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.

27. Land of Dreams

Disclaimer: Copyright Jo-Ro.

Before: The summer before, Carlotta and Frank met on holiday, while the Longbottoms stayed at the Potters' West Country House. Frank and Carlotta kissed, and Carlotta wanted to have a relationship with him, but he was more interested in fixing things with Alice. After a night of drunken shenanigans with their friends, Lily and James almost kiss, but Lily's backs off. The auror Lathe, who investigated at Hogwarts, killed death eater Logan Harper in an altercation in Hogsmeade, and the Harpers are now having him investigated, resulting in his suspension from the auror department. In the mean time, Lathe has been hanging around the Leaky Cauldron, where Donna and Sirius are both working. Adam McKinnon has a new girlfriend, Prudence Daly, prompting Marlene to acknowledge her feelings for him.

Chapter 27- Land of Dreams

Or

"Put a Little Love in Your Heart"

The afternoon sunlight filtered through her bedroom window, and suddenly, Lily became aware of her back coming into contact with something soft and cushioned—her bed. Her head dropped down atop the pillows, and—Merlin —he was kissing her again, on the neck this time, trailing down, and his hands... one, he used to prop himself up (she could feel the bed indent beside her), and the other trailed up her leg, pushing up the purple cotton of her skirt, moving higher and higher—he trailed his fingernails along her now exposed hip, and she sighed.

Lily opened her eyes again in time to see him grin crookedly at her, and she couldn't help it—she pulled his face down to hers, kissing him roughly, fingers now lost in his hair as she divided his lips. He kicked off his shoes.

With one hand still tangled up in his untidy black hair, she used the other to pull at his necktie—she hadn't realized he'd been wearing one until now—and his fingertips grazed her leg again, this time moving provocatively inward. Unbuttoning his shirt in haste, she could feel her heart quicken, anticipating the touch of more skin; her fingers moved deftly to undo the buttons, and the shirt was gone or discarded in a moment.

She disengaged her hands long enough for him to pull her insignificant white t-shirt over her head, and then there was very little between them. She kissed him, biting his lower lip, and his grip on her thigh momentarily became a little tighter. Her hands traveled downward, from his hair to his neck, shoulders, and back—smooth and warm and wonderful.

He ran one hand up the bare side of her torso (she shivered), ending in her loose hair. He cradled her head in his hand for a few seconds and—still kissing her aggressively—fell onto the bed, putting Lily over him. Laughing, she tore her lips away from his, and brushed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. She smiled as the skin of her stomach brushed against his abdomen, unexpectedly sensual.

Lily pulled back, just for a moment, because she wanted to look at him. He was so... beautiful. It was odd, almost disconcerting, except that just then, nothing could be wrong or flawed.

Finally.

"Hi," James murmured, and Lily smiled.

"Hi."

He leaned forward—upward, actually—to kiss her again, but this time it was slow... Something bubbled up inside of Lily—not just butterflies... something deep and burning. Want or need or something.

She placed a hand on his stomach, but it soon moved upward, over his chest, around the shoulder furthest from her—all of this Lily hardly noticed, because the way he was kissing her was like nothing...

What the hell was that ringing sound?

Lily woke with a start.

Her first instinct was to check her surroundings, just to make sure, but her bedroom was much as it always was, and she was alone in it. Thank God. She was neither in a state of undress nor wearing the purple skirt and white tee of the dream, but safely covered in the plaid flannel pajamas of last night. Her hair was not free and sprawling, but tied into two respectable plaits, somewhat muddled from a good night's sleep, but certainly no less principled. The only thing awry in the whole situation was that odd ringing in her ears...

Lily censured herself for idiocy a second later. The ringing, of course, was her alarm clock—the thing that had awoken her in the first place—and she practically fell off her bed to reach the nightstand and switch it off.

That, sadly, did not slow the beating of her heart.

She needed a shower.

Like... now.

(Horseshoes)

They hadn't kissed.

If they had, this might be something worth thinking about right now, but they hadn't, so... so it was fine. Well, not fine. Obviously, James would rather have preferred the whole thing if they had kissed, but she was drunk, and so was he, and it would have been a bad idea, because she certainly would have regretted it, and that was even worse than the fact that she had deterred it. There were a million reasons not to kiss someone, but if you did kiss them and then regretted it... well, that meant you hadn't changed your mind. And then there really was no hope.

So, it was a good thing that they hadn't kissed.

Really.

Except...

He was such an idiot.

Hadn't Lily made it abundantly clear for years and years that they were never going to be anything like that?

(But hadn't Lily once made it abundantly clear that she could not abide the sight of him, and now weren't they friends?)

And hadn't he sworn to give up on her?

(But hadn't he done that before? And if he had held true to that, would he be friends with Lily now?)

And hadn't he resigned himself to the fact that it was never, ever going to happen between them?

(Sort of.)

James sat up in bed. The clock on the nightstand claimed that it was about half past eight, but James had been up for half an hour and didn't see how that was likely. He'd gone to bed rather late the night before, and he ought to be exhausted... sleeping in, taking his time with his last morning at home before the Potters shipped off to the coast.

But something was bothering him—something he couldn't shake.

They hadn't kissed. So what was his problem, anyway?

Well, he knew the answer to that. Unfortunately.

She didn't want to kiss him.

She didn't want to have anything like that between them.

Obviously, Lily really did just want to be friends. Why in Merlin's name couldn't he just accept that?

James dropped miserably back onto his pillows.

He was being stupid. The whole business was pathetic. They were (practically) drunk at the time. Lily probably hadn't given the matter a second thought.

(Nothing to Report)

Ira the cat followed Lily into the kitchen, where she grabbed the telephone receiver and dialed the familiar number. The line rang four or five times before a garbled voice of Mary MacDonald snapped: "This had better be good!"

"It's Lily. Did I wake you up?"

"It's eight thirty—of course you woke me up! Now what's up, Lily? I'm beginning to regret giving you the number to my bedroom phone."

"Calm down, Mary," retorted Lily. She glanced around the kitchen to make sure that she really was alone, and, when satisfied, said: "I think I had a sex dream."

"Oi, really?" Mary's interest was piqued. "How was it?"

"Well... we didn't get to the sex part... the alarm woke me up."

"Your alarm is set for before nine o'clock?"

"Really, Mare? That's the part you choose to focus on?"

"Right, right. So..." Mary's muddled a.m. brain took a moment to process, "it was really more of a foreplay dream."

"I suppose..."

"And you've never had a sex dream before?"

"No... I mean, I've had fairly... heated... dreams before, but this was... different."

Mary laughed. "You're even a virgin in dreamland!"

Lily rolled her eyes. "Thank you for that, Mary."

Still giggling, Mary seemed to be waking up. "So who was the bloke?"

Shit.

Lily realized she hadn't really thought this phone call through very well at all.

"Lily? Still there?"

"What? Yes. Here."

"Who was it? Who were you almost shagging?"

"No one."

The line went quiet for a few seconds. "Lily, do I really have to explain how that works...?"

"No. I mean, there was a bloke, but he wasn't anybody really... just kind of... non-descript..." Lily bit her lip, wondering if this lie was as obvious to Mary as it sounded to her. Ira was scowling at her, but Lily refused to be judged by a cat.

"Ah, a fictional bloke." Mary sighed. "The best kind."

"Yep." Growing uncomfortable, Lily searched for an out. "Well, Mare, I'll let you get back to sleep..."

"What? No. You can't do that. It's not fair!"

"Please, you'll be asleep inside of five minutes."

"Well, probably, but I want details, Lily."

"Ew. No. Not on the phone."

"Not your style?" teased Mary.

"Ice it, MacDonald."

Mary laughed. "Fine. But I'm getting all the information tomorrow."

"What?"

"We're going shopping," Mary reminded her. "Marlene and I got our Hogwarts letters yesterday, so we were all going to skip around Diagon Alley. Remember?"

"Oi, right." Mary might have had a point about eight-thirty being too early: Lily tried to remember the exact conversation she'd had with Marlene the previous afternoon. "So... it's just us girls then?"

"You and me and Mar," chirped Mary. "Donna has to work. Of course, we could invite the Marauders, as they're your new best mates apparently..."

"No, no," said Lily quickly. "Just us girls. Please."

"Alright." Mary yawned. "Anyway, James Potter wouldn't be able to make it. He's gone on holiday with his family, remember, and you really ought to have the whole set if you're dealing with the Marauders."

Lily wondered how on earth Mary was able to recall all the minute details of everyone's lives, but decided not to question it. Of course, her friend was right. The other night, after the wedding, James had mentioned he'd be heading to the coast, so at least she wouldn't run into him in Diagon Alley.

Not that she was avoiding him.

Although, she was.

Absolutely.

"Mare, I'm gonna go."

"Fine. Call me later, Love—we can set details."

"Yeah, bye."

Lily hung up the phone and sat down at the kitchen table. A moment later, her mother entered the kitchen.

"Good morning, Lily."

"'Morning, Mum."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Sweet dreams?"

Lily almost fell out of her chair. Bloody hell.

"Fine. Slept fine. Nothing to report. I'm going to take a shower."

(Harthouse)

"James Alexander Potter, if I come up there to find that you are still not packed, I swear to Merlin, I will...!"

James appeared on the main staircase, levitating his fully prepared trunk down after him. Grace Potter broke off, mid-rant, and her expression softened immediately. "Hello, dear."

"You were saying?"

"Get down here—we're leaving in five minutes," Mrs. Potter said briskly, ignoring her son's sarcasm. "Your father is down checking the road to make sure its clear, and we'll apparate from there."

"Why don't we just floo?" asked James, trudging downward. "We wouldn't have to walk all the way past the wards."

"The exercise will do you good... and I don't like flooing with baggage. Risky. Child, have you even touched your hair this morning?"

James made a face, automatically running one hand through his already disheveled hair. "I love when you call me 'Child,'" he remarked sarcastically, arriving beside her in the foyer. "It makes me feel so loved and appreciated... like, even though it's completely impossible that you've gotten me mixed up with another child, because I am your first and only, there is still a slight chance that you don't actually remember my name, and you're only calling me 'Child' to conceal that fact."

Mrs. Potter had begun rummaging in her purse for something. "Whatever you say, Sirius."

"Very funny."

Just then, Mr. Potter appeared at the front door, and he did not look pleased.

"Is the road full of muggles?" asked Mrs. Potter, disappointed. "I swear, they must have a parade past there every weeken..."

"It's not muggles," said Mr. Potter, closing the door behind him. "It's witches and wizards this time."

"By the gates?" James queried, bewildered. "Why?"

Mr. Potter sighed. "The announcement of my resignation was just made."

"Oh, no..."

"They're clambering for a comment..."

"Alex, no," said Mrs. Potter firmly. "We're leaving today. You promised. It's the Ministry's own fault that they didn't make the announcement until after they found your replacement..."

"Interim replacement," Alex Potter corrected. "They still haven't chosen a permanent head of the department."

"Uncharacteristically inefficient," noted James, earning him a glare from both his parents. "Oh, what? You're allowed to mock the Ministry, but I'm not?"

"Exactly."

"Rubbish."

"In any case," Mrs. Potter continued, folding her arms, "we'll just have to floo away. They won't know the difference, and..."

"They deserve some kind of statement," interjected Mr. Potter. "Grace, in times like these, the last thing people want is to have the head of D.M.L.E. dodging out on them..."

