potter and his mates get up to?" Severus demanded, cheeks in high colour once more. Lily raised her eyebrows. She wished she could say that she couldn't believe he would bring them up. But she was Sev's oldest friend. What did Mary or Mulciber matter to him compared to James Potter?

"What's Potter got to do with anything?" she shot back. Severus scoffed.

"They sneak out at night," he said, and something halted him. For a moment, she had a stupid, blind hope that he might give it up. But of course not. "There's something funny about that Lupin," he said. "Where does he keep going?"

"He's ill," she said shortly, blood running cold. Moon charts and the pallor of Remus' face in the firelight and the brief look that had flitted through Potter's eyes when she'd asked after him chased each other through her head, beasts of ideas with snapping teeth. "They say he's ill -"

"Every month at the full moon?"

"I know your theory," she said flatly. Sharp, hot breaths flew from his nose, and there was a wildness in his gaze that made her stomach shift. It was a desperation she didn't want to name. Let it lie, she thought, for God's sakes, Sev, let it lie. But she had known him since she had been nine years old, and she understood the tell-tale twitch in his cheek better than she understood herself. "Why are you so obsessed with them, anyway? Why do you care what they're doing at night?"

Severus jolted towards her. Lily flinched, back slamming into the column. His breath hissed through his gritted teeth like a wounded bre

"I'm just trying to show you they're not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are." There was an accusation in that. Her face burned defiantly.

"They don't use dark magic, though." She lowered her voice, reeling in the fleeting lines of conversation she'd caught over the preceding days. "And you're being really ungrateful." The fever in his eyes turned to a question. "I heard what happened the other night," Lily elaborated. A sickly vein in his neck pulsed. Lily squared her shoulders. "You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever's down there-"

"Saved?" Spittle hit her cheek. "Saved? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends' too! You're not going to – I won't let you -"

"Let me?" Lily pushed herself off the pillar. It was his turn to step back. "Let me?" Blood roared in her ears.

"I didn't mean -" Severus scrambled. "I just don't want to see you made a fool of – he fancies you, James Potter fancies you!" Lily stared. Me, she wanted to ask incredulously. James Potter fancies me? James Potter with the blonde girlfriend and the position on the quidditch team and the crowd of sycophants? He might have fancied her when they were in second year, or third year, or whenever it had been wrenched out of him and whispered about, but that had never been real. He might have liked any redhead, or any girl who bickered with him. Was Severus to hold everyone to account for a passing fancy they may or may not have had at twelve?

She hadn't had anything resembling a meaningful interaction with Potter in years. The cigarette that night in the common room had been nothing, and he smiled at her the same way he smiled at every girl; like he thought he might get something out of it. He'd sung her happy birthday because he'd wanted to disrupt the lesson and that was it. He was a frustrating acquaintance. End of.

"And he's not…" Severus continued, losing his coherence to his fervour. "Everyone thinks … big quidditch hero…" Lily's eyebrows arched impossibly higher.

"I know James Potter's an arrogant toerag," she said dismissively. "I don't need you to tell me that." Severus fell silent. Lily bit her lip. "But – Mulciber and Avery's idea of humour is just evil. Evil, Sev." Mary in the hospital wing. Crying first-years. Her hairs stood on end. The girl back in September who said she'd been chased through the dungeons, who had come up blubbering, the muggle-born from Hufflepuff. "I don't understand how you can be friends with them." I don't understand why you're still friends with me. His birthday came to her in waves. If I snapped my wand – would you visit? Would you come to the pub with me? How can you deserve something you're born with?

Severus shook his head. "How would you like it if you were fighting with everyone in your house, all the time?" he asked. Lily narrowed her eyes.

"I wouldn't care, if it was the right thing to do," she said. "I wouldn't talk badly about your family just because I stood to benefit." His brows furrowed.

"Is that what you think of me?" he asked, a chord of hoarseness thick where it had been absent. Lily froze. Was it? Did she believe that? That he could be that – selfish?

"I get that it's difficult," she said, shouldering her way off the pillar, starting again towards the Training Grounds. "I do, Sev. But that doesn't mean you don't have a choice. You always have a choice."

"I don't," he said, reaching for her. His fingers stopped just short of her jumper. The cynical part of her wondered if he didn't want to dirty his hands touching mudblood clothes. Don't, she told herself. You're being dramatic. "I didn't ask to be in Slytherin."

