The Life and Times

by Jewels5

She was dramatic. He was dynamic. She was precise. He was impulsive. He was James, and she was Lily, and one day they shared a kiss, but before that they shared many arguments, for he was cocky, and she was sweet, and matters of the heart require time.

12. Merrily, Merrily, Merrily

A/N: A lot of you want more of a look into James (not in the Biblical sense... or maybe in the Biblical sense, I don't know), and he definitely has the longest subsections of this chapter: unfortunately, he's miles and miles from Lily at the moment, so I will make a dedicated effort to write some previously planned Lily-n-James scenes scheduled for chapter 13 from James's mind rather than Lily's. Behold the power of reviews!

Disclaimer: No grandmothers or reindeer were harmed in the writing of this chapter. I don't own Harry Potter related things either.

Recap: James's Dad and Mum had a disagreement over the summer, resulting in Papa taking off; Potter Sr. returns to the house while James is at school, news which Potter Jr. takes rather badly. Luke Harper's (Lily's boyfriend) family is revealed to be responsible for providing the food for the Welcoming Feast, which has now been tied to he suicide attempts. Donna Shacklebolt returns home for Christmas with her four siblings. Alice realizes she has utterly moved on from Frank's trust!betrayal.

James!angst abounds in this chapter... and you're all going to have to deal with him listening to "The Who." In my mind, James listens to "The Who." Chalk it up to Remus if you like...

Chapter 12- Merrily, Merrily, Merrily...

Or

"Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer"

"DEATH EATERS TRANSPORTING ILLEGAL POTIONS INTO ENGLAND SUSPECTED IN THE ASSAULT OF THREE AURORS"

Thus read the oh-so-cheerful subheading on the front page of The Daily Prophet on Christmas morning. James Potter scanned the rest of the front page: Christmas prophets were at a five year low, and two muggleborn Ministry officials had disappeared. "Death Eater Involvement Suspected:" that seemed to be the Prophet's mantra these days.

"You're up early," noted a voice from across the dining room. James didn't look up from his newspaper but took a sip of tea.

"Yep," was his sole reply. The sound of a chair sliding across the dark mahogany floor told James that his companion was taking seat at the other end of the table.

"Not tearing into presents like you used to... have you even looked at the tree?"

"I'm not six anymore," James said simply. He forced himself to continue reading the newspaper. "Alastor Moody, Head Auror, would not comment on the attacks, but rumors circulating from the Egyptian Press suggest that they might be tied to the artifacts stolen from the Cairo Museum last summer..."

"Your mum is in the kitchen... she'll be out any minute, but she wanted to know what you were planning on..."

James set down his newspaper and met eyes with the much older wizard sitting at the other end of the table; "Whatever we have, I'm sure it will be fine."

Mr. Potter surveyed his sixteen-year-old son for a minute; James's hair was wet from his shower, and he wasn't dressed for the day yet. The expression in his hazel eyes could not have been colder if he were staring at Voldemort himself, and his mouth was curved into the curtest of grimaces.

"You can't hate me forever," said Mr. Potter, surprising himself.

James, in turn, looked over the sight of his father. Alexander Potter was nearly eighty years old, though—true to magic form—he didn't look it. Something like youth remained in his face, and though his hair had gone white some years before, it was combed sleekly to the side a la 1930s fashion. He had a strong jaw and a straight nose—like James's—but his eyes were darker, browner, and calmer. Mr. Potter wore no spectacles, except when reading, and had better posture than his son, but James had recognized long ago that the pair shared many mannerisms (the crooked grin and a series of hand gestures, for instance), of which the sixteen-year-old had never been able to rid himself.

"I don't hate you, Dad," said James carelessly, rising from the table and leaving the newspaper behind as he headed towards the kitchen doors; "I am completely apathetic. Merry Christmas."

The breakfast room—which was lit almost entirely by natural light—led directly into the kitchen, a stark contrast with its white, bewitched lighting and marble countertops.

"'Morning, James," said Mrs. Potter, upon seeing her son enter through the double doors. She stood over a pot, waving a wand over it as though stirring it, though the wand never actually touched the liquid within. Mother and son were not alone in the kitchen; three or four house elves bustled about, preparing various dishes of which James had no knowledge. "Have you seen your father?"

James shook his head. "What are you making?"

"Syrup," replied Mrs. Potter cheerfully. "And if it is awful, you are obliged to smile and pretend that it is the most delicious concoction you've ever tasted."

"How many breakfast dishes are you preparing?" James asked, observing the house elves with amusement.

"Two or three," said Mrs. Potter. "I have very few occasions to test out my domesticity, James; you might as well let me enjoy it."

"It's your morning to waste."

Mrs. Potter smiled, brushing a lock of her dark auburn coif from her eyes as she eyed the syrup in the pot. "You're up early, I notice," the older witch pointed out, not meeting her son's eye.

"I went running and took a shower."

"Have you seen the tree yet?"

"No." That was a lie; but he hadn't opened any presents, so they needn't know the difference. "I'll go down after breakfast."

"You wouldn't be so casual if you knew what was under the tree this year," Mrs. Potter teased, removing the syrup from the stove. "Your father went to Diagon Alley on his own, so I wasn't there to rein him in on the spending..."