"Alex, you promised..."

"Believe me, Grace, I would much rather..."

James beamed. "Oh, shoot, it doesn't look like I'll be holed up in the middle of a muggle town with no contact to the outside world after all! Well, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll pop over to Sirius's for a..."

"Hold it," interrupted his mother, rounding on him. "You can floo ahead to the house. Your father and I will be along in a moment."

"But..."

"Take the trunks with you."

"But..."

"James."

"Fine."

He obeyed, albeit reluctantly and with a mutinous scowl, levitating the two packed trunks into the library after him. Resting one of the trunks on the stone floor of the library's roomy fireplace, James brought the other to stand perpendicular to it. He grabbed a handful of ash-like floo powder from its usual crystalline bowl on the high mantle and stepped into the fireplace, sitting down on the reclined trunk and placing his free hand on the latch of the other. He closed his eyes instinctively, throwing the powder down to the ground and muttering: "Harthouse."

---

Less than a hundred years old, the Potter's West Country house had been a wedding present to Mrs. Potter from a beloved aunt. Though the nearby town was distinctly muggle, the area remained a popular spot for magic-kind to holiday, due mostly to the picturesque scenery and sparse population.

The house itself was a tall Victorian, not very large, but certainly expansive enough for the three Potters. The entire exterior was painted white, somewhat distressed over the years of wind and rain, and yet resiliently pretty. There stood a lonely willow on the brief patch of unkempt grass that gave way to sand and dirt just a few paces from the house, through which a narrow path crept from the porch to the pavement, which in turn guided the winding, ten minute walk into town.

While not exactly derelict, Harthouse had an uninhabited feel that was not done away with when James and his mother unpacked the majority of a few weeks' necessities. Wind beat softly against the shutters, and the wooden floorboards creaked discretely as James tread cautiously over them; the sound of waves and smell of salt carried from the shore on the other side of a low hill half a mile north.

James had not been in the house a full hour—his mother only twenty minutes—when he realized that, even in the days of years gone by, when the Potters had come to stay in the house several times a year, it had felt similarly disowned.

"How long, then?" James asked his mother, as she set about conjuring a fire in the dusty fireplace.

"Your father will be here for supper."

James drew his wand and waved it once in the direction of the nearest sofa, effectively sweeping away dust that had settled there in a year's worth of unoccupied days. He took a seat there and was shortly joined by his mother.

"I suppose it's for the best," he remarked. "He couldn't very well just... leave."

Mrs. Potter only nodded, and then fixed a smile on her face. "It's a lovely house," she said unimportantly. "I wish we spent more time here lately."

James mirrored her expression. "Well, we've got almost a month now to get sick of it."

"Don't be cynical, James."

(Tuesday)

The first Tuesday of August was as hot and dry as the rest of the summer had been. Donna bid her brothers and sister farewell a few minutes before noon with no suspicions that today would be any different (or worse) than any other afternoon shift at the Leaky Cauldron. On her arrival, she was reminded of the first indication that today would not be a normal day.

Sirius Black stood behind the bar, serving a pair of witches their lunch, with a murderous expression on his face.

"Pining after your boyfriend since he went on holiday?" asked Donna, tying her apron around her waist and smirking at her co-worker's evident bitterness.

"You laugh now," retorted Sirius; "but just you wait. Just you wait."

"Just I wait for what?"

"Icarus Frop."

"What?"

"Icarus Frop," Sirius repeated. He disappeared into the back to clock out for a moment, and then returned, arms folded across his chest. Donna waited for an explanation. "Tom's nephew... we're supposed to be training him today."

"Oi, right," Donna recollected, pouring pumpkin juice for a witch at the bar. "The French bloke, right?"

"He's not French."

"I thought Tom said he went to Beauxbatons..."

"He did, apparently, for a few years. But he's English... or... something."

Donna frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not actually sure what species he is, so I feel a little disloyal claiming him as a child of the same nation as I."

"What are you on about, Black?"

"Oh, you'll see what I'm on about..." A slight, somewhat vindictive smile grew on Sirius's face, the result of some combination annoyance and exhaustion. "In fact, I would really, really like sticking around to see you see what I'm on about, because you, Shack, are not as patient as I, and will probably... well... we'll just have to see what you'll do."

"Black..."

"Unfortunately," Sirius went on, "I have an appointment with a prospective renter for my flat, and must prematurely tear myself away..." He stepped out from behind the bar.

"But—where's Icarus Frop?" Donna wanted to know.

"He's on lunch. In fact... he's been on lunch since ten-thirty."

"What?"

"Believe me," said Sirius, starting for the door to Diagon Alley, "it's been the nicest hour and a half of my morning." He bowed his head as he reached the back exit; "Goodbye, Shacklebolt, and remember—hex first, ask questions later."

With that, Sirius was gone, and Donna was left thoroughly confused behind the counter. However, she quickly shrugged off Sirius's warnings, because he, as a Marauder, was known to be more than slightly dramatic, and more likely than not he was only toying with her. Anyway, the pub buzzed with the lunch hour crowd, and she had not the time to waste on pondering.

Icarus Frop made his first appearance about an hour into Donna's shift. He was tall and lean, with reddish brown hair he wore feathered and long, transitioning seamlessly into a neatly trimmed goatee. He had fair skin and a long, narrow nose that gave his face an angled, pointed look. He was not without a certain degree of handsomeness, but this fact was not lost on him either, and in his every word, he became, to Donna at any rate, less and less attractive. It started when he entered the Leaky Cauldron.

"Hello, Sugar," was Mr. Frop's greeting, and at once Donna's eyebrows shot up.

"No," she said.

"What?"

"I said 'no.' As in, no, you will not call me 'Sugar.' Donna Shacklebolt is my name. 'Donna' will suffice, or 'Shacklebolt' or, if you are so inclined, 'Shack,' but only if you are so inexplicably inclined."

Wiser men would have cowered in the face of such sheer, unconcealed disdain, but Icarus Frop had twenty-two years of experience with ignoring the dignity of others (particularly the opposite sex, and he only smiled.

"Whatever you say, Sugar."

(Letter One)

Marlene Price stared at the opened letter upon her desk with all the contempt of someone deeply wronged.

Not that she had been wronged. It was not Adam McKinnon's fault that she had placed such faith in his inaction, or that she had interpreted his silence on the subject of Prudence Daly as a hopeful omen. And he had no way of knowing what she wouldn't tell him. He had no way of knowing that in his brief two pages of script, including a brief mention of his new love interest, he had effectively dispelled the one thing that she had clung to.

For, as long as Adam had not mentioned his new relationship, Marlene had held out that it was not anything more than Mary claimed: a summer fling.

So with trepidation, Marlene had opened the letter brought by an unfamiliar owl, and read the news he might not have known that she already knew. And, on reading the old news presented as fresh, Marlene had placed the letter down on the desk and continued to glare at it from across the room.

Another letter sat beside Marlene herself on the bed—her school letter. She'd had it two days before and was supposed to see to the acquisition of its listed supplies today, with Mary and Lily, and with mixed dread and relief she anticipated that plan. Putting on a happy face was never any fun, and yet she did not think she could bear to be alone in the flat with the other letter much longer.

She had lunch with her mother that afternoon—not just with her mother, though: with her mother and her mother's new "friend," Graham.

Graham was as nice as Bill or Ned or William and any of the others—maybe a little nicer—but Marlene had the sneaking suspicion that this would be one of her last meals with him. She might or might not see him a few more times before she went away to school again, but the likelihood of his existing in her mother's sphere come December was extremely slim. Marlene knew the pattern all too well.

While Vivian Price showed Graham out, Marlene set about doing the lunch dishes. As she washed, she realized that meals with the Grahams and Bills and Neds of the world predictably spurred fleeting thoughts of Marlene's actual father. She had met him a handful of times, and he was nice enough. He gave her a stuffed monkey when she was six. He said he won it as a prize at a carnival game. Still (this, while rinsing sauce from a plastic plate) Marlene had no illusions about the man. He was no different than Graham or Bill or Ned—maybe a little less nice. There was no fantastic romance surrounding her beginning; Agrippa's sake—the term "love child" didn't even really apply.

She wondered vaguely if or when she had children of her own whether it would be very much the same. After all, she'd slept with Miles. She hadn't really wanted to... No, that wasn't right. She had imagined herself to be in love, and she had wanted to... just not quite yet. But in the end, it seemed the logical progression of things, and everyone else at the time seemed so keen on the idea of shagging...

Marlene wondered next whether requited love was a wonderful as unrequited love was awful.

Then she wondered why all of her thoughts invariably returned to Adam Bloody McKinnon.

When she realized she'd left the tap running, Marlene decided she had better stop wondering and just finish the dishes.

(Enter Carlotta)

James's second lunch at Harthouse differed greatly from the first. For one thing, his father had joined them, in time for supper the evening before, as promised, and the conversation was kept considerably better. At this point, the majority of their time there had been occupied in preparing the house for human inhabitation and in rediscovering the various quirks that had been forgotten in their absence of five years.

The Longbottoms had summered there twelve months before, but there remained a lot of dusting and cleaning and retouching of basic spells to be done, including a warning bell for when muggles passed close by. So far, the bell had not sounded; it was the muggles' understanding that Harthouse was an old shack, deserted by its wealthy owners and occasionally the home to squatters. Actually, they were kind of right.

After lunch, James excused himself from his parents with the excuse of walking into town. Mr. and Mrs. Potter intended to go to the water that afternoon and did not join him. The moment he was appropriately dressed to consort with muggles therefore, James walked briskly out of the house alone.

The beach itself looked relatively vacant. The sky overhead was grey, and James zipped up his jacket before progressing up the path towards the village. The thought of apparating to London certainly crossed his mind while he walked, but his mother had insisted he leave his wand behind to prevent just such an incident as well as any other use of magic that the muggles might catch.

James stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling as glum as the dreary sky suggested. He reached the main road that led into town, and, as more and more shops popped up, his mind drifted to the shops in London, where he imagined his friends visiting at that very moment. He wondered briefly what Lily was doing on this particular Tuesday afternoon, but shook himself almost immediately. He had made a resolution not to think of Lily Evans... a resolution that was becoming increasingly difficult to keep, especially after the Incident That Shall Not Be Named (as he had mentally named it).

The seventeen-year-old paused in front of a sweet shop that reminded him of Honeydukes in Hogsmeade. Fliers for a street fair that night plastered half the window, but a muggle contraption that spun taffy was still quite visible on display, and James was momentarily fascinated by the smooth, un-mechanical movement. Suddenly—

"James?"

James looked up, his brain not quite registering the voice that his called his name. Then, he noticed a petite, slender brunette making her way up the street towards him.

Carlotta Meloni, as has been mentioned, would have been beautiful with a burlap sack and leprosy, so the sight of her attractively appareled in relatively slight muggle clothing was only improved by the fact that she was, at least, a familiar face.

"Carlotta Meloni—what are you doing here?"

Carlotta reached him, brushing her lengthy chestnut hair over her shoulder out of habit. She looked as relieved as he by the sight of someone she knew. "My family stays at the large blue house over on the hill."

James recollected this almost before she had told him.

"Oi, right, I remember. We're staying in..."

"The big white house," Carlotta supplied, blushing only faintly. "Yes, I know. The Longbottoms..."