Lily snorted. "You did, though," she said. "That was all you wanted. You said so on the train, on that first train ride. You wanted to be like your mum." A small sound dropped from his mouth, as if by accident. It cut too close, she thought. Too close to the bone. She swallowed hard. "Sev, we are friends. We are. But any time – any of this comes up – I'm sorry, but I won't agree with you on it. I do about Potter," she said quickly, to stop him from firing back, "in parts. But can't we do something nice together? Can't you leave things alone for five minutes?" She blew hair out of her face. He blinked owlishly.

"Where are you going, then?" he asked. Her teeth pulled at her lower lip. But friends didn't lie to each other. And that was what he wanted to be, wasn't it?

"Marcus McLaggen's asked me to watch him play," she said, pointing her thumb towards the Training Grounds. "And I said I would. He's been really good to me lately."

Severus' lip curled for a moment, but he clamped it back into place. "Have fun," he said, tone nearing acidity.

"Thank you, Sev," she said, as sweetly as she could. "You have a good day too."

He left as Mary emerged from another door into the courtyard, blonde curls mussed and hat askew, pink-cheeked. She flinched as Severus passed her and shot Lily a questioning look.

"Are you alright?" she asked, drawing up beside her. The two girls ducked through an archway into the castle and down another corridor. Lily inhaled.

"He was just being a pest," she said. "It's fine." Mary nodded thoughtfully, and Lily was thankful it was her there and not Marlene. She didn't need a recount of Severus Snape's Greatest Mistakes; that list was burning through her synapses without anyone else's help.

A gale whipped their cloaks as they came to the high walls that protected the Training Grounds. The gate was open, and they exchanged a look of bemusement and passed beneath the aging portcullis. Lily blinked rapidly as they crossed the uneven stones. For a moment, she thought she'd got the wrong place and wandered into a quidditch practice. But no; rather than hoops, a long black net hovered at the height of the parapets, not dissimilar to the one that crossed tennis courts. Twelve students wore startlingly short, fitted white athletic robes that exposed the lengths of their calves to their ankles, and swished their hips wide as if performing an animalistic mating dance. Mary giggled and clapped her hands over her mouth. Marcus was amongst them, and when he bent to touch his toes she feared she'd cop an eyeful. The robes were just long enough to save her that. They also wore crisp coifs tied beneath their chins. As he straightened, Marcus caught sight of her and ran over.

"You came," he smiled, dark eyes crinkling, and Lily couldn't remember ever seeing him so happy. It was almost enough to make her put aside his ridiculous get-up.

"You invited me," she said. Their eyes met, and her chest tightened. It was a shame they were all wearing those stupid hats, really. She liked his hair, with its tight curls and dark swoops. Her teeth grazed her lip as she smiled. She hadn't realised she'd had an opinion on his hair. The only other boy's hair she cared about was Potter's, and that was because everyone around him was practically forced to notice it, thanks to his constant ruffling and pulling and tweaking. Potter's hair was a bird's nest. Marcus' was neat. She wrenched her eyes away from his face and gazed out over the other competitors and the net. "So this is Swivenhodge?"

"This is Swivenhodge," Marcus nodded. "We'll start soon. The best view will be on the ramparts." Lily nodded.

"Thanks," she said. "Good luck."

"Thank you."

It was chilly up higher, and they were two of very few. A group of girls from their year shivered in a cluster, and Sael Greengrass rose a hand in hello. Lily didn't know them very well, but she and Mary shuffled over nevertheless.

"Hi," said Greengrass nervously, and her friends giggled. Paige Nicholson, Matilda Mortensen, Lauren Clarke; they shared classes, and if the rumour mill was correct, one or both of Nicholson and Mortensen had been involved with Black at some point or another. "Erm – who are you here to support?"

"Marcus," Lily said. "Er – McLaggen." Greengrass nodded slowly.

"Nice," she said. They stood awkwardly for a moment, peering over the battlements at the swarming players. Marcus spoke in an undertone to another boy and took his place at the side. A piece of parchment was handed around.

"Are you going out with him, then?" Nicholson broke in, and Mortensen elbowed her sharply. Lily looked up. Nicholson's cheeks burned. "Well, they said you were going out with Vane, but if you're here -"

"I'm not going out with anyone," Lily said. "Not at the moment. O. and all, you know."