"By which you mean, Dad wants to buy my forgiveness."

"James..."

"No, what I'm wondering," said James lightly, leaning against the wall, "is what on earth he could have given you to buy your forgiveness."

"James, that's not fair."

"It must have been really expensive."

"James, not now. The elves..."

"Like they don't already know."

"James." This Mrs. Potter said quite firmly, but her eyes were more grieved than angry. "It's Christmas," she added softly.

"Right." He crossed his arms. "I guess I'll go have a look at the tree, then." He kissed her on the cheek. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, James."

(Evanses)

"It's Christmas," Lily announced quietly with a glowing smile. She peered into her white china cup at the soft brown coffee within and couldn't help but feel wonderful.

Petunia Evans rolled her grey eyes, but was smiling a little anyway. "Yes, Lily," said the older girl—the only other occupant of the kitchen at the moment—"I'm well aware of the date."

"It's snowed last night," Lily went on. She wore a short, pale pink nightdress, a robe of the same color and material, and bright green slippers; in contrast, Petunia wore blue. Lily had been up for nearly half an hour and sat at the kitchen counter with The Daily Prophet (turned to wedding announcements, because one couldn't read the depressing front page headlines or the obituaries or anything like that on Christmas Day).

"I'm also aware of that," Petunia said, pouring a cup of tea. She had only just emerged from her bedroom—a guest room, technically these days, for Petunia had moved out the year before. "Why is it you always get like this on Christmas?"

"Because it's Christmas," replied Lily, astonished. "You're supposed to get like this on Christmas."

Petunia raised her eyebrows at her teacup but said nothing. That was her typical reaction to Lily's opinions: that, or derision.

"What time does Vernon arrive?" the redhead asked, careful to pick a topic that would interest her older sister.

"He'll be here for supper." Petunia looked pleased as she pushed a lock of her ash blond hair ("a la Candice Bergen" as Lily would describe it) away from her forehead. "He's spending the afternoon with his family."

Vernon Dursley was Petunia's fiancé. A few years older than the nineteen-almost-twenty-year-old Petunia, he was what Jane Austen would have—cynically—called "a good match." The Evanses had never been wealthy; they had managed to put Petunia through school, though she had worked through her last year at University, and they had put Lily through Hogwarts without aid. Vernon Dursley, on the other hand, came from that class which one would never call "old money" but never suited the term "middle class" either. Anyway, he had a job. They were going to be married in the summer.

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two sisters, before Lily began: "So, Mum's not up yet, then?"

Petunia shook her head.

Surprising, thought Lily. The elder sister was wearing her best civil face, and she only ever did that for the benefit of their mother.

"Should we start on breakfast, then?" offered the younger girl.

"I'll get the eggs," was all Petunia said.

(The Shacklebolts)

"Well, it's too much," snapped Donna, stirring batter in a large wooden basin. "I told you, Kingsley, we..."

"We're not destitute, Don," interrupted her older brother, shaking his head as he set dishes around the table with the flick of his wand. "The only time we touch the vault is for your school tuition, and I've been picking up some extra hours at work..."

Donna turned on her brother, brandishing a spatula like a wand. "You said you were taking fewer hours," she pointed out threateningly.

"I'm taking fewer day hours," explained Kingsley, ever calm and utterly nonplussed by the spatula, "While Aunt Dolinda was here and now that you're here I've been working the graveyard shift at..."

"You've been sneaking off at night to go to work?" demanded Donna.

"I haven't been sneaking off. You were just... sleeping. I wasn't about to wake you up to tell you I was off to work. I've seen you if you don't get the prescribed eight hours of sleep, and it's not pretty for anyone."

"What if something had happened?" Her hands were on her hips. "What if something happened in the middle of the night, and I didn't know you were gone, and..."

"And you would be perfectly capable of handling anything that happened," Kingsley finished. "Donna, you need to relax. The house is safe. Brice, Bridge, and Isaiah are safe."

"Yes, and Mum and Dad were safe too, I suppose, weren't they?"

"This has nothing to do with Mum and Dad."

"This has everything to do with Mum and Dad."

"No one could have seen that coming. People didn't even know his name then... it was years ago. We weren't expecting... no one was expecting anything like that. There are security measures, and..."

"I don't like you leaving me alone in the house with a ten-year-old, an eight-year-old, and a five-year-old, Kingsley."

"You're not unprotected, here. Trust me, alright? And I don't see how else we are supposed to get Bridget into..." he stopped. Donna looked at him suspiciously.

"What do you mean, Kingsley?"

"It's—it's nothing."

"Kingsley, what are you talking about? Is this about Bridget going to Hogwarts next year?"

"No. No, it will be fine. I've got it under control."

"You've got it under control?" echoed Donna. "What the hell does that mean? Just a second ago you said the money Mum and Dad left would be fine for Hogwarts."

"It will be." Donna scowled. "It will be. I'm... I'm not worried about Bridget. There'll be enough for her... maybe for most of Isaiah's schooling, too. Mostly I'm saving for Brice and... maybe for Isaiah a bit. That's all. We're fine."