"...Stayed there last year, that's right..." James overcame the shock of encountering her and began to better construct the reason for her unexpected presence. "That's where..."

"I got to know him," finished Carlotta drolly. "And civilization as we know it ended."

"It wasn't all that bad, was it?"

"You weren't on the receiving end of glares from every girl in the castle last year," Carlotta replied with dignity. "I swear: one kiss from a bloke with a girlfriend, and suddenly you're practically death eater status." But there was humor in her voice.

"I don't see why you should take the whole blame," James pointed out. "From my understanding, he wasn't exactly beating you off with a stick."

"Although it would make a much better story if he did," Carlotta pointed out, and James smirked. She shifted her wait and tossed her hair again; "So when did you arrive? How long are you staying?"

"Yesterday and till the end of the month."

"Have you had your Hogwarts letter yet?"

"No. You?"

"No, but Shelley—Shelley Mumps, that is—had hers yesterday."

"How long will you be around then?"

"Two more weeks," said Carlotta.

"You don't sound too thrilled."

She shrugged. "I've been here two weeks already, and as if hanging around with my family were not dull enough, I'm to be spending the last few weeks of summer with them, too... although, we'll be in Italy then, so I won't mind as much. Anyway, there's no one very interesting in the village either, except a cute bloke who works at the pub, but I think his girlfriend hates me."

"Why?"

"I may or may not have snogged him."

"Unreasonable wench, that one."

"Honestly." She smirked. "Anyway, I've already been here two weeks and I'm sick of every other Meloni. I'm sure they'll insist on lunching with your lot one of these afternoons."

"Well it's just mum and dad and me, so I won't object."

"I hope I'll get to see something of you now that you're here..." Carlotta went on. "Besides my family, there are only muggle around, and they're all right, but they're not much for conversation."

"Yeah, sure," agreed James without really thinking.

"Have you had lunch yet?"

"Yeah—just now."

"Oh."

James realized his accidental rudeness a moment to late. "But—um... what are you doing around eight?"

"I'm sorry. I have plans."

"Oh... well, that's..."

"Yes, I have a riveting engagement to sit on my bed and read the June issue of Teen Witch for the seventy-second time."

"Do you think you could call it off?" asked James seriously.

Carlotta sighed. "I don't know. I could try... but if I could, what exactly do you have in mind, James?"

James pointed to one of the fliers taped to the window. "Street fair. I'm sure they'll have loads of inexplicably priced pottery and jewelry and little carved fish... locally made, of course."

Carlotta laughed. "I suppose Teen Witch can wait till morning, then."

"It won't be very offended?"

"Oh, sure, but I can be quite persuasive."

(Shopping)

Lily had yet to receive her Hogwarts letter, but the majority of her necessary books and equipment was listed in Mary's and Marlene's, and so she joined them on the official start-of-term shopping trip to Diagon Alley.

Skipping ahead of the others into the Leaky Cauldron, Mary sat down at the bar, expecting to find Donna, but encountering a tall, bearded man instead. He was seated on a stool behind the bar and read a magazine, from which he glanced up only long enough to smile and wink at Mary. Then, he returned to his magazine as if there were no customers at all.

"Er... could I get a butterbeer?" asked Mary, bewildered, as Lily and Marlene took the seats beside her.

"Oh, sure," said the wizard, not moving. "The girl will be along in a minute."

And, true enough, Donna appeared a moment later, levitating three full plates at wand point. She did not notice her friends at first and floated the dishes across the room to the appropriate table. Then, she spotted the familiar faces and offered a weak sort of grimace that might have been intended to be a greeting smile.

"Have you been helped?"

"No..."

Donna turned to the young wizard and stomped her foot once, causing him to look up, startled.

"What? I thought you were handling the bar."

"I was, so long as you were handling the floor, so..."

"Calm down. I thought everything looked okay on the floor... nobody asked for anything."

Lily, Marlene, and Mary exchanged incredulous looks at the ease with which Frop handled Donna's imperial air, but Donna's glare only became more intense. "When was the last time you even ch...? Never mind it. Go to the kitchens... there's another order up."

"I love it when you take that tone..."

"Go!"

And go he did. Donna turned to her friends. "What do you want? Butterbeer?" But they had not the time to answer before she was placing three opened bottles in front of them.

"Who is he?" Lily asked. "And why is he here?"

"His name is Icarus Frop," said Donna, pushing a stray curl from her face. "He's Tom's nephew."

"Bloody hell," said Marlene, and Donna nodded.

"I hate sodding nepotism," she muttered darkly. "Apparently, his mum—Tom's sister—asked Tom to keep him out of trouble while he's in England, and Tom is looking to replace Black and me, as we'll be going back to school soon, so we're supposed to train that idiot, and... well... as you can see, it's not going so well." She finished her brief rant and continued on another vein: "What are you lot doing here, then?"

"School shopping," Mary replied, cheering up.

"Oh?" Donna's interest was piqued. "You've had your letters?"

"Yes—or rather, Marlene and I have. Lily's hasn't arrived yet."

"Oh."

There was a brief, tense silence, as each girl realized the implications of the situation. Neither Donna nor Lily had received their Hogwarts letters, and both were probable contenders for Head Girl. Lily was the prefect for their house and year, but Donna had top marks in several classes, played Quidditch, and had been vying for the position for ages. Also, she was a pureblood.

Lily could not honestly say that she did not want the Head Girl-ship, but she certainly didn't want it the same way Donna did, and she wasn't quite sure how things would be between them if she, Lily, got it instead. At the same time, prefects almost always received the positions of Head Boy and Girl, so if Donna didn't get it, Lily half hoped the job would just go to one of the other prefects. In any event, she wished her damned letter would just arrive already, so that they all knew one way or the other.

"Anyway," Marlene interjected after a few seconds, "we were just going to pick up some robes and books. Do you want us to fetch anything for you, Donna?"

"Sure. I'll go get some money." Donna disappeared into the back, but returned a minute or two later empty handed. "Actually—I just remembered... Bridget will probably want me to go shopping with her, so I had better wait till we get our letters."

"Oh, that's right, your sister's starting this year," Mary recollected. "Are you excited?"

"About having an eleven-year-old pester me with endless questions about Hogwarts?" asked Donna sarcastically. "Oh, thrilled."

"Don't listen to her," said Lily. "She loves it."

The girls paid for their drinks and left shortly after that. As Icarus Frop returned from his brief tour-of-duty, Donna glanced at the calendar. Tuesday. Ten more days until she would be paid.

"Hey, Sugar, that bloke wants another brew."

(Hot and Cold)

James Potter had a nice laugh. It seemed to spread to every inch of his face, lighting up his hazel eyes and drawing his mouth into a wide, carefree grin. The sound was deep and rich and vaguely childish, but almost always mischievous.

In so many ways, James was the golden boy—rich, clever, handsome, star Quidditch player and team captain—but in others, he utterly transcended that. He didn't like rules... maybe he considered himself above them, or maybe he just didn't consider them at all, but either way, he was... rebellious. Everything about him rebelled: his hair, his laughter, his friends... and that only added to his appeal.

Carlotta Meloni had not meant to make a study of James Potter, but it happened incidentally as they walked through the crowded high street, talking inconsequentially about the surrounding fair and its various curiosities.

James had stopped to chat with an elderly gentleman at a booth for "Potions," which had nothing whatsoever to do with real magic but must have been fascinating enough to a superstitious muggle. The man had said something amusing, and when James let out a great shout of laughter, Carlotta made her observations, seriously considering him for the first time in... well... years, probably.

"You're good with people," she remarked later, as the two continued to walk. James stopped to get ice cream.

"That's true."

"And humble, too," she added sarcastically.

"Oh, very." He handed her a cone and paid with a muggle note. It was a good thing, too, because Carlotta could never make much sense out of muggle currency. "How long have you been coming to Hartland anyway?" he asked casually, as they continued to walk.

"Four or five years," she replied. "You?"

"We used to come here all the time when I was little," said James, shrugging. "Mum got the house as a wedding present, but for whatever reason, we haven't been around much since I started school. Anyway, I preferred spending my summers with my mates."

"I was a little surprised to see you here without any other Marauders," Carlotta noted, and then she recoiled, recollecting how the school year had ended; "Oh, I forgot..."

"Forgot...? Oh, no." James shook his head. "No, Pad... er... Sirius and I are... fine now. No, the only reason I'm here alone is because mum wanted the family to spend 'quality time' together, or else I'd have had the other three out here in about a minute."

"So you've gotten back together, have you?" teased Carlotta, pleased. "Good. For a while there, it looked as though you two were never going to make up."

"Well, you know, it's mostly for the sex."

"Isn't it always?" James laughed again, and Carlotta thought she rather liked the sound. "What was all of it about anyway?"

"What?"

"Your fight with Black, of course."

"Oh. That." James shrugged. "Just... something stupid."

Carlotta raised her eyebrows. "Lily Evans?"

James looked at her, surprised. "What?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "But you two stopped speaking to each other, and Lily Evans was always hanging around him then, and I know that you used to... or maybe..." She broke off uncertainly.

"There's nothing going on between Snaps and—that is, Evans and Sirius. Or me. Or anyone," said James briskly, banishing thoughts of the other night. Because they hadn't kissed, and he'd promised himself...

"If you say so," Carlotta was replying, meanwhile, with a certain indifference. "Incidentally... why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Nickname everyone. Your friends, Lily Evans, everybody else in the school..."

"Easier than having to remember their actual names."

"Tell the truth."

"That is the truth."

"Have you nicknamed everyone, then?"

"Sure, just about." The conversation moved into much safer territory, and James breathed easily, finishing his ice cream and tossing the paper into a rubbish bin beside a pottery booth.

Carlotta looked doubtful, taking a bite out of her own ice cream. "Okay... McGonagall."

"Easy: Minnie."

"Right, of course. Er... Mundungus Fletcher."

"Dung."

"Damacus Weasley."

"Freckles."

"Adam McKinnon."

"Number Five."

Carlotta raised an eyebrow.

"Fifth roommate," James explained, and the brunette nodded.

"What about me, then?"

"What?"

"Me," she repeated with a challenging smile. "Me, Carlotta Francesca Meloni. What's my nickname?"

James grinned but did not reply. "Why do you want to know?"

The witch gasped in faux shock. "Well, now that you're avoiding the question I have to know!"

"I don't think so..."

"Oh, c'mon, James, you have to tell me!" Carlotta half-pleaded, half-laughed. "What is it? Is it very rude or something?"

"I'm not saying anything..." said James, shaking his head and grinning.

"James Potter!"

"No!"

"I'm curious! I won't be angry—even if it's using my last name, because Merlin knows there are loads of things you could do with that..."

But James continued to shake his head, smiling enigmatically,

"It must be terribly rude or embarrassing," Carlotta reasoned "Did you come up with it, or was it Black?"

"You're not getting anything out of me, Meloni."

"But, J-a-a-ames..." James, however, remained amusedly unyielding, and Carlotta was eventually compelled to give up her mission, at least for the time being. "I'll get it out of you eventually," she warned. They neared the end of the fair; shops gave way to houses, and the electric fairy lights that lined the road tapered off, so that the way was only very dimly lit. Still, the pair continued to walk.

"Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to be a muggle," Carlotta mused after a while. "I think it would be much simpler, you know... without magic... you wouldn't be so reliant on it. You could—I don't know... do things for yourself."