"I get that," Clarke said quickly, stepping to stand by Lily and Mary.

"No you don't," Mortensen said, freckled nose scrunching. "You're seeing someone."

"Well -"

"Are you friends with Sirius?" Mortensen asked suddenly, brown eyes trained on Lily. "Sirius Black?" As if there could be another.

"Er -"

"Hang on," Greengrass said, quieting them all. "Look, they're about to start."

Marcus stood with his back flat against the wall, stony-faced, holding his broom vertically in front of him. He formed a line with nine others. Two students rose into the air on broomsticks, each side of the net, and another was directly in line with the net. Lily blinked rapidly. At first she thought she hadn't seen clearly, or that she had misconstrued – maybe these brooms were built differently. But no. The three students in the air sat backwards on their brooms, the tail of twigs before them and the thin handle stretching to a narrow point behind them.

"Jesus," she said. "Won't they slip?" Greengrass shook her head.

"Will says they do a fair bit of training to stay on," she said. "That's why it's more challenging than quidditch."

Lily raised her eyebrows. "Right."

Sabir Shafiq, a slender Ravenclaw from the year above, was the one hovering by the net, and he whistled hard.

"Welcome to today's March Tournament," he said loudly. "Our first match is between Miss Lysandra Gamp and Miss Lucy Smith." They were both seventh-years, but Gamp was a Slytherin prefect and Smith had been a chaser for Hufflepuff until this year. "Please remember the rules: you must not touch the quaffle with any part of your body, or any part of the broom save the tail, or else you will forfeit two points. Magic is not permitted, and use of a wand will result in an automatic loss. Any attempts to encourage our audience," and he gestured to the six of them standing on the ramparts, "to use magic on another player will result in a forfeit of twenty points. If the match should last more than two hours, the player with the most points will be awarded the win. Otherwise, the first player to reach fifty points will win."

He whistled again to signal the started of the match, and Lily clapped politely, wondering how difficult it was to earn points. There were no hoops, as far as she could see, and she doubted they were aiming for the net either. The two girls adjusted their grips on their brooms, and Shafiq swooped down to collect a quaffle from the ground. As he rose, he tossed it towards Gamp, and the match begun.

At first, Lily and Mary cheered along for whoever was winning, as the girls volleyed the ball back and forth over the net with the tails of their brooms. Gamp hit harder, but Smith was quick. Nevertheless, the first point was yielded when Gamp smacked the quaffle over the net and directly towards the tail of Smith's broom. Smith frowned, and in the moment that took her, the quaffle made contact and sent her spinning towards the battlements. Shafiq flew hard to snatch the quaffle out of the air as it soared over the walls, and brought it back to the game.

"A point to Gamp," he announced. "One - nil."

Lily would have dearly, dearly loved to say it got more interesting from there. She would have loved to.

But she'd sort of had enough side-stepping of truths for the day.

After an hour and a half, she and Mary sat on the rough stone in a circle with Sael, Paige, Matilda, and Lauren, and Lily was doing her best to shuffle cards. The others watched her with beady eyes. No pressure. She'd been shuffling for the best part of two minutes, and they'd watched silently. Her hands were starting to get sore.

"Goblin!" Lauren called out finally, and Lily sighed with relief. She laid out eight cards; one for the neck and one for the nose, two eyes, and two each for the pointed ears. She counted them.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… eight." On 'eight', the others scrambled to grab the card they wanted, elbowing each other furiously. Then they rapidly examined the rest of their hand, shuffling and comparing.

"Jinx," Paige said confidently, and laid down two of her cards – both Fifth Witches.

"That's ten points, then," Sael said. "Anyone else?" They shook their heads, and Lily passed the deck to Mary. Lily called "Sphinx!" quickly. With only four cards laid out, the fighting got quite fierce – Matilda and Paige tugged a card between them, whacking each other and threatening violence.

"Anyone get a match?" Sael asked, but everyone looked glum.

Two hours after Gamp and Smith started playing, as the sun was coming to its height, Smith was announced as the winner with thirty-four points. The girls looked up from their game for long enough to shout congratulations and to check who was next. Lily did the maths. If each player played only one game… There could be another ten hours to go. God. They'd end up done for curfew before they got a winner. Giblin from Ravenclaw and little David Robley, who waved at her excitedly. Lily gave him two thumbs-up. Her heart twisted. What had Sev been on about, hexing them? He'd been after Potter and Black and Remus, but what was so urgent that he'd bothered to hex a pair of dithering third-years?

