I find Abi and Graham at breakfast the next morning; it takes huge amounts of determination, for I'm still half in the "cut-myself-off-from-the-world" zone, but my evening with James and Rose has set me on the right path, and realistically I know it's impossible to keep out of their way for long.
"Sue!" Graham notices me first, and expresses uncharacteristic enthusiasm at my appearance.
"Susan Barnthorpe, as I live and breathe!" Abi's melodramatic greeting brings an unwilling grin to my face as I reach them at the Hufflepuff table. "Are you feeling better? Vector said you were off sick yesterday."
"Not dead yet, thanks," I confirm, accepting her hug as I slip in beside her on the bench. "How were your holidays?"
"Oh, fine, fine. Not as though I spent the whole week fretting about why you hadn't replied to my letter," she says in a studied air of casualness, helping me to some fried eggs and sausages which I tuck into hungrily, the effects of yesterday's soup having long since worn off.
"In the interest of fairness," puts in Graham, "she only started stressing about it on Friday."
"It was a painful two days! I was worried you'd been carried off, or eloped with Potter or something. And then after yesterday—"
"What about yesterday?" I interrupt instantly through a mouthful of sausage, my mind immediately jumping to James' sudden appearance in my dorm. Had someone seen him climbing out of the window?
"…When you were ill in bed all day…" carries on Abi more slowly, looking puzzled. "Why? Did something happen yesterday?"
"No!" Again I speak too quickly, and Abi and Graham exchange a Look. Realising my mistake, I backtrack. "It's nothing, nothing worth mentioning. Pass the toast?"
But Abi is not to be put off. As ever, I eventually find myself telling all.
"You're telling me that James Potter was in your bed?"
"No! Shut up! He was sat on my bed, on top of the covers."
"Susan Barnethorpe! This is huge news! Why did you not lead with this?"
"I don't understand why you're making such a big deal of this," I grumble, but she just smiles mysteriously and makes me eat some more sausages.
After that evening spent in her company, I find myself hanging out with Rose quite a bit — by my standards, anyway, which means maybe once a week. I lend her the Chanter books she hasn't read one by one. I learn that she feels kind of stifled by her family, and longs to do something daring, so I offer to teach her to climb the Whomping Willow.
I almost regret it as soon as I've said it, but her excitement when we actually attempt it changes my mind. She's clumsy and uncoordinated, but incredibly enthusiastic; until she gets the hang of it I have to wait down the bottom and call up instructions so that I am ready at the knot-hole to neutralise the tree immediately each time she rouses it by slipping. When we are finally both perched on a high branch, out of sight of anyone on ground level (the leaves have finally got thick enough to offer decent coverage) it feels almost as satisfying as when I first climbed up alone, though I'm not sure why. I have to write a Potions essay while I'm up there, but Rose doesn't seem to mind. In turn, she teaches me to whistle — albeit tunelessly — which infuriates James no end.
One day in May (neither of us have actually important exams this year — I don't have any, and Rose is confident she could pass her end-of-years with her eyes closed — so we're slacking a little bit while we can) Rose tells me a secret.
"I'm sleeping with Scorpius Malfoy," she announces in a whisper, and I almost fall over.
"Rose!"
"What? You won't tell anyone, will you?"
"No of course not, but," I try to find a sensitive way to phrase this, "you're only fifteen. Don't you think that's a little, er, young?"
"No," she says cheerfully. "We're being careful, so it's not like I'm going to end up a teen mum."
"Yeah, but," I fumble. "There's more to it than that. Emotions and…things. Are you dating him, or is it just a buddies with benefits thing?"
"Oh, definitely the latter." Half the time Rose talks like she's about forty. "It's pretty fun. He's wasn't much good to start with, but I'm training him."
"And you don't think that, um, feelings are going to get involved at some point?" I enquire cautiously.
"Oh, bound to at some point," she says brightly. "But I'm young and reckless— I'm supposed to make mistakes."
"Hmm." Nonplussed by this attitude, I give up trying to be responsible. "Well, just make sure if anyone gets their heart broken, it's him and not you." I wonder whether she was a virgin before Scorpius, though I feel it imprudent to ask. She seems ever so blasé about something that most people tend to make a fairly big deal out of.
A few days after this, on Thursday, Abi and Graham confront me after fourth period. They have both just had a free, and meet me after Potions with set expressions. "You're having lunch with us," Abi announces. "We haven't seen you at all this week— you've been either off with your other mates or on your own. We get that you need your alone time, but now it's your us time."
This is in fact true. Monday was the day I sat with Rose, Tuesday I spent most of my spare time on my broom, and yesterday I hung out with James. It hasn't occurred to me that Abi and Graham might mind this, though. When I voice this thought, they scoff.