"We're not fine. We're depending on our dead parents' savings and your measly, starting auror income to support five people... three of whom are children. That's not 'fine,' Kingsley. That's bloody awful. And what if something happens to you? What if you die? The rest of us are bloody screwed then, aren't we?"

"Well, I'm glad your concerned for my safety," said Kingsley, softly ironic.

"I'm serious."

"Nothing's going to happen to me. I know it. I've been to see a seer."

Donna crossed her arms. "I hope you're joking."

"I am."

"Good."

"I've protected the house in every way possible. There's security spells all along the kids' route to the primary. You're as safe here without me as you are with me, I swear."

Donna rolled her eyes. "Read the newspaper, Kingsley." She turned away again. "No one is safe. Wake up, for God's sake."

Kingsley said nothing, and she couldn't see his face (a detail for which she was grateful). "You read about what happens in the newspaper, Don," her brother said at length. "I see it." Donna bit her lip, knowing he was right. Kingsley crossed the Shacklebolt kitchen and set a plate down beside her. "You set out an extra dish, sis. Make sure you're not talking like this with the kids around, yeah?"

He left the kitchen, and she could hear him—in a booming, cheerful, Christmas voice—asking five-year-old Brice if he liked his present.

(The Blacks)

"Holy shit!" Remus Lupin half laughed, half coughed as he stumbled around a corner of the third floor corridor, followed closely by two of his fellow Marauders.

"Watch the language, Moony," Sirius laughed in mock disapproval; "What if a firstie heard you talking like that?"

"What if a firstie saw you blow up a broom closet?" Remus retorted, brushing dust off his clothing.

"Not just any broom closet!" defended Sirius solemnly. "The closet directly next to Filch's office... the closet he thinks is some great secret, in which he stores all of his beloved torture equipment."

"Speaking of which," Peter threw in; "we should be putting a little more space between us and the remains of the closet..." He checked over his shoulder. "Filch'll be around any minute..."

"He's right," said Remus. "Let's go."

Still laughing, Sirius followed his friends at a jog onto the next floor. The three had just reached the landing when Argus Filch's furious howl sounded through the castle. The three crumbled into peels of laughter once again.

"You're mad, Sirius," Remus choked, wiping dirt from his brow. "C'mon, let's split up. Come with me, Pete. This hatter's likely to blow something else up."

"I'll see you at supper," said Sirius, and the boys went separate directions.

Sirius walked at a leisurely pace, hands in his pockets as though he were thoroughly unconcerned by the fact that his black robes were grey with rubble and dust. He'd have plenty of time to change before Filch caught up with them, though, and there was no other proof...

"I'll get that devil! I KNOW WHO DID THIS, AND I'LL GET HIM!"

The Marauder started: that was Filch's voice, and he sounded close.

"Shit." Sirius checked his surroundings and did a quick mental scan of a nearby place to hide. It was just past four... that meant Healer Holloway would be down having his supper; he always had supper early. The Infirmary would be empty.

As Filch's angry footfalls could be heard, thundering up the stairs, Sirius ducked through the Infirmary doors, closing and locking them behind him. He breathed deeply... Filch wouldn't risk a culprit's escape to his dormitory by checking every room along the way. Sirius had plenty of time.

His hands returned to his pockets, and he strode further into the room, which appeared empty. But it wasn't, as he noticed after a few moments.

"Professor Black," said Sirius, surprised by the sight of his uncle. Alphard Black, otherwise alone at the far end of the room, appeared no less surprised.

"Sirius! What... what are you doing here? What happened your robes?"

"I tripped," said Sirius, suspiciously eying his uncle. "What are you doing here? 'You sick or something?"

"No," replied Black at once. "No, I'm... I'm quite alright. I've had a headache and come to get a potion."

"Oh." Sirius sat down on a cot. "Where's Healer Holloway then?"

"Getting the potion from his private stores." Black didn't meet his nephew's eye and began to pace.

"You know, most of the teachers go to Slughorn when they want a potion," Sirius told his uncle. "It's much more efficient... he doesn't log it in that book like Healer Holloway, either, so the school isn't always pestering you about expenses."

"How do you know so much about the matter?" asked Black, amused.

"Well, I go to Slughorn, too," Sirius replied, shrugging. He would have added that it was easy to swipe things from the Potions Master's private stores, but the fact that this was not just his uncle, but also a teacher, was not completely lost to him.

Black nodded. He checked his wristwatch and then glanced in the direction of Holloway's office.

"Trying to get rid of me, Uncle?" asked Sirius lazily. "Not very Christmas-ly of you, is it? I'm your nephew."

"As if you didn't receive a present this morning," said Black.

"Thank you for that, by the way. Lupin ate most of the chocolate, but the Quidditch book was interesting."

"You started it, did you?"

"I finished it, actually."

"Finished it?" asked Black, incredulous. "That's remarkable."

"I had a few hours this morning," Sirius said, shrugging once more. "Your present arrives tonight. I would've given it to you at breakfast, but I thought one of the grouchy teachers might shout 'nepotism.' That's ridiculous, of course; I get McGonagall a Christmas present every year, and no one minds."