She folded her arms across her abdomen as they walked, turning her eyes up to the stars, unavoidably conscious of how lovely the both of them must look in the moonlight.

"You know, I think I might try it sometime," she continued, her smooth, swan-like neck extended and exposed when she tilted her chin upward for a better look at the stars. She guided herself listening to James's footfalls on the cobbled path beside her and occasionally glancing at him through her peripheral vision. He was not looking at her, but at the road, and that struck her as odd. "Living as a muggle, I mean," Carlotta added, when her companion did not inquire as to her meaning. "Just take a year and hide my wand and live like I don't even know magic exists. I think it would be a good experience..." (James continued to be annoyingly silent), "Don't you?"

"I don't know; maybe," said the other unhelpfully.

After that, James became almost monosyllabic in his responses, and Carlotta grew weary of holding up the conversation. They meandered for a while longer, and then, at her request, James deposited Carlotta at her house.

"You needn't bother walking me to my door," said Carlotta coolly. "I can't abide conventions."

All the same, she was annoyed with James and his sudden aloofness, and, more troublesome still, she couldn't make out what she had done to cause it. That he had become annoyed was a certainty, but why was unfathomable.

As she did with all men who were displeased with her (and there were very few), Carlotta decided to put him out of her mind completely, and yet, even as she prepared for the night and climbed into bed much later that evening, she could not shake her nagging curiosity about the whole thing. She resolved that, should the opportunity arise (and she would certainly not seek it) she would discover James Potter's reasoning, so as to make an amendment—not to her own actions, of course, but to his opinion.

(Letter Two)

"Okay," began Sirius Black, as Donna entered the Leaky Cauldron Thursday evening. "I have good news and bad news."

Donna scowled. "You are not leaving me alone here on a Thursday night, Black. That is not happening. I'm sorry. I don't care how much you think you..."

"No, it's not that," interrupted Sirius, rolling his eyes. "I am sticking to the schedule. That's not the bad news."

"Then what is?"

"Well..." Sirius frowned. "Good news first. Your Hogwarts letter came."

"What? Here?"

"Five minutes ago. Mine arrived, too."

"Nothing gets passed Dumbledore, does it?" mused Donna vaguely. "So late in the day, though... it's odd. Where is it, then?"

"The counter in the back," Sirius replied, and Donna started back there. She stopped on reaching the arched doorway, however, and turned back.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she demanded.

"And that's the bad news," sighed Sirius.

Icarus Frop strolled into the bar area, grinning cheerily at Donna as he brushed passed her. "Hello, Sugar."

"Fuck off." With that, Donna went to retrieve her Hogwarts letter. Icarus Frop watched her leave, a certain smile curling onto his lips, as he walked over to Sirius, who was serving a witch her drink.

"Pretty fit, that one, isn't she?" Icarus muttered. He nodded to the doorway through which Donna had just departed. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Fuck off."

Icarus frowned, while Sirius put the bottle away. Then, comprehension dawned on the former's face. "I see... you're hoping to get a leg on, are you?"

Sirius exhaled heavily. He'd had a long day today, working all afternoon and most of the evening with Icarus Frop; he'd been forced to leave his own wand in the back, so that there would be no temptation to cast a nice little silencing charm on his boss's nephew.

"Frop. Go... do something else. Please. Don't you have any more magazines to read?"

"You were supposedto show me around the evening shift, mate."

"Well... go sit over there..." Sirius pointed to a stool in the corner. "And watch."

"Whatever, mate."

Donna returned with businesslike, nonsense free speed, fixing her apron around her waist.

"Did you read your letter?"

"Yes," she replied, almost coldly and not meeting his eye. "Where's Frop?"

Sirius pointed him out.

"Oh."

"He thinks I want to shag you."

"I'm going to stab him."

"Not if I do it first. Bar or floor?"

Donna considered the question... there was far less time to stand around and think when she worked the floor, and right now, she didn't really want to think about anything... particularly not about the twisted and folded, perfectly ordinary, badge-less Hogwarts letter in her pocket.

"Floor."

"Lovely."

(Love, Love, Love)

Mary MacDonald waved her wand over the recently painted nails of her left hand, sighing loudly. Marlene, who sat on the other side of the brunette's room, going through her records in search of a suitable soundtrack to the moment, glanced over at her friend. In addition to her personal manicure, Mary was humming under her breath, bobbing her head to inaudible music; she set down her wand and, with the now dried hand, began to paint the other set of nails.

"Mary," said Marlene, smirking. "Whatever it is that you have to say, just say it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Mary. "What makes you think I have anything to say?"

"You've been out all afternoon," said Marlene, "and I know you didn't just call me over here to watch you do your nails."

Mary was unable to contain her grin now. She picked up her wand again and bewitched the polish brush to attend to her right hand on its own. Then, with her finished hand, she waved for Marlene to come join her on the bed. The amused blonde complied.

"Alright, what's this about?"

"Stebbins loves me," announced Mary, glowing. "He told me so this afternoon, at lunch."

"And do you love him?" asked Marlene.

"Of course I love him; he's cute and funny and rich... what's not to love?"

Marlene laughed and shook her head. "Congratulations, MacDonald."

"Thank-you, Price," replied Mary.

Marlene got up and returned to the LPs. "Alright, I know you're dying to share the details—let's hear it, then."

Mary clapped her hands together excitedly—confusing the enchanted nail polish brush considerably—and tucked her legs under her, in preparation of the story. What followed was a detailed account of the entire production... what they had both ordered for lunch, what she was wearing, how he looked when he spoke, and, of course, a word-for-word recounting of the speech that had ended in the declaration of love. When it was finished, both girls lay down on the bed, and Marlene looped her arm through Mary's.

"I'm happy you're happy," she said. "You deserve a nice boy who will say nice things to you."

"Thank-you," Mary replied. "So do you." She frowned and looked over at Marlene. "Have you... y'know... heard from Adam?"

Marlene's breath hitched. "Yeah."

"Oh, Mar—did he mention...?"

"Prudence Bloody Daly?" finished Marlene. "Yep."

"Hell, I'm sorry, Price," said Mary earnestly. She sighed, squeezing her friend's arm. "It'll all work out in the end, though," she promised. "I can tell these things."

Marlene smiled weakly. "Enough about me, MacDonald. You've been holding it in terrifically; surely you've been wanting to talk about Stebbins."

"Oh, that can wait..."

"Rubbish. Your news is much more interesting."

"You're sure?"

"Of course.

Mary brightened considerably. "Did I tell you what he said when he dropped me off?"

"Only once..."

"It was adorable. He took my hand..."

(Cheap Thrills)

Friday evening, James took a bottle of wine and trekked down to the beach with Carlotta. A heavy wind beat at them both as they walked around the tide pools and rocks until the sun began to set. Then, James sat down in the sand and opened up the wine.

"I don't drink," Carlotta told him, as he offered.

"At all?"

"No. And neither should you." Laughing, she swiped the bottle from his hands and stuck it in a little mound of sand. "What do you need that for? Isn't life fun enough without cheap thrills?"

"Hey—don't knock cheap thrills," retorted James, but he didn't fight her about the wine, instead laying back with his head in his hands. They were both quiet for a bit, as James stared at the sky, and Carlotta looked out across the waves.

"You know," she began presently; "I was a bit surprised you invited me to come down here with you at all."

"Why's that?"

Carlotta turned to look at him, eyebrows arched. "You were a bit cool with me the other evening... towards the end."

James sat up, and in moving thus, obscured half of his face from Carlotta's perspective, so that she only saw him in profile. "Was I?" he asked, propping his elbows up on his knees and fidgeting with his fingers. She had made him uncomfortable, but she didn't mind.

"Yes, you were," she insisted. "You don't have to apologize. I don't believe in apologies."

"You don't believe in apologies?"

"No. I live without regrets."

"That only means you haven't done anything sufficiently regrettable."

Carlotta looked doubtful. "Others would disagree with you there."

"I'm only saying that you've never done anything that offends your own conscience seriously enough."

Carlotta stared reflectively across the waves. "That's not true," she said after a while.

"Regrets?" asked James bluntly, and she nodded slowly.

"Yes." And, since she had answered his question, Carlotta felt vindicated in asking her own: "Why were you annoyed with me the other night?"

"Who says I was annoyed?"

"Well, weren't you?"

James sighed. "No, not exactly. I was—I reckon I was in a bad mood, and you were being phony."

Carlotta stared at her companion, incredulous and insulted. "Excuse me?"

"Oh c'mon, Carlotta—you must know that you're cool. Clever, fit, interesting and all of that... but sometimes it just seems like you're playing at it."

"Playing at what?" the witch demanded.

"At... at..." James searched for the words. "At being Carlotta Meloni."

"What?"

"I mean, come on. You don't expect me to believe you meant anything that you said, do you?"

"I don't say anything I don't mean!"

"You don't expect me to believe that you honestly plan on... on living as a muggle or any of that? You wouldn't do it; you have no reason to. And that's fine. Really, but you don't have to say things simply to sound like... like people expect you to sound."

James leaned back again, propping himself up on his elbows, and Carlotta turned to study him, almost unconsciously. When she became aware that she had been staring, the witch looked away again; she made no reply, and if it had been anyone else, James thought he might have offended them. He guessed, however, and correctly, that Carlotta would not be seriously offended by his summation of her possibly one and only flaw.

"You think I'm artificial?" she asked eventually, unable to resist the urge to know definitively.

"No," James replied practically; "but sometimes, I think you... play up certain—attitudes."

"Everyone does that."

James shrugged. They were quiet for a long time. The sun sunk lower and lower, until at last it dropped below the horizon, and the sky was left an ever darkening canvas of grey and hazy blue.

"I was drinking when I kissed Frank," Carlotta said suddenly. James looked at her. "We were sitting by the water, just like you and I are, and we'd been... talking, drinking, laughing, and then—I don't know. It just happened. I kissed him, and he kissed me back." She had a hard, concentrating sort of expression, not moving her eyes from the horizon. "I thought I was in love with him."

James returned his gaze to the steam-like clouds. "Were you?"

"I don't know," Carlotta admitted. "He really did break my heart, though. You wouldn't think it, to look at me, I know, because... well... he's just Frank Longbottom, and I'm... I'm..."

"Carlotta Meloni."

"Right." She paused. "You're right about me. No one's ever said it to me, you know, but I—I do pretend to be... different. Unique, and all that."

"You needn't," said James.

Carlotta smiled a little. "But I do. It's easier when you can control your image. Everyone supposes that I'm—I'm this awful slag... that I wanted to take Frank just because I could. But that's not it. At first, maybe, but then... he didn't seem like other blokes. He didn't want me. I don't know—maybe it was a challenge. But I think I would have liked being in love with him."

"You're not a slag."

"Oh, I am," said Carlotta, still wearing a faint smile. "I have slept with a lot of people: I am the definition of a slag. That's fine." She shrugged. "Mostly, I don't care what people think of me."

"You're not a slag," James insisted.

"It's nice of you to say, at any rate." For a moment, they did not speak. Then Carlotta, as though shaking off a fleeting feeling, brushed her thick hair over her shoulder, providing a clearer view of her exquisite face. "What about you, Oh Mighty James Potter?" she asked, and James smirked at her teasing tone. "Have you ever been in love, Lord of the Stoics?"

He considered the question.

"Yes."

Carlotta turned her eyes once again towards the sky. "It goes away eventually, I suppose," she said roughly, and when James made no reply, she added, glancing at him again, "Right?"