"We're not used to sharing you with anyone other than yourself," explains Graham.
"We miss you, idiot!" says Abi with a laugh.
Fairly soon, James joins us. This has been happening more and more often recently, because now I inexplicably have so many demands on my time, I can't possibly have enough space if I spend time with everyone individually. "Fred's gone off to be gross with Sadie again," he explains with a grimace, and Abi and Graham make sympathetic noises. They've come to get on with James pretty well, although Abi has told me privately that she still thinks he's a bit "standoffish." And honestly, around them, he is rather. It has occurred to me to wonder why he still joins me if he's not comfortable with Abi and Graham, but I haven't attempted to voice my question.
"Did you know," begins Abi, who has been reading up on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement avidly, "that they recently passed a law that only a new type of veritaserum, that only works on yes/no questions, can be used in interrogations?"
"How come?" asks James with interest. Graham and I exchange resigned glances; Abi has been hitting us with did-you-knows constantly for the past few weeks.
"To avoid violating people's privacy," she explains. "If you have to answer absolutely anything with the literal truth, it can really easily be abused. Also there was an unfortunate case a couple of years back when an Enforcer told a woman whose dosage had been messed up to "tell them everything." She couldn't stop talking for days. It brought to light some pretty unethical tactics from some of the Enforcers, which generally gets passed by because the Serum usually wears off in about half an hour."
"And you still want to work for these guys?" says Graham sceptically.
"I'll be one off the good guys, of course," responds Abi promptly, and gets cross when we all laugh at her.
"Hey Good Cop," I rib her, "can I copy your Herbology homework?"
"You should have done it yourself," she says, unusually stiff. It doesn't bother me, though— I know I can do the work easily enough in the next half hour, since it's not exactly tricky. I've nearly finished it by the time she speaks to me again. "By the way, Sue, I found this Figure Flying competition happening in the autumn." She holds out a page from a newspaper, ripped down one side. "You should go for it — planning a routine or whatever it is you do could help keep you focused in training for the scholarship audition."
I abandon Herbology to take the proffered advertisement with interest, but James puts up a hand and goes, "whoah, whoah, whoah. You want to be a Figure Flyer?" I'm immersed in the competition description, so Abi answers for me.
"She can't afford the school, so she's going to go for the scholarship. She reckons she hasn't a chance, but I have perfect faith in her."
"You've never even seen me fly," I retort, still reading.
"Well that's not for lack of asking," says Abi smartly, which is true enough; she's nagged me about it a lot since she first found out.
"You are pretty amazing at it, Susie," James tells me. "You'll have this competition and the audition in the bag, I know it." Out of the corner of my eye I observe Abi and Graham share one of their Looks, though whether at "Susie" or the fact that James has seen me fly, I couldn't say.
"Nah, not a chance," I tell him offhandedly. "I think I'll still go for this competition though— it'll be good practice if nothing else."
"When's the audition?" James wants to know.
"Mid-October — final date yet to be confirmed ." I'm terrified, to be honest; I have five months left to prepare for something I've been dreaming about since I was thirteen, and even though I'm certain it's a no-go, a part of me can't help desperately hoping. Perhaps Graham notices I'm looking a little twitchy, because he changes the subject.
"What do you want to do after school, James?"
"Uh — I kind of want to be a cartoonist," he replies uneasily. "I know it's not as noble as my Dad, or as exciting as my Mum, but drawing is kind of my favourite thing to do."
"He's ever so good," I comment vaguely, now re-immersed in my Herbology.
"I like pranks though, so if it doesn't come off I could always just work in my Uncle's shop."
This sparks off another whole conversation about Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and surprisingly I feel comfortable enough to drift away in my mind without being wary of my friends descending into awkward silences without me to help things along. It strikes me as odd that in a few short months I've gone from feeling like an outsider in Abi and Graham's friendship to apparently being the link holding together this fragile and temporary group.
"Does it bother you that you're always second choice to him, after Fred?" Abi asks me bluntly later. Graham looks slightly pained at her directness.
"No?" I'm baffled by the question. "He's his cousin. They've known each other since they were born. They've spent all their time together since they came to Hogwarts."
"Yeah, but whenever he turns up he always tells us about how he can't be with Fred because he's busy," persists Abi. "Doesn't that get annoying, that he's always talking about how he'd rather be with someone else?"
I laugh at her. "I'm pretty sure that's just for your benefit," I explain. "I get the impression he thinks he's intruding when I'm with the two of you." Merlin knows I remember the feeling, I add silently. "He never does it when it's just us."