"Well," began the elder, "That's different. You have to..."

Black was interrupted, however, by a banging on the door. "Why is this door locked?" hollered Filch's voice. Sirius's eyes grew wide; this was now the second time he had been wrong about the patterns of Hogwarts, and it was getting frustrating. "Who's in there?" Filch continued. "Open these doors! Holloway! Hey, Holloway!"

"How did those doors get locked?" Black wondered, looking significantly at his nephew.

Sirius ducked behind unused bed curtains. "Please don't rat me out, Professor. It's Filch. He thinks I've gone and blown something up, and he'll skin me alive. Really, he will... he believes torture is adequate teaching method."

Professor Black shook his head, moving towards the door and unlocking it with a wave of his wand.

"IF SOMEONE DOESN'T OPEN THESE BLOODY DOORS... Oh, Professor Black!" Filch started upon the sight of a teacher. "Well... I'm sorry... but the doors, you see... they're not to be locked during the day, and..."

"I had an important meeting with Healer Holloway and didn't wish to be disturbed," said Black calmly.

"Yes, of course."

An awkward silence, and then: "Was there something you wanted, Mr. Filch?"

"Yes. Actually, there is, yes. I was wondering if you'd seen anybody suspicious come through here?"

"Anyone suspicious?" echoed the Defense teacher. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. Who is it that you need?"

"Well... Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew, or... or that nephew of yours, Black."

"Mr. Potter is home for the holidays. I suppose one of the other three is ill?"

"Er... no." Filch scratched his ratty hair. "No, not ill."

"Then why would they be in the Infirmary, Mr. Filch?"

"Well... I—to tell the truth—I suspect them to be hiding."

"Hiding, Mr. Filch? Have they done something wrong?"

"I believe so, Black." Filch puffed his chest out with dignity. Mrs. Norris, who stood by his feet, purred loudly. "I believe they are responsible for... for destroying school property."

"School property? That's very serious."

"A closet to be exact."

"A closet. Very serious indeed. You saw them, did you?"

"Well, no..."

"Someone else did, then?"

"Not precisely..."

"So you're assuming."

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Mr. Filch, these are serious charges you're making without proof. What makes you think it was Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew? Perhaps there was some volatile substance in the closet..."

"It was no accident," said Filch at once. "The dust on the wall... it... it said... well... that's not important. If you haven't seen any of the boys..."

Black glanced over his shoulder around the room. "I don't see any of the boys."

"Then I'll be moving along." And he did.

The elder returned to his spot by Holloway's office. Sirius emerged. "Thank-you,
Professor Uncle, sir," he said, a little surprised.

Black arched his eyebrows. "You blew up a closet?"

"There's no proof I blew anything up," said Sirius. "But... I should probably go change my robes, shouldn't I?"

"Unless you plan on 'tripping' again, I would say yes."

Sirius grinned. "Thank-you for that."

"Out of curiosity," Black began, as Sirius started to leave. "Why would someone blow up a closet?"

"For Christmas, of course."

"I don't see blowing up a closet as particularly Christmas-spirited one way or the other, actually."

"Well..." said Sirius, "it isn't, by itself. But if you could get all the rubble to fall just so, and if you get to the smoke on the wall to spell out 'Happy Christmas, Argus' I would call it very spirited indeed."

"Yes, Sirius, you had better change those robes at once."

"Happy Christmas, Uncle Professor, sir."

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Black."

(The Why)

Talkin' about my generation...

The Who, sounding off over James's bewitched turntable, managed to drown out most of the noise generated by the large party downstairs. Still, the occasional beaurocratic gossip drifted through, as moderately inebriated Ministry friends of his parents passed by his bedroom, usually touring the house or searching for the lavatory. James waved his wand, and the music grew louder still.

I'm not trying to cause a big sensation; I'm just talkin' about my generation...

"Really, Mom?" James inquired out loud though he was the only one in the bedroom, "You couldn't invite one person born in this century?" He turned the page of the book he'd been trying to read for the last half hour (since supper ended and he had made his escape).

There was a knock on the door.

"This isn't part of the tour!" James called over the din of his music.

Knock, knock.

James groaned and rolled off of his bed. "I said, this ISN'T PART OF THE..." he opened the door. "Oh, hi, Twitch." Twitchet the house-elf beamed, eyes wide with admiration as James admitted him entrance into the room. The young wizard returned to his spot on the bed. "Did you get bored with Mum and Dad's friends too, then?"

"Oh, no, Master James. Mistress Potter sent me."

James cocked an eyebrow. "Is that right?'

"Mistress Potter has said you must come downstairs and greet, Master Potter. Mistress Potter was most adamant."

"I bet. Say, Twitch, you probably have the best vocabulary of any House Elf I've ever met, y'know. Why is that?"

"Twitchet has gone to school, sir."

"Where? Hogwarts?" asked James, amused.

"Oh, no, Master James. But, please, Mistress Potter asked me not to be distracted by you. Mistress Potter knows her son very well, Master James."

James idly inspected a Quidditch-caused callus on his hand. "Why do you hang around here, anyway, Twitch? Mum freed you ages ago, yeah? If it were me, I'd be out of here before you could say 'indentured servitude.'"