James continued to watch the clouds. "I suppose so."

Then, they remained mute again for several minutes. At length, Carlotta spoke up. "You were my first kiss, you know."

"You were mine, too."

(Hyperbolic Satan)

"Where have you been?" Donna wanted to know, as she poured the newly arrived Lathe his usual firewhiskey.

It was late Thursday night; Sirius had gone home, and Donna was left alone with Frop and Tom, which meant that the former was on his best behavior. Unfortunately, Icarus Frop's best behavior was well below mediocre.

"Usually you're mocking me for not having anything better to do," Lathe pointed out. "I don't show up for a week or two, and you assume something is wrong?"

"Well, you don't have anything better to do," retorted Donna. "So where else would you be?"

"Alright, fair enough." Lathe drank his firewhiskey. "My hearing started."

"Oh." Honestly, Donna had forgotten that he would have a hearing at all. Lathe hadn't talked about it much; he kept conversations light. Kingsley had not mentioned it either, but, then again, Kingsley didn't talk about work as much as he once had. "That's... well, at least you'll know."

"Mhm," said Lathe vaguely, taking another drink.

Donna raised her eyebrows. "Is it going badly?"

"Oh, I don't know." Lathe shrugged. "They're examining memories of other aurors at the moment... it's not too bad, but it's not exactly a laugh having every aspect of your life dissected and analyzed.

"Oh," said Donna. "I imagine not." She handed butterbeers to a witch who had requested them. "When do they rule?"

"Friday—next Friday, not tomorrow."

"And then you'll know if you're sacked or not?"

"That's right. It will be a relief knowing one way or the other, even if I'm sacked and forced into mercenary work."

"Heroic."

"Cheers."

Lathe took another drink of firewhiskey and noted Icarus Frop, seated on his usual stool with his usual magazine, for the first time. "Who's that?"

Donna glanced over her shoulder, and then rolled her eyes. "Satan, I reckon."

(Letter Three)

Lily had her second strangest dream that week on Friday morning. In it, she was attending one of the Slug Club parties, wearing a silver dress that had not fit her since fifth year. She moved through a crowd of nondescript faces, struggling against an invisible force that thickened the air and made movement difficult.

Music played, echoing separately from the chatter of the party, but it was not the sort that Slughorn would usually pick. There was no band; rather, a melancholy, vaguely jazzy tune sounded out. No one danced, but everyone—indeed, everything in the hall—seemed to sway.

Lily stopped when she reached Sirius Black, who stood in the corner of the room—the room, which was no longer Slughorn's chambers, but the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts. The two of them were now alone, but the music continued.

There was something that Lily felt she needed to say to Sirius—something she was desperate to tell him, but couldn't. She knew that when she told him, he would be furious—he would never speak to her again. Even now, he seemed to guess. His expression was grim.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized, but Sirius's eyes were directed away from Lily, over her shoulder. Lily turned instinctively to see what her friend looked at, but he was staring at the empty space across the hall. Lily turned back to Sirius, but he was no longer Sirius. Reginald Cattermole stood in his place. "So sorry," Reginald repeated.

Lily frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"He's dead," said Reginald. At first, Lily thought he meant Sirius, but something corrected itself in her brain, and she knew whom he meant.

"No, he's not. He'll wake up," the witch heard herself reply.

"He's dead," insisted Reginald.

"No, he's not. He can't be."

"I'm so sorry," repeated the Hufflepuff, but there was little emotion in his voice. "So sorry."

"Stop saying that!"

"The letter. Read the letter. You know who wrote it."

"I didn't know," Lily argued, panicking. "How could I have known?"

"He's dead."

"No!"

Lily's own shout seemed to jerk her from slumber, and she woke in her own bedroom, sitting up quickly and still feeling vaguely uneasy. She had no idea why this was—indeed, she hadn't even known what made her feel so desperate in the dream itself—and breathed deeply several times to calm herself.

"Lily," called her mother's voice then called from the other side of the bedroom door. "Please tell me that you're awake. Your friend is here!"

Friend?

Bloody hell: Marlene.

"I'll be out in a minute!" Lily replied. She heard Mrs. Evans's retreating footsteps and swore under her breath as she noted that the alarm clock read 11:05. How in Merlin's name had she slept so late?

When the redhead entered the kitchen a few minutes later, she had brushed her teeth, unbraided her hair, and splashed some water over her face in the bathroom, but she still wore her pajamas.

"Oh, you dressed up for me," joked Marlene, who was seated at the kitchen counter. "You forgot we were supposed to meet today, didn't you?"

"No—I just overslept," replied Lily. "Sorry, Mar."

"No worries."

"Do you want breakfast? Tea?"

"I've already eaten, thanks."

Lily went to pour herself some tea. "I had the strangest dream."

Marlene smirked, and, glancing around the room to make sure that the pair was, indeed, alone, she asked: "Snogging more faceless blokes, are you?"

"Mary told you?"

"Shocking, I know, since Mary is so well known for keeping a secret," deadpanned Marlene.

"Fair enough," admitted Lily. "It wasn't like that, though... it was just... odd. Like..."

"Oh, look, your Hogwarts letter!" interrupted Marlene, pointing to the yellow parchment envelope on the counter, half concealed under the rest of the mail. "Sorry..."

"No worries..." Lily set down her teacup and hastened to the letter. The moment she picked it up, she knew, but, all the same, she opened it up and took out the small gold badge that glistened in the morning sunlight, drifting through the kitchen window.

"Head Girl?" said Marlene, beaming. "Congratulations!" Lily just stared at the badge, and the blonde frowned. "Aren't you going to... I dunno, run around squealing, tell your Mum... all that?"

"Donna," sighed Lily. Marlene understood at once.

"Right. Donna." She rose from the stool and walked around to stand beside Lily, picking up the letter from the counter. "Love, you can't let this be a bad thing. Donna will get over it."

"I guess," muttered Lily. She turned a hopeful eye to her friend; "But I reckon it'd go over much easier if you were the one to tell her..."

"Ha! Not bloody likely..."

(Comparison)

Physically, Lily Evans and Carlotta Meloni were not polar opposites.

Not that James was comparing them, because he definitely wasn't.

As Carlotta had predicted they would, the Melonis invited the Potters to lunch on Saturday. After the meal, their parents sipped tea and talked, the other Meloni siblings entertained themselves, and James and Carlotta walked the length of the wrap-around porch, talking mostly of their impending return to school. The subject was a mundane one, and James didn't think it particularly interested Carlotta; he changed the topic, asking about the portion of her holiday that had passed prior to his arrival, and there, Carlotta flourished.

It was then that James mused idly on how much Carlotta and Lily did not have in common.

Not that he was comparing them, because he most certainly was not.

The two young witches did not sit at opposite ends of the spectrum, by any means, though they did, of course, differ significantly. Lily was taller, Carlotta rather the slimmer. Carlotta's sleek brown hair fell almost completely straight, where Lily's deep red locks looped and curled and waved depending on the day. And Carlotta's skin seemed much more receptive to the sun, her olive complexion having bronzed somewhat since June; Lily freckled in the sun.

Carlotta's smile was just about perfect; Lily's had more humor in it. Lily's walk was quick and direct. Carlotta moved gracefully and peacefully. Conversely, Carlotta had a more direct way of speaking. She quipped less than Lily.

Not that James was comparing them, because, really, he wasn't.

(Domesticity)

Donna Shacklebolt was not what one might call a "domestic" woman, but over the years, necessity had taken its toll, and when it came down it, she could cook a decent meal.

Sunday evening supper was nothing special—chicken, potatoes, peas, and bread—but it was pretty good, and her siblings enjoyed it. Kingsley had the night off, and after the dishes had been cleared away, he joined his oldest sister in the sitting room, where she perused an Ancient Runes book while Brice—the youngest—played with his toys on the floor.

"I hear you met Lathe," said Kingsley conversationally, switching on the nearby wireless.

"What? Oh, yeah..." Donna was distracted from her book. "He comes into the pub."

Kingsley nodded slowly. "I'm testifying in his hearing tomorrow."

Donna looked up, surprised. "You are? Were you... I mean, you weren't there when Logan Harper was killed, were you?"

"No. I'm more of a character witness."

"I didn't know you knew each other that well."

"It's a relatively small department, the aurors."

Donna set down her book. She curled her legs up under her on the sofa, and shifted herself to face Kingsley a little more. "Do you think he'll be charged?"

"No," said Kingsley, in his steady, deep manner. He looked into the dead fireplace. "He's a good auror, and we can't afford to lose any of those."

"Then why all of this?" Donna wanted to know. "Why the hearing, the investigation, the delay...?"

"The Harpers are old magic; they have friends and influence," said Kingsley. "Lathe's a muggleborn. That's the way of the world."

"But Harper was a death eater—no one in the Ministry is going to side with them, surely?"

Her brother took a moment to reply, and that troubled Donna considerably. When he did respond, his answer did not directly address the question: "Harper wasn't wearing a mask, and, frankly, it's a little difficult to prove that someone is a death eater when they're not wearing the mask and cloak with the dark mark floating over their heads."

"People are doubting that Harper was a death eater?" asked Donna heatedly. "But they must have loads of evidence! Hell, Lily could testify to that, if it came down to it!"

Kingsley shook his head. "It's fine," he said. "There is a lot of evidence. That's not really the problem."

Donna frowned, turning it over in her head. "Why do they need character witnesses?" she asked at length, and Kingsley smiled.

"You should be an auror, Donna. You catch things."

"Kill me; I'd rather scrub floors. Why do they need a character witness?"

Once again, her brother hesitated. "Lathe is very popular in the auror department—young, clever, talented..."

"You sound like Witch Weekly."

"The point is," Kingsley went on, "if a person gets to be liked by enough people, other people start to dislike him. And Lathe is a good auror, no matter how you look at it, so they find other things wrong."

"Like what?"

"Some... the Harpers, for instance, will claim that Lathe has a... certain resentment against pureblood witches and wizards."

"They're saying that's why he killed Logan Harper?"

Kingsley shook his head. "They're saying he could have taken Logan in, but he chose not to..."

"Because he hates purebloods."

"Yes."

"Does he?"

Kingsley smiled and shook his head again. "I would hardly be testifying on behalf his character if I thought he did."

Satisfied, Donna decided that it was best not to express too much interest. She diverted her attention to Brice, and when conversation with her elder brother resumed, it was on a new topic.

"You're taking Bridget to Diagon Alley this week, aren't you?" Kingsley asked her. "To buy her things for school?"

"That's right. Saturday."

"Saturday? Couldn't you make it Thursday? I'm off Thursday afternoon, and I could stay home with Brice and Isaiah..."

"I've owled Mrs. Fowler," replied Donna. "It has to be Saturday. I don't get paid until Friday."

"But certainly..."

"Kingsley, be practical. We'll have two sets of tuition to pay, and then after I'm finished at Hogwarts, there will be Isaiah to think about. We have to take as many expenses from my pay as possible."

Kingsley sighed, but he must have known that his sister was right, because he didn't argue the point. "You don't mind working there very much, do you?" he asked at length. "The atmosphere is not too... unsavory?"

Donna thought of Icarus Frop, but opted not to mention anything. "No, it's grand."

Kingsley caught the sarcasm.

---

Tuesday afternoon, Donna was most unhappy.