It was a full moon.

Lily must have gasped, because Mary grabbed her by the elbow and the other girls clustered around her, jabbering away and asking if she was alright. Their voices became a clattering crescendo, melting into one another. It had been a full moon. They said Sev had tried to go under the Whomping Willow. He'd been looking for Potter. You think he was playing the hero?

She knew what he had done, then and there. Or what he had tried to do.

"Lily?" Mary was saying. "Lily?"

"Water? Do you want water?" Sael thrust a cup towards her lips.

"I just -" Her head throbbed. Her fingers rubbed her temples. Her hands felt like ice, her nose felt rubbery.

"Have my cloak. Here." Matilda threw the orange wool over her and clasped it at her throat. Lily felt like she was choking.

Jaszczuk was refereeing now, Sael's boyfriend, and he blew the whistle hard and flew towards them.

"What's going on?"

"I think she's ill."

"Lily?"

"I'm fine," she managed, head spinning. He thought Remus was under the Whomping Willow. He thinks Remus is a werewolf and that's where – that's where –

James Potter saved you from whatever's down there, she'd said.

He was saving his neck and his friends' too.

There was something down there to be saved from.

"Lily!" Somehow Marcus was running towards her, broom slung over his shoulder. "What's happened? Do you need to go to the Infirmary? Can we get Madam Pomfrey down here?" The crowd had parted for him, for whatever reason, save for Mary's hand still on her arm. He stood above her, brown eyes full of concern, curls peeking out from beneath his coif. He inhaled deeply, lifting his hands – hesitated – and then rested the back of his knuckles against her forehead. "You're warm," he said.

He can't be. Remus can't be.

She took Marcus' hand from her forehead and held it, squeezing, trying to tether herself to reality. Her heart insisted on racing.

"I just -" he squeezed back. Lily stumbled over her words. "I'm tired and – you know, I had a late night, and it was so cold this morning and warm now – I'm just – it's probably a cold or something."

Marcus' dark brows furrowed. "We'll get you Pepperup," he said firmly. "You'll be alright." His thumbs ran over hers. Heat started to rise in her cheeks – God, this was mortifying. Stopping a whole game because she'd gasped and – what, been a little pale? She cleared her throat.

"I'm fine," she said loudly, and looked directly at Jaszczuk. "Go back to the match. Honestly. I want to see." The worst excuse in the history of the world, if they'd paid her any attention in the preceding hours, but it would have to do. Jaszczuk nodded, gave Sael a quick peck on the cheek, and resumed the match. The other girls cleared out of the way, and even Mary let go, stammering something about grabbing a vial of the potion for her.

Now it was just her and Marcus, hands still clasped. Lily pulled slightly away at the realisation, but he held on. Didn't he think she was being stupid? She had to talk to Sev. Tonight? What would she say? What would –

Marcus' lips ghosted her forehead.

"Oh," she said, in a small voice. He dropped her hands, dark face paling.

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly. "I'm sorry – I – when my little sister's sick and I tuck her in, I - " he cringed.

"It's fine," she told him, reaching for his hands again. He scampered back like a frightened animal.

"That was the wrong thing to do." He was drawing attention, and that was the last thing Lily wanted right this second. She grabbed his hands and pulled him closer, and he blinked rapidly. It was strange seeing him so ruffled. Endearing. His black lashes tangled as he blinked, and his broad lips parted to reveal a sliver of teeth. Her forehead burned where he had just, just barely, kissed her.

It was nice. Surprising, yes, but nice.

"It's alright," Lily said gently. "And I'm alright. Go back to your game." His breath hitched. Lily circled his knuckles. "Thank you for your concern." She would go after Mary and get the potion herself, and then she would figure out what she needed to do. Should she talk to Remus? How could she be sure? It made sense – it all fit – but she wasn't going to out him if he didn't want her to. But was it outing him if Sev already knew?

Lily stood on tiptoe and kissed Marcus on the cheek. He was clean-shaven, but his skin was ridged with the blight of acne. She didn't mind.

"I'm going to go rest," she said, and dropped to the balls of her feet, letting go of him. "Good luck, Marcus."

She had a lot to think about.