"Twitchet must have a job, Master James," said the elf. "Father and Mother lived with the Potters; Twitchet is proud to carry on the business of Twitchet's family."

"That's noble of you," remarked the other dryly. "I wouldn't be an auror like dad if it were the last job in the world."

"Master James should not have to become an auror," sighed Twitchet. "Master James should play Quidditch, as he wishes."

James smirked. "What gave me away?" But he was fully conscious that the banner for every Quidditch Cup in the last twelve years hung about the room, as well as two posters: one for the National team and one for Puddlemore United (both signed and dedicated to James by each member of the teams). Twitchet caught James's sarcasm at once and shuffled his large, discolored feet.

"Mistress Potter has asked me to stay until you come downstairs."

Vaguely, over his own music (People tryin' to put us down, just because we get around... Talkin' about my generation...) and the floating chatter of the party, James could hear the music from the ballroom downstairs. "I'm alright with that, Twitch. I'd be grateful for the company." Twitchet stood awkwardly. "Have a seat, then."

"Perhaps," began the elf, "perhaps if Master James attends the party for a few short minutes, perhaps he may return to his room, and Twitchet will have carried out his duties."

James sighed. There was no way of getting out of this. "Alright, then." He rolled, once again, off the bed and, with a wave of his wand, silenced his turntable. The sixteen-year-old followed the house-elf downstairs. The lowest landing was crowded and noisy, as many voices chatted and laughed, and many boots clicked against the marble floor. James responded politely to everyone who noticed him, while keeping his eyes out for his mother, so that she might notice him, and he could return to his own music, bedroom, and book.

"James Potter," said one woman, a tall thin witch James recognized as Augusta Longbottom. "You've certainly grown tall."

A spark of hope lighting inside of him, James summoned his politest, most artificial tone; "Thank you, Mrs. Longbottom. You look very well this evening. Is Frank here?" He hoped he didn't rush the last question, but it was the only part that remotely interested him.

"Frank stayed at the school this year," replied Mrs. Longbottom, evidently irritable over the fact (or something else... James couldn't tell; she always seemed irritable over something). "Undoubtedly on account of that witch of his." She sniffed. "Alice."

James didn't bother explaining the situation to Frank's mother, partially because he wasn't convinced the Frank-and-Alice split meant as much as both seemed to think it did, and partially because the absence of Frank made further conversation with this particular adult just another obstacle on his route to his return upstairs. Making polite excuses, James departed, once again in search of his mother.

However, a quick but accurate search showed that the hostess was nowhere in the crowded main room, or in the ballroom, or in the library, or any of the larger sub-sects of the ground floor where party-goers loomed. Irritable himself now, James set off down a long, well hidden corridor towards the back of the house. He was headed to the green room—his favorite room, besides the kitchen, in the lower quarter of the large house. He'd wait the party out there for a short while; hopefully, his mother would see that his room was deserted and assume he was off being social.

James reached the door to the green room. He had opened the door a sliver when he heard a voice from his own: that of his mother.

"I am worried," she was saying softly; James decided this was a conversation he wanted to hear. "But it will be alright. I know that."

"That's easy for you to say," said another voice. Mr. Potter spoke wryly, but not bitterly. "You are not the one he hates at the moment, dear."

"He doesn't hate you."

Want to bet? thought James.

"That's what he says," said Mr. Potter quietly. James opened the door ever so slightly to get a picture of his parents. They stood near the fireplace: his mother in her lavish, scarlet dress robes and his father in robes of sleek black. "I find it no more plausible coming from you, Grace."

Mrs. Potter smiled. "Every boy hates his father at some point, Alex. It's nature. Remember when we were first married, and you had that fight with your father?"

"Grace, he wanted me to marry Hildebrand Shakeworth. He almost refused to attend the wedding."

"But he did come, and you were still furious."

"He began his toast with, 'Even though you married Miss Dearborn...'"

Mrs. Potter cut him off with her laughter, and her husband smiled a little too. "Well, he learned to like me, didn't he?"

"And then I forgave him."

"Well, there you are."

"By that logic, the way to earn James's forgiveness is moving back into the house, which I believe I have already done. It's possible that I am mistaken, but I'm fairly certain about that."

Grace Potter sighed. "For someone so very intelligent, Alex, you can be very thick some times." She kissed him. "And," added the witch a moment later, "James loves you. He really does."

Sarcastically: "Romantic."

Mrs. Potter laughed again. "And I love you."

He murmured something in reply, which James could only assume was "I love you, too."

"And," James's mother went on, "I'm sorry I shouted at you that night."

"You know there's no need to apologize for that, Grace."

"I know."

She kissed him again.

James closed the door. Suddenly, he didn't want to be alone anymore... anger of months and months of relative silence bubbled up inside of him, and now it had nowhere to go. There was no release, no object which he might hate, because ultimately, the question that had plagued him since his mother had written him and said that he was moving back in... that question was answered. How could she do this? How could she forgive him?

He knew why, but he still wanted to be angry.

James moved back into the party.