"I swear to Merlin," she snapped, rounding on Icarus Frop, index finger extended threateningly, "if you call me 'Sugar' one more time, so help me, I will..."

She was prevented from finishing the threat by the sheer anger that bubbled up inside of her when she noted that Frop, far from intimidated by the venom in her tone, continued to smirk at her.

"Don't be that way, Dinah..."

"Donna."

He ignored her correction. "...We could be such friends if you'd only soften up a bit." Donna's hand moved instinctively to the pocket where she stored her wand; "Then again, I think I like the spark..."

Donna only just stopped herself from hexing the bloke, and settled instead for a retort she knew he would not understand: "Don't mix your metaphors, Frop. Fill that order."

In no rush to follow that command, Icarus Frop strolled lazily towards the kitchens, and Donna turned back to the bar, just in time to see Lily Evans sitting down, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"He's still here?"

"Fucking nepotism," muttered Donna. She read her friend's expression quickly and knew what this visit concerned in a single, knife-twisting moment. She provided Lily with a bottle of butterbeer and sighed. "You got Head Girl, didn't you?" she asked, rather masking the bitterness she felt. Lily nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"Everyone knows it should have been..."

"No, don't say that either," said Donna briskly. "Really, it's just salt on the wound at this point."

Lily frowned, evidently trying to think of something she could say. Donna saved her the trouble; she was, after all, her best friend.

"You deserved it. I didn't."

"But your marks..."

"My marks are excellent," Donna agreed. "But that's it. You... you're the type of person who helps first years with their homework and volunteers to help in the fucking Hospital Wing. Everyone but the librarian loves you, and..." This with a little difficulty: "...it makes sense that you would get the badge."

"I wish it had been you."

Donna nodded; that Lily said it with complete sincerity was only proof of what Donna had just claimed. Most people would not have been genuine in such a statement, but Lily was.

That, unfortunately, did not assuage Donna's scarcely diminished bitterness—bitterness, but not animosity. It was, after all, Lily.

"You haven't killed that bloke yet," the redhead observed presently, while Donna poured sherry for Pip at wand point. She nodded towards the back, where Frop had just retreated.

Donna rolled her eyes. "He gets worse every day. I'm complaining to Tom tonight; I swear."

"You should," Lily urged. Frop reappeared, winking at Lily as he levitated a tray to one of the tables (the wrong one, incidentally, and Donna was required to correct the error). Lily rolled her eyes.

"Alright there, Ginger?"

"Hello," she replied.

Donna intervened quickly. "What are you doing in town, anyway?"

"Food for Niko. There's a shocking lack of owl pellets in the muggle shops."

Icarus began to make some comment, but Donna cut him off. "More butterbeer for table two."

"You've got two legs," the wizard replied. "As I am well aware..."

"You're doing the floor," snapped Donna. "Go."

He leaned over the bar, rather close to Lily, and she automatically leaned away. "I want to work up here."

"Too bad. Go."

"Aw, Sugar, don't be like that..."

"Fucking hell," muttered Donna, grabbing the butterbeers and sending them over to the table. Frop smiled victoriously; Lily raised her eyebrows at Donna, mouthing, "Sugar?"

Donna only rolled her eyes.

Eventually, Frop won the battle, and Donna allowed him to work the bar. His attentions thus divided between Lily and another young, attractive witch who had stopped in for a late afternoon butterbeer, the redhead decided to leave before she had finished her own drink. Picking up her purse to pay, however, she noticed the seat beside her become occupied, and the wizard who did so was not unfamiliar.

"Evans?"

"Lathe?" she replied, surprised. Though Donna and Sirius had both mentioned that the auror was prone to stop by through the course of the investigation on him, she had not actually seen him since the end of the last term, before Luke left school. "Hello."

"Hello."

"I—er—I heard your hearing was last week."

"They finished taking testimony today," replied the auror. "They're making the decision this week."

"Oh." The onslaught of reminders that Lathe prompted—Luke and Logan Harper, that dreadful night of the full moon, Valentine's Day, the file of Logan's crimes, and Mrs. Harper's sharp reprimands—put Lily at something of a conversational disadvantage. "Good luck," she said eventually. "You—I mean, it's not really... fair..."

Lathe shrugged. "I suppose the Ministry has to be thorough."

"'Still seems like a bit of a waste of time."

Frop poured Lathe his drink, and the auror raised his glass to Lily. "Cheers."

He took a drink and winced, just as Donna arrived behind the counter once again. She arched an eyebrow at Lathe's drink. "Since when do you drink gin?"

"I don't."

They all looked to Frop. "That's not gin; it's firewhiskey."

"It's clear," Lily pointed out.

Frop checked the bottle. "No, you're right. It's gin. Sorry, mate... got a bit distracted, there." He winked at Lily again. "You needn't have complained though..." he added, grabbing a bottle of Belledone firewhiskey; he was about to pour a new glass, when Donna took the bottle from him and replaced it with a bottle of Ogden's; "They're practically the same thing..."

"You're supposed to give people what they order," said Donna. "Not whatever's closest to you. Did you even read the book your uncle gave you. You're supposed to have that memorized." She vanished the unwanted gin from Lathe's first glass.

"Read the book?" guffawed Frop. "That's what you're here for, Sugar."

"No, that's not what I'm here for, and don't call me Sugar."

A wiser man might have caught the look in Donna's eye and backed off, but Icarus merely smiled, patting her on the shoulder. "Sugar, my job here is cert. Tom's my uncle, and my mum asked him to keep me here, so the only way I'm leaving is if I want to. You, on the other hand..." He smiled. "Now, excuse me, there are some fantastic pictures of Eva Kelley in my mag, and I'd like to get back to them." He sat down on the stool and began flipping through the magazine. Donna was positively shaking with anger. Lathe and Lily both looked uncomfortable.

"Maybe I should stay..." muttered the latter, but Donna shook her head.

"Go on; the owl emporium isn't open that late..."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, go on."

With a last encouraging look to Donna and a polite nod to Lathe, Lily slipped out through the entrance to Diagon Alley.

A table of wizards in the dining room then requested another round of butterbeer, and Donna, fuming at Frop, went to fill it. Then, a call from the kitchen told her one of the lunch orders was up, and she did not even bother asking her protégé to lend a hand, but brought the meal to the proper table.

Lathe nursed his firewhiskey, probably because he correctly guessed it would be a while before he had the opportunity for refill. Donna, meanwhile, went about her usual work, as though Icarus Frop were not there at all.

When there was a brief lull in the demands, she returned to her spot behind the counter (her stool still usurped) and found Frop watching her.

"Can I help you?" she snapped.

"You know, Sugar," Icarus mused, "you're pretty fit, but you act like a barking mad dragon lady, and it's a complete turn off."

Donna reached for her wand, but then thought better of it. "Speak to me again, and I'll kill you. Sugar."

"Interesting choice of nicknames there," Lathe interjected. "One has to wonder why he might choose 'Sugar,' though. Seems like... I dunno... 'Hemlock' might be more fitting."

Donna glared at Lathe. "You've been waiting to use that one."

"For at least ten minutes," he admitted.

Rolling her eyes again, Donna stepped out to wait on an elderly wizard in the dining room.

"Hey—Frop," said Lathe, drawing the would-be bartender towards him. He leaned forward and muttered conspiratorially to Icarus: "How well do you know that Shacklebolt bird?"

Icarus smirked, leaning over the counter. "Not too well. Bit crazy, but I think she fancies me."

"What about the 'barking mad dragon lady' bit?" pressed Lathe.

"Well—you've got to make sure these tarts don't get too high opinions of themselves. Anyway, reckon I'll get a leg-over with her before the end of the week... looks like she'd be a decent shag." He eyed Donna lecherously, and added to Lathe: "Pretty fit, yeah?"

"Oh sure," he said, picking up a neglected newspaper from the counter and avoiding eye contact. "Especially considering the dementors." He took a casual drink of his firewhiskey, pretending to read. Icarus looked at him, bewildered.

"Dementors?"

"Yeah," Lathe continued; "I mean, usually, when a person spends a year in Azkaban, it's not a pretty sight once they're out. Adds ten years to a witch, they say, but Shacklebolt... doesn't look a day over eighteen."

Icarus was, however, stuck on the earlier part of the sentence. "A—a year in Azkaban? Her? I thought she was a Hogwarts student..."

"Well, she's not about to advertise that she spent a year in prison, is she? Or, for that matter," Lathe went on, "that she hacked a bloke to pieces. I mean, it's not exactly the first impression a bird wants to make... especially to a bloke like you, right? I'm surprised you never heard of her—it was all over the papers."

"I don't pay much attention to the papers, and I've been travelling a bit..."

"Well that would explain it. If you'd seen the pictures..." Lathe paused, shuddering. "Well, you wouldn't likely forget it."

Icarus cleared his throat; "Y-you're having a laugh with me, aren't you? I mean, she didn't really...?" He was watching Donna with distinct suspicion now, however. Lathe looked deathly serious.

"Why would I lie about that?"

The half hearted smile on Icarus's face faded at once. "She—she really killed a bloke?"

"Oh, sure," said Lathe. "Her boyfriend. Yeah, they reckon one day Shacklebolt just... snapped." He swallowed a bit more firewhiskey. "Look at her—a bit scary, yeah?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm starting to... but she only had a year in Azkaban?"

"Yeah," sighed the auror; "she was really only there during the trial, y'know? She got off, in the end. The problem..." He leaned closer, and so too did Icarus, "was just a lack of evidence. I mean, they figured he was dead, right, but all they could ever find of him was... well..." He trailed off meaningfully, taking another drink of his firewhiskey. Frop, however, did not catch the meaning.

"All they ever found was... what?"

Lathe arched his eyebrows significantly. Icarus caught on and almost literally jumped back.

"Oh my Merlin!"

"Well," Lathe amended, "that and the fingernails."

The unfortunate bartender now looked as though he were going to be sick. "Oh, don't you worry about it," Lathe assured him. "I'm sure it was just a one time thing. Maybe spontaneous magic... I doubt they've even invented a proper spell that can slice like that..."

And that was when Icarus decided he had better slip into the back room. Donna finished with the patron and noticed the unsupervised Lathe.

"Don't you eat?" she asked the wizard, returning to the counter. "All you ever do is drink firewhiskey."

"Correction—all I ever do here is drink firewhiskey."

"You're going to get..." But Donna broke off, noticing now that she was alone behind the bar. "Where did that prat go?"

"Who? Frop?"

"Yes, of course."

"He was vile," said Lathe simply.

"Agreed, but where did he go?"

Lathe shrugged. "Argentina, probably."

Donna scowled, but at that moment, Pip, at the end of the bar, requested another sherry, and Donna was compelled to fill the order. When she had finished the task, she paced around behind the bar, flipped through the deserted Teen Witch, and then resolved to see if Icarus had gone to the kitchens. She returned a moment later, more bewildered than ever.

"The cooks," she began to Lathe, "say he sprinted off out the back, and took his cloak with him."

"Imagine having a cloak on a day like this," was Lathe's only remark, and he continued to scan the Quidditch scores in The Prophet. Donna pushed his nearly empty firewhiskey away from the auror and crossed her arms.

"What did you two say to him?"

"To whom?"

"Frop, who else?"

"Who says I said anything to him? Maybe he forgot about a previous engagement and had to rush off to meet it."