(The Real World)

A letter from Luke arrived for Lily on Christmas evening. The redhead managed to slip away from her family's conversation in the sitting room just long enough to read it.

December 23rd, 1975

Dear Lily,

My owl is out at the moment, and I'm not sure when I'll get to send this, so: Happy Christmas! Since we last spoke, there have been several developments with regard to my family; most of this business has been kept out of the papers, and I know you would like to be kept up-to-date, so I thought I'd write to explain.

First of all, Lathe is gone. This occurred just this morning. He had been popping in and out of the shop, and a score of Ministry wizards have been excavating the storage compartments for evidence of dark magic, but—last they reported—they couldn't find anything concrete. Without further information to my family (the shop's been closed, but we've been staying at the rooms upstairs), the aurors and specialists withdrew. They cleaned out the rooms, took a few samples of the things my parents stored there, and otherwise just cleared out.

I went up to the castle this afternoon and found out from Filch that Lathe had cleared out of his office too. I'm not sure what any of this really means. The aurors that had come for school security are gone too, though there are a few, lower echelon wizards left behind for muscle.

Anyway, I'll have to cut this short now. My mum is in a panic trying to get the house prepared, because my brother Logan wrote and said he might stop by on Christmas Eve. I'll write again if anything new turns up, and I hope you're having a good holiday.

Love,

Luke Harper

"What's that you've got there?" asked a voice, and Lily looked up from the letter she had just finished reading. Petunia entered the kitchen, a tea tray of used dishes in her hands and an expression of mixed curiosity and suspicion on her face pale, narrow face.

"A letter," replied Lily vaguely; she folded it up and slipped the parchment into the pocket of her corduroy skirt. "From my boyfriend, Luke." Petunia nodded. She set the kettle on the stove. "So..." began the younger sister awkwardly, "Vernon's in there with Mum and the relatives? How are they getting on, do you think?"

Lily, of course, had been in the room only minutes before and knew the answer very well: her mother had long ago accepted Vernon, while not precisely liking him, and as for the extended family (Mrs. Evans's Aunt Sara, Uncle Eugene, and cousin Will), they all seemed to approve of Petunia's choice of fiancé. Still, Lily was interested to hear Petunia's take on the evening.

"Very well," said the older sister. "Vernon is approved of wherever he goes." Lily thought she understood that description: it was the same way with Luke, and yet Luke and Vernon seemed to Lily to have very little in common. Petunia waited for the water to boil. "You don't like him, do you?" she asked suddenly.

Lily blinked. "What? Who? Vernon?"

"Yes, of course."

"What do you mean? I—where did you get that idea?"

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"No." Lily hoped it wasn't terribly apparent that she was lying, and so turned away from her sister, moving towards the refrigerator as though searching for something to drink. "You two seem very happy together." That, at least, approximated truth. Petunia seemed nothing but thrilled about the sizeable ring on her left hand.

"But you don't like him." Petunia was being shockingly unemotional about the fact. Lily denied it again, while her sister prepared the teapot. "He doesn't like you, either." Well, that had been obvious. "And it might be my fault that he doesn't."

"Did you..." began Lily awkwardly, "I mean, did you tell him about... how I am?"

"I don't much see the point."

"Well..." Lily poured a glass of champagne from the bottle they'd started at dinner. "We're going to be sort-of related. He might be curious as to why I don't... you know... own a car."

Petunia remained quiet for some time. "Lily," she began presently; "I've been giving this a lot of thought. You're almost seventeen... you're not a little girl anymore."

"You're only three years older than me, Tuney," Lily felt inclined to remind her sister. Petunia brushed off this comment as though she hadn't heard it at all.

"When are you going to give up all this nonsense?"

Lily frowned. "It's not nonsense that I read The Great Gatsby every July, Tuney. And I certainly hope you're not referring to the fact that I'd take Oscar Wilde over Shaw any day of the week."

Glaring, Petunia momentarily forsook her task with the tea and crossed her arms. "You know that's not what I'm talking about, Lily. I'm talking about... about that school and that... that rubbish you do."

"Magic?" clarified Lily boldly. Petunia hushed her.

"Yes."

"What do you mean 'give it up?' I've told you... it's not a cold. It doesn't go away if you take chicken soup and vitamins."

"I mean," pressed the older girl (the kettle began to whistle), "when are you going to get a real job? Live in the real world? Go to University?" She poured the water into the china teapot.

"I couldn't go to University, Tuney," said Lily. "I haven't gone to a recognized secondary school... and it is the real world. There're a thousand jobs I could have... opportunities, places to live... magic isn't just Hogwarts... it's..." Lily searched for the words to explain: "It's an entire world. It doesn't end when I get my certificate, just like the world you've grown up in doesn't end once you finish at University." If you finish at University, Lily added in her head, because she had the sneaking suspicion that once marriage arrived for her sister, schooling would end.

"And you'd rather live in that world of yours than be with your family?" asked Petunia, a chill in her voice.

"I'll still be in England, Tuney—if anything, I'll be able to see you more often. You know, witches and wizards... they can jump about all over the country in seconds."

For the briefest of moments, something like interest sparked in Petunia's steely eyes. She looked like the much younger girl who had been Lily's best friend... before Hogwarts, before Severus, before everything happened. The look vanished as quickly as it sparked, however. "Rubbish," she said, placing the teapot on the tray once again.

"It's not rubbish."

"It is!" retorted Petunia, much louder than she intended. Both girls were quiet, hoping no one in the other room had heard. The laughter, chatter, and sounds of their mother's Ella Fitzgerald record continued on undisturbed, however, and Petunia composed herself, flattening her lime green skirt and blond hair. "It is," she said, calmly. "So are you going to give it up or not?"

"Not," replied Lily, astounded.

Petunia scowled. "What's happened to you, Lily? You were my best friend. We did everything together."

"That didn't have to change, Tuney."

"Of course it did. You changed it."

"Oh, really?" snapped Lily sarcastically. "So, I was the one who started calling you a 'freak?' I derided everything you did and believed in? I mocked your friends? And every time you accomplished anything, I suppose I was the one who trivialized it and made you feel rotten about it?"

Petunia picked up the tea tray. "You were the one that left, Lily," she said coldly. She moved towards the door, pausing before re-entering the sitting room. "Fix your hair before you go back in there... Mum wants you to be a bridesmaid, and Vernon won't want some raggedy little freak in the wedding." The older sister made to open the swing-door, but the younger would not be conquered.

"I'm so glad I'm not the one who's too afraid to tell her fiancé that her sister's a witch," said Lily lightly, and she exited the kitchen through the other door.

(Are Not, Are Too)

"I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, taking a seat across from his sister in the parlor. Bridget, Isaiah, and Brice had been put to bed, and Donna sat by the fire, reviewing letters of recommendation for a new housekeeper.

"Don't apologize," said the witch, sighing. "It was my fault. You were right. I was being an idiot."

Kingsley was quiet for a time. "If you don't want me to, I won't take anymore graveyard hours, yeah?"

"I don't know..." Donna set down the letters. "If I can find someone good to look after the other three, it should be alright. Just... y'know... make sure you're here when Brice wakes up."

"I know, Don." After a brief silence, he went on: "So what is it your doing with those? I thought you had already read all the recommendations."

"I did read them. Now I'm organizing them. This stack is for the candidates who have healer training but no specific defensive skills; these are the ones who have defense training, but no healing experience. These two have both, but this one is Antoinette Rosier, and I don't like Rosiers."

"How progressive of you."

"I never said it was fair."

"Maybe you should take a break," suggested Kingsley. "You've been here six days and all you've done is keep house, interview, read recommendations, and check the newspaper for ads."

"If it's any comfort," replied the other, "I don't have any intention of keeping house anymore. My domesticity ends tonight—Bridge is taking over tomorrow. I hate housework spells."

"You need to take a break."

"I can't. I've got to find a housekeeper."

"And you need to do well in school so that you can get a job that pays you... so you need to take a break."

"I don't take breaks. It's not my style. It's a sign of weakness."

"It's a sign of humanity."

"Don't insult me."

Kingsley looked at her through serious black eyes. A wizard of imposing figure and an almost frighteningly calm voice, he intimidated very well; Donna, however, had grown up with him and was rarely affected. "Donna."

Rarely.

"Fine, I'll take a break. Tomorrow. I'll sleep till eleven and have Isaiah bring breakfast up to me. Sound alright?"

"Why don't you go to a party?"

Donna arched her eyebrows. "Go to a party?" she echoed. "What party would I go to? I haven't been invited to any parties."

"The Plex brothers invited you to a party..." said Kingsley. "I saw the letter."

"You read my mail?" snapped his sister.

"You left it open!"

"In my rubbish bin!"

"I am an auror, Donna. I notice things. You should know that."

"Why were you in my room?"

"Why are you lying about being invited to a party?"

Donna scowled. "I have no interest in attending the Plex brothers' drunken, pathetic excuse for party, where a lot of idiot adolescents slobber all over each other and try to dance to rhythmically simplistic so-called music."

Kingsley's expression was quite solemn as he got to his feet. "It must be difficult being so superior, Donna." He started to leave the room. "You're going to that party."

"There will be underage drinking!"

"I trust you."

"Boys will try to take advantage of me!"

"You won't let that happen."

"You're a terrible brother!"

"You're going to that party!" With that, Kingsley slipped through the door and into the other room.

"I am not!" Donna protested after him. She smirked when she heard no response, glad to have had the last word.

"You are, too!"

Git.

Frowning, the witch picked up the stack of letters once again and began shuffling through them. Ha—this witch had defensive training, healing training, and experience with dragons. That should be perfect for Isaiah's temper...

But what will I wear?

(Two Presents)

"You haven't opened your presents yet?" Shelley Mumps inquired of Marlene Price, noting the stack of gifts at the end of Marlene's bed on Christmas night.

Marlene was just returning from the feast, while Shelley had returned to the dorm twenty minutes before and was well on her way to being ready for bed.

"I suppose not," the blonde replied, peeling off her white go-go boots and stepping over to her bed. "Everything's been so mad today—I slept in and completely forgot after breakfast."

Shelley began to plait her shoulder length hair. "How do you forget about presents?"