"What did you say to him?" Donna repeated.

"Nothing important. We discussed current affairs."

And, no matter how hard Donna pressed, that was the most she got out of Lathe the rest of the evening.

(Loquella)

It was because they spoke the same language.

Often since Adam McKinnon's May confession, Marlene had wondered why he loved her at all. She was not the prettiest, nor the smartest, nor the most talented, nor the most athletic, nor the superlative in any respect; she wasn't bad in any of those, but she wasn't the best. She was shockingly mediocre, and that Adam or anyone else could generate a feeling as strong as love for dull old Marlene Katherine Price was somewhat shocking. Downright inexplicable, actually.

She was lending a hand in the MacDonalds' greengrocery on Wednesday, next door to the flats occupied by both families. When called upon to ring up a customer, Marlene randomly stumbled upon the realization that she did, in fact, know exactly why Adam had loved her.

It was because they spoke up the same language.

They understood one another in a way that few people did. Lily understood Marlene, and Mary almost did, but Adam might have been the first bloke that did—the first boy who thought of Marlene how she actually was. And she, in turn, understood him. She got his jokes, listened to his music, interpreted the things he said in the way that they were supposed to be interpreted. They spoke the same language.

And then, the inevitable crashing thought:

So, apparently, did Prudence Bloody Daly.

(Obvious)

"Are you dating Carlotta Meloni?"

The question—posed to James on the second Thursday of the Potters' stay at Harthouse—was made all the more disturbing by the fact that it was posed by, of all people, Mr. Potter.

"No," replied James, taking a muggle jacket from the closet, and, in his tone, fully expressing his unwillingness to discuss the matter with his father and mother.

"It's a reasonable question," said Mr. Potter.

"You are spending an awful lot of time with her," agreed Mrs. Potter. Both parents sat in the dining room with their newspapers and the remains of breakfast, while James—in the adjoining entry way—prepared to step out with the young lady in question.

"That's because you two are old."

Both parents looked up from their newspapers to arch their eyebrows at the young wizard.

"'Teach you to ask about my love life," replied James, grinning.

Mrs. Potter rolled her eyes and returned to her newspaper. "Well if you're not dating Miss Meloni, what is it that you two get around to so often?"

James pretended to consider the question. "Casual sex."

"James."

"Oh, leave it, Mum," James pleaded, strolling into the kitchen. He leaned over the back of Mrs. Potter's chair and kissed her on the cheek. "She's only introducing me to the bloke that sells her Manticore Hash... Only joking! Honestly, woman!"

Mrs. Potter smacked her son's arm, and he recoiled, laughing.

Rather later, James was having lunch with Carlotta in a café in town, and the topic of dating once again came up, although in rather a different context.

"I just don't much care for it," Carlotta said, sipping at a tall glass of water (she "didn't much care for" pumpkin juice either). "I don't think commitment is natural. And I'm not just saying that..." she added, somewhat defensively. "I mean it."

"I don't doubt you," replied James. "You're a seventeen-year-old bloke's dream, you know. Are you certain you've never snogged Sirius?"

Carlotta laughed at that. "I'm sure."

"Odd. The statistical probability alone..."

"Shocking. It must have been bad timing." She took a bite of the cake she had ordered. "You said I was a seventeen-year-old bloke's dream..." Carlotta hesitated infinitesimally; "But not yours?"

James raised his eyebrows.

"You're not interested in something casual," the witch elaborated. "Is that it?"

"Oh, I dunno." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, and chewing a chip from his plate with considerable thought. "I don't reckon I'd be any good to a bird."

"I know what you mean." Carlotta leaned over the table. "I'd be a rubbish girlfriend. Fidelity seems such a drag..."

"You were willing to try with Frank, weren't you?"

"And look how well that turned out."

"Well, you can't let one disappointment get you down."

"I've never had any trouble getting or keeping any bloke I could possibly want," said Carlotta calmly. "Until I actually wanted to keep one."

"So you picked the wrong one."

"You don't pick. That's not how love works."

"I thought you were a cynic."

"I thought you were a cynic."

"Fair enough."

Carlotta's full red lips curved into a sort of smile. "I'm not a cynic," she said at length. "I'm really a romantic. I'm a great believer in love... just... not the boring, stuffy, monogamous kind. Like my parents."

James nodded.

"Do you know what I mean?"

"Afraid not. My parents routinely make me sick with their lack of stuffiness."

Carlotta laughed. "Well, that's rather the exception, I think."

"Maybe." James shrugged. "But not everyone's very obvious in love."

The smile faded from the witch's face, slowly, to replaced by a hard, concentrating look. She was studying him again, James could tell.

"You know, James Potter, I think you're a fraud, too."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not a cynic at all. You only pretend." Carlotta smiled again. "And there you were, telling me off for trying too hard."

James matched her expression. "I never said I wasn't a hypocrite."

"Well what do you know," muttered the witch, taking to her cake again. "We're two of a kind after all."

---

Twice now, Carlotta had been sorely tempted to kiss James Potter. The fact that she hadn't seemed to her to completely contradict all logic; it went against the very fiber of her being. Urges were not something to be restrained.

The only reason she had not kissed James was Shelley.

Sweet, devoted Shelley; Shelley, who would stand by her no matter what anyone else thought of her. Shelley, who didn't think she was a slag at all... who idolized her best friend, even when Carlotta knew that she did not deserve it. Shelley, who had been unwaveringly in love with James Potter since they were eleven.

Carlotta's life had for many years consisted of two main loyalties: her best friend's wants and her own personal desires. Until now, the two had never conflicted, and, if someone had asked her, Carlotta would have admitted that she didn't know which side would win out.

But that would be a lie.

Already, Carlotta knew—subconsciously, perhaps—exactly which loyalty had won.

(Locks of Love)

Marlene was over at Mary's on Friday evening, Stebbins have just departed from an extended luncheon. The two witches lounged about in Mary's room, with the brunette pulling far more of her weight with regards to the conversation. They both lay on the bed, and while Mary gabbed, Marlene stared listlessly at the ceiling, occasionally nodding and mumbling her agreement.

"You're bored, aren't you?" accused Mary eventually.

"No, of course not."

But Mary didn't believe her. Frowning, she sought a subject that would interest her friend a little more. "Have you heard from Adam anymore?"

Marlene shook her head.

Mary sighed. "And... how are you feeling?"

Marlene shrugged. "Antsy," she said at last.

"Antsy?"

"Yeah. Antsy. Restless."

"Well do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," said Marlene. But then, before Mary could reply, the blonde sat up and said: "I just... I can't—I'm uncomfortable with myself. I feel like I need to..."

"Change?" offered Mary.

"Exactly!"

"I understand. It happens. Sometimes I'll get so sick of myself, I get a fringe, and then I realize I want Farrah Fawcett hair, and Lily has to brew me a potion to grow it out again, and then I break up with a bloke and cut it again. Vicious circle."

"Cycle," Marlene corrected absently.

"Whatever."

"You know..." Marlene got to her feet. "That's not a bad idea..."

"Oi!" Mary jumped to her feet as well. "I know what you're thinking, but you are not allowed to dye you're hair! You have to be blond, or it will completely ruin the dynamic of our dormitory!"

"Shelley's blond..."

"Yes, but she's plain. It doesn't count."

"I'm not going to color my hair," said Marlene, waving her hand distractedly. She sat down at Mary's vanity, and Mary returned to the bed.

For a moment, Marlene looked at herself very hard in the mirror. She studied the details of her own face, the folds of her flaxen hair, as it fell in smooth, straight layers around her shoulders. Her hair was one of the features that Marlene really liked about her appearance—the softness and the femininity of it... Miles had always liked it, too, and Mary was always envious...

"Don't you ever just want to be something different?" Marlene asked suddenly. She didn't realize how long she had been drifting in her own thoughts, until she noticed that Mary had picked up Teen Witch and was absorbed in the quiz on page 13.

"No. Sometimes. Yes, I suppose."

Marlene nodded. "I've always been kind of the same, y'know? And people sort of... walk all over me."

"No, they..."

"Yes, they do," Marlene interrupted. "Miles always did."

"Well, that was Miles. He was a git." Mary marked something in the magazine with a muggle pen.

"Yeah..." Marlene began to shuffle through the desk drawer, looking for something. "But I dated him for like... three years. I let him walk all over me."

"It's not your fault, Mar," Mary replied automatically.

"Of course it is. I'm a bloody coward..." She spoke as though the realizations were occurring only moments before she voiced them. "I'm not independent... that's why I turned down Adam—because I was a coward, and it's because I'm so... so... spineless, that I'm sitting around... pining..."

"You're not spineless, Marlene."

But Marlene was paying even less attention to Mary than Mary was paying to her. The blonde finally found what she was searching for in Mary's desk drawer, and she withdrew it.

She scrutinized the image in the mirror again, running her fingers through her long, fine hair. She separated a thick lock of hair that framed her face on her left side, thoughtfully securing it between her index and middle finger.

She picked up the object she had taken from Mary's drawer.

Scissors.

And then she cut.

"Marlene!" shrieked Mary. She leapt up from the bed in time to see one, long golden tress fall to the desk. "Okay—okay-okay-okay, don't panic. We can fix..."

"Mary, shut up for a minute," Marlene interrupted.

"But, Mar, you have such lovely long..."

Marlene silenced her with a look. She separated another lock of hair and cut again.

"Marlene Price, you cannot cut your own hair," Mary scolded helplessly.

"You'll have to touch up the back," agreed Marlene, cutting again. Mary winced. Marlene smiled. She cut again. "Mum used to cut hair for a living, you know, Mary. I know what I'm doing."

"B-b-but why?"

"Because I need to change," said Marlene earnestly. "I'm so sick to death of being this way."

"Marlene..."

Marlene cut again.

"Trust me, Mary." She had a kind of smile on her face as she asserted: "I know what I'm doing."

She cut again.

(Friends Like These)

Friday evening, Donna was working with both Tom and Sirius to accommodate the weekend crowd. Tom was in the kitchens most of the evening, while Donna and Sirius tended the bar and the floor. It was one of the busier nights that the Leaky Cauldron had seen since The Week of the Demands, for there was a Quidditch match on the wireless.

Around seven, Lathe showed up, but, for perhaps the first time since he had begun to come to the pub that summer, he was not alone. A handful of wizards accompanied him, and Donna recognized a few as her brother's co-workers. Laughing and talking loudly, the aurors took a table some distance away, but one of them did not sit down, coming over to the bar to get drinks instead.

"Hey—your Kingsley's sister, aren't you?" asked the wizard.

Donna nodded. "And you're... Bones, right?"

"Edgar, that's right."

"Lathe got off then, did he?" asked Donna, nodding towards the wizard in question. Bones nodded.

"Kingsley told you about the case?"

Donna nodded, because it was easier than explaining.

"We invited your brother out tonight, mind you, but he was working," Bones went on. "Great auror, your brother is."

Donna smiled politely. She didn't argue the matter; she didn't much feel like it tonight. "Thank-you. What can I get you lot?"

Edgar Bones ordered a round of beers, and Donna sent them over with a levitation spell.

"Looks like Lathe is alright, then," said Sirius, returning from the kitchen where he had just deposited an order. "Too bad."

"Why?" asked Donna, confused.

"He won't be hanging around anymore..." Sirius replied, as though it were obvious. "Afternoons are dead dull here, Shack, and he has the strangest stories. He never did finish telling about the manticore in Hungary."