"Good point," allowed Marlene. She sat down on her bed, pulling off he scarf, coat, hat, and gloves and picking up the first parcel. "What about you? Good haul this year?"

"Fairly good. I've got eight brothers and sisters, and everyone in my family always gives presents to everyone else, so I'm lucky like that. My brother sent loads of Belgian Chocolate, if you're interested."

Marlene unwrapped a bottle of (expensive) perfume from her mother. "Don't even say the word 'chocolate,' Shelley. I'm never eating again." She patted her stomach in indication of the fact. "Seriously—if you see me so much as approach desert tomorrow, you have permission to hex me."

"I'm not going to hex you," said Shelley.

"I know." Marlene frowned as she untied the string around her present from Lily. "Too bad Donna's not here... she'd hex me if I asked her to. Hell, she'd probably hex me if I didn't ask her. Oh, Lily's so sweet... she knew I liked this blouse..." Shelley smiled as Marlene opened present after present from her friends. At last, she reached the last, from her boyfriend, Miles.

"That's sweet of him," noted Marlene, observing the prettily packaged heart-shape box of chocolates. She checked the end of her bed to be absolutely certain there was nothing else, then rose and began to collect her night things.

Shelley frowned. "No more presents?"

"No. Not that I see."

Both girls were quiet; Marlene tried very hard not to wonder why Adam hadn't given her a present. They were just mates, after all, and blokes never cared about that sort of things like girls did. Anyway, when she'd given Adam her present to him (a t-shirt for the band Dark Dragons), she hadn't been thinking about getting in return. She just liked giving presents, that's all. There was no reason to feel disappointed. Boys will be boys...

Shelley was stretched out on her bed with the latest Teen Witch when Marlene returned to the dormitory, ready for bed. "Do you mind if I listen to some music before I turn in, Shell?" Marlene asked.

"No, not at all."

The blonde moved towards the bewitched turntable and began flicking through a crate of LPs—a collaboration of the six girls' respective record collections—in search of something she felt like hearing. Nothing sparked her interest; she checked the turntable to see what had been left on. It wasn't one of hers.

"Did you listen to something today, Shelley?" inquired Marlene. Shelley said that she hadn't. "That's strange... I thought I left the Cockatrice album on here this morn..." She broke off and removed the unfamiliar record. "Hey, this is the new Hate Potion album... this only came out yesterday, how... Shell, is this yours?"

"Hate Potion? I don't listen to Hate Potion."

"No, most girls don't..." Marlene trailed off, as the album jacket—propped up against the wall behind the table—caught her eye. In addition to the vaguely psychedelic album art, a scrap of parchment was stuck to the front.

"Happy Christmas, from Adam."

Glowing, Marlene placed the album back on the player.

(What's Left)

She was in love with him.

It was so horribly apparent, that James could not concentrate on the crossword the morning of the twenty-sixth. His foot tapped furiously against the wood floor of the breakfast room, as he tried in vain to recollect the names of Norwegian dragon species. His focus was shot.

She was in love with him. All was forgiven, his father was allowed to re-enter their lives like nothing had happened, and he—James—was being asked to forgive-and-forget all because of that supremely irritating, utterly indefensible, and appallingly incontrovertible fact that his mother was still in love with his father. After what he had put her through, after what he had put them both through, Grace Potter still loved her husband.

Damn it.

James scribbled in "RIDGEBACK" in the appropriate squares and continued to tap his foot. It was just a few minutes past seven: his parents had been up late with the guests, and James did not expect them to emerge until well past nine. He was, therefore, surprised, when Mr. Potter entered the breakfast room a few minutes before seven-thirty. Mr. Potter appeared no less surprised.

"You're up early," he observed. James bit back a scathing: "Déjà vu," and said nothing; he didn't know what to say. Mr. Potter nodded, setting down a cup of tea on the table and taking a seat. "I should expect that," he murmured.

James's foot continued to tap.

She was in love with him. How on earth could she still be in love with him? Or did that matter?

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

"Is something wrong, James?" asked Mr. Potter, imitating patience fairly well.

James looked up from the crossword and stopped tapping. "No. I just... I mean... I..." he glanced down that the newspaper. "Do you know what a species of dragon from Norway could be? Nine letters?"

"Oh..." (Surprised). "Ridgeback, isn't it?"

James nodded. He pretended to write the word, though it was already occupying the proper boxes. "Yeah, I think that's right." He met his father's eye. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Both Potters returned to their respective editions of The Daily Prophet. James sighed, but he didnt' feel terrible. Family matters: those could take time. And what was it people were always saying about baby steps?

---

A/N: hiya :-) Sorry, Carlotta-fans... she didn't make it into this chapter. Neither did Alice, which frustrates me, but it just wasn't working. I had to choose between Alice and Marlene, and Alice's scenes could be delayed into 13, while Marlene's could not. I hope you enjoyed this. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED!
The ultra-soap-opera-y, but surprisingly light-hearted (oxymoron, much?) Chapter 13, named for a Janis Joplin song, arrives as soon as I stop getting distracted by future chapters and... y'know... my life. In the mean time, please give me your feedback!

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