"You ought to re-examine your priorities," said Donna primly. She turned to two new arrivals at the bar: "What can I get... oh, hullo, Lupin. Pettigrew."

Remus bowed his head. "Donna."

"Hullo," said Peter.

"Feeling better, Moony?" asked Sirius, and off Donna's inquisitive look, he said: "Remus has been a bit under the weather."

"Just a summer cold," said Remus. "And I'm much better, thank-you."

"You do look a bit pale," Donna told him. "Of course, you lot always look pale..."

"Very funny," said Sirius.

"Butterbeer?" asked Donna, and Remus and Peter nodded. "You have a new table, Black," she added, glancing towards a few witches in the corner.

"My work is never done," sighed Sirius.

"Not until eleven o'clock, it isn't."

On nights like these—busy ones—time passed quickly, and nearly an hour had disappeared before Donna held another proper conversation with either co-worker or customer.

"Firewhiskey, neat," said Lathe, leaning over the counter, but not taking a seat of course, for his table remained full of noisy aurors.

"Ogden's or Belledone?" Though she knew the answer.

"Ogden's."

Donna picked up a clean glass. "You'll never guess what happened," she said, pouring the liquor.

"What?"

"Icarus Frop quit."

"No kidding."

"Yes. He barely gave his uncle any explanation as to why he wanted to do it, too. He just decided he wanted to see Canada and wrote his mum requesting the money, and then off he went." Donna set the Ogden's down and met Lathe's eye. "Any idea why that might have happened?"

"None whatsoever," said Lathe. "Although, you should know, you can be quite intimidating when you want to be."

"Maybe—although, I have the strangest feeling that it was something that one of the customers said."

"It's been known to happen."

Donna folded her arms. "You didn't hear anything suspicious, I suppose?"

Lathe shook his head. "Not that I recall." He began rooting about in his pocket for money for the firewhiskey, but Donna, rolling her eyes, waved him off.

"Aurors don't pay tonight... and you're an auror again, it looks like."

"It looks like," he agreed.

"Congratulations—on not going to prison, that is."

Lathe picked up his glass and raised it to her, and Donna nodded. Then, he returned to his table, and Sirius returned from taking an order. He looked at Donna, eyebrows arched, as did both Remus and Peter.

"What?"

Sirius grinned. "You like him."

"What?" Donna put down the bottle of firewhiskey. "I do not."

"She does," agreed Remus, awestruck. "This is weird. Am I dreaming?"

"Does Donna Shacklebolt fancy a bloke?" asked Sirius incredulously. "I feel like we should inform The Daily Prophet."

"They wouldn't believe it," argued Peter. "I'm not even sure I believe it."

"Fuck off, all of you," snapped Donna.

"Bloody hell," muttered Sirius, shaking his head. "I can't believe it. Donna Shacklebolt has grown a heart."

"You shut your mouth, Sirius Black."

(Two of a Kind)

The Potters' second Friday at Hartland was the Melonis' last, as they were scheduled to leave late the following morning. According to Carlotta, they would be spending their remaining weeks of the summer holidays in Italy with her father's family.

They really could not pick a finer evening for their farewell; the clouds cleared, and the sky was a rich blue, marked with bright, clear stars and a waning gibbous moon. The weather was, comparatively speaking, warm, and the muggles in the town had some kind of carnival.

The Melonis hosted a nice dinner, to which the Potters, as well as two older wizarding couples from a nearby town and two unmarried witch sisters—other friends of the family in the area, apparently—were all invited.

After supper, the adults sipped wine on the porch, and the younger Melonis played with Zonko's firecrackers. When no one was paying attention, James and Carlotta snuck down to the beach, because Carlotta wanted to walk in the water once more before they left.

She took off her shoes and walked along through the wet sand and low waves trickling up to her toes. James kept close, but he didn't get his feet wet. When Carlotta grew cold, the pair retreated to the rocky sand dunes further from the water.

"I'm glad you showed up here," Carlotta mused, as the pair watched the water. "It would have been terribly dull these last two weeks if you hadn't, I think."

"Same to you," replied James.

"It's odd," she continued. "You and I don't really... we don't really talk at school. We haven't for a while. You're always with your Marauder friends, and I'm... I've always got other things happening."

"Plus," said James idly, "I don't think your best mate likes me very much."

Carlotta blinked. "What?"

"Michelle... er... Shelley, that is. She always gets really quiet and angry-looking around me. I can't imagine what I might have done to offend her... I don't think I ever hexed her, but..." James chattered on; Carlotta barely listened.

She had a choice—an opportunity. If she told him the truth—that Shelley was, in fact, mad about him, he almost certainly would not pursue Shelley, but he probably wouldn't let anything happen with Carlotta either. She had that feeling, anyway... she was almost sure of it. All she had to do was tell the truth now.

"Shelley's just shy," Carlotta said instead. "Honestly, I don't think she's granted you enough thought to dislike you."

"I guess I'm just full of myself," replied James, grinning.

"I think you are," agreed the brunette. "But it's not a bad thing."

"That's generous of you."

"Not really." Carlotta remembered something that she had been meaning to say for a while. "Thank you for the other day... when you said I wasn't a slag. I've been told I was a slag, and I've been told it didn't matter if I was, but most... most people don't argue the basic principle of the thing."

James looked a little confused. "You're welcome, I suppose."

"Anyway," Carlotta went on, more casually, "when we get back to Hogwarts, we'll have to make sure we pay more attention to one another."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll ignore me completely," joked James. "After all, you'll warding off your dozens of admirers..."

Carlotta rolled her eyes, purposely knocking into James with her shoulder. "I never let my admirers get in the way of my friends," she informed him, staring straight at his profile with a challenging smile. James turned to meet her stare, his chin nearly resting on his shoulder, with hers only a few inches away.

Neither stopped smiling; Carlotta moved immeasurably closer.

"Teeglow," said James suddenly.

Carlotta cocked her head to one side, bewildered. "What?"

"Teeglow. The Marauder nickname for you: it's 'Teeglow.'"

"What does that mean?"

James grinned more broadly. "It was an... identifier, I suppose. T.G.L.O. The Good-Looking One. Teeglow."

And Carlotta made her decision.

She closed the distance between them in half a second, pressing her lips firmly against his. He shifted, turning towards her and responding in kind. Thoughts in his brain died, guilt in the back of her mind faded, and the kiss deepened.

(Letter Four)

"You're toasted, Snaps."

"Well, so are you! I bet you couldn't even... couldn't even..."

"Couldn't even what?"

"I dunno! Do something really simple that only sober people could do! Snap with both fingers!"

James Potter was vaguely conscious of the fact that this was a dream. He stood outside Lily Evans's house at night, just as he had that night, a few weeks before, with Lily in her yellow dress, cast in the bright light and deep shadow of the streetlamps. She was looking at him, laughing, just as she had been then... he knew exactly what would happen next. Then, she was staring at him, just as she really had that night.

Her lips moved, as though forming slight words, and yet there was no sound. His throat had gone dry—they stood so close, and she... she was moving closer to him. He was moving closer, too.

With a thump her purse fell to the sidewalk. Her arms glided over his chest, warm where they came into contact with his t-shirt. The tips of his shoes brushed against hers. He started to close his eyes, but the anticipation he experienced was a mere memory of the anticipation of the actual night, because this was a dream, and he already knew how this scene ended.

Still, a small part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, it would go differently...

She was so, so, so close... he could almost feel her lips...

What the hell was that ringing sound?

James opened his eyes suddenly. He checked his surroundings, just to be sure, and found that they were, indeed, that of his bedroom at Harthouse.

A chilly breeze drifted through the window he had left open, and—James noticed—there was a letter on his desk.

The ringing sound echoed through the house again, and at first, James thought it might be the muggle ward. But no, he realized a moment later, it was a different kind of ringing—the doorbell. Yawning, James climbed out of bed and grabbed a shirt, which he pulled over his head, before starting for the letter on the desk.

It was his Hogwarts letter.

The doorbell persisted, and James wondered vaguely why his parents had not answered it already. It was past eight, and they were almost certainly awake by then. Still, grabbing the still sealed Hogwarts letter, James made his way out of the room and downstairs.

The house was drafty in the mornings, and as he jogged downstairs, muttering to the still anonymous but almost certainly unwelcome visitor at his front door, James rather wished he'd put some socks on.

He opened the door, and on his porch stood Carlotta.

"Hi."

"Hi," she replied, anxiety in her voice.

"Oh... um... c'mon in." James stepped aside, glancing about for his parents, who had yet to make an appearance.

"They're at my house," Carlotta told him. "Your mum and dad, that is. We're leaving today—they're saying goodbye to my parents."

"Right. Oh... right... I um..." James fidgeted uncomfortably with his hair, realizing how completely awful he must seem right now, not having gone to see her off, especially considering the night before...

"I figured you'd still be asleep, though," Carlotta went on. "So I snuck over while they had tea."

"Oh. I'm... I'm glad you did."

Carlotta smiled. James nervously tore at the corner of his Hogwarts letter, still in hand.

"Listen, James," she began, and she closed the front door behind her. "The thing is... I like you."

James opened his mouth to reply, but the witch cut him off again.

"No, wait, let me finish. I like you. I really do... I like talking to you, and snogging you was pretty nice, too, and... I just like you. So, if you're not opposed, and understanding that this could get... very, very complicated..." She took a deep breath, "I would like to date you."

The witch watched him carefully, waiting for his response.

"Carlotta..." He ran his hand through his hair again. "I—I like you, too. I really do. I wouldn't have... I mean, last night—it wouldn't have happened if I didn't like you..."

"But...?"

"But, I'm not sure it would be fair to you if I started something with you. I..." James hesitated. "I have... issues."

To his very great surprise, Carlotta smiled. "Me too," she said. "I'm hung up."

"Me too," said James.

"Okay." They were both quiet for a bit. Carlotta broke the silence. "I'm willing to risk it if you are."

James raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"I'm a girl who will try anything once." Carlotta tossed her hair. "I suppose that should apply to an actual relationship, too."

James grinned and so did Carlotta. She took a step closer, placing one hand on the back of his neck and pulling him down to her. And, as they kissed, James dropped his Hogwarts letter to the floor.

Carlotta pulled back abruptly. "What was that noise?" she asked, but she answered her own question, bending over and picking up the badge that had fallen from James's torn envelope. She held it up for them both to inspect, and in the stark light of the entry way, two letters gleamed on the golden surface. H.B.

Carlotta looked confusedly at the wizard. "Is that...?" Her voice trailed off, disbelief overpowering her, and James took the badge in his own hands, studying it as though he were not quite sure whether his eyes were correctly conveying this information. "James... is that...?"

And it was.

James's eyes grew wide.

"Fuck."

---

A/N: So, there you have it. As I have oft implied, this was a very difficult chapter for me to write. I felt SO traitorous writing James/Carlotta... not just to you guys, but to me… and Lily! Lol, Lily was barely in this chapter, oddly enough, but she is all over Chapter 28. And, for those of you who hate me so, so, so much right now, just know that this is for the best.

PLUS, Chapters 28 and 29 are the aforementioned "strangest thirty-six-hour period of Lily's life to date." Which can only mean good things...

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! I deeply appreciate the feedback; you all are amazing!

Reviews are my birthday (on Monday!)

Cheers,

Jules