They absorb this information, and then the conversation turns to other things. I almost ask why Abi would expect me to mind anyway, but judging by her winks and nods and mysterious behaviour I think I can guess. It seems like less hassle just to let it lie, and hope she drops it soon.
I have all but forgotten the conversation until, the following Monday, having been let out of Potions early, I am wandering past the Defence classroom where I know Abi and Graham are just as their lesson ends. First to exit are Fred and Sadie, arms about each other's waists, so absorbed in conversation that Fred doesn't even notice me to say hi until they're almost past. I instinctually shrink back as Alyson and Thomas Parkinson follow, quarrelling about something, but behind them emerge Abi, Graham and James, chatting genially. They spot me and approach, and Graham turns to James with to say, "You joining us for lunch, Potter?"
"Sounds good," he agrees easily, and suddenly the slight tension seems to have eased. Abi, Graham and James spend the lunch hour ribbing each other gently and discussing the upcoming Gryffindor/Ravenclaw Quidditch match on Saturday. Though he can't bear to fly, James is apparently an avid supporter of both Puddlemere and the Gryffindor team.
("You should go to a professional match some time, Sue. They're so cool!"
"James, I hate to be a downer but I really think I'd rather jump off the Hogwarts roof.")
While neither Abi nor Graham are hugely into Quidditch, they cheer for Hufflepuff in house games, and for Hufflepuff to win the tournament this year they need Ravenclaw to beat Gryffindor by a couple of hundred points. This leads to some good natured bickering, and (caring little for the sport, even when my own house aren't losing dismally) I am only half present. Until, however, Graham asks James the million dollar question which startles me out of my semi-daydream state.
"How come you never went in for Quidditch, James?" he inquires. "It must be pretty big in your house, what with your parents, and your brother on the Slytherin team."
James looks uncomfortable — after raving about his favourite teams, he certainly couldn't claim disinterest in the game — and I cut in quickly. "James can't throw or catch to save his life," I tell him, hoping it isn't true. Even if it is, it's much less useful for an eavesdropping kidnapper than not knowing how to fly. "Total butterfingers."
"That's me," he agrees, looking relieved. "Even Lily's in the Gryffindor reserves, so I'm a complete outcast in my family."
"That must be pretty annoying," remarks Abi sympathetically.
"Have you tried footall?" Graham wants to know.
I return to my diary a few days later, and read over my previous entry with excessive nostalgia for something written only a month ago. People that are important to me. I can certainly add James and Rose's names to that list now, which concerns me a little. While too short a list is depressing, I dislike the idea of it getting too long. After all, the more people I care about, the more potential I have to be hurt.
This time, I try an exercise inspired by an overheard conversation from a couple of second years the day before.
("Have you read The Veela Diaries?"
"Yes omg! Cecelia is so me.")
I note down which fictional characters the people in my life would be if they were, you know, fictional characters. Alyson Parkinson would one hundred percent be Cruella de Vil, I decide, and Dominique Weasley definitely Black Widow from the Marvel comics — beautiful, in control, and completely badass. Then my thoughts turn to Goblin Ink; even at the first reading, the protagonist Mikelde, a goblin in the midst of the 1612 rebellion, reminded me of Abi: practical, loyal, kind, and somewhat given to melodramatics. And surely James would be the cheeky Nolly, the house elf who spends half the book wish he could read.
This reflection derails my train of thought, and I begin to muse over James' flying problem. In Goblin Ink, Nolly persuades Mikelde to teach him to read, and he ends up learning both English and Gobbledegook, meaning he is able to leave the abusive pub owner and work instead for local government, easing goblin/human relations in the wake of the rebellion. But real life is a little more complex, even without the backdrop of a bloody rebellion; James's fear of and inability to fly is surely not the result of a lack of teaching. With a professional player for a mother, and a "youngest seeker in a century" for a father, he has surely not been wanting for adequate instruction. I drift off to sleep, still turning the matter over and over in my mind, and wake in the early hours of the morning, the edge of my diary imprinting my cheek with a thin red line.
It's the Friday of that week, the day before the oh-so-important match, and I wake up at 5 again. Knowing instinctively that I can't possibly get back to sleep, I sneak out and go for a fly. I try The Suicide, which I haven't done in a while, and with the leftover adrenaline still pumping through my veins I decide to do a gentle sweep of the grounds to come down from the high. As I'm passing over the Quidditch pitch I spot a lone figure in the stands, hunched up on one of the top benches. I swoop closer, and recognize James, apparently lost in thought. He hasn't seen me, so I come up silently behind him, moving forward along my broom which reduces my control but means I can get up close without him noticing the broom, until I'm hovering almost level with his head, holding my breath.
"Couldn't sleep again?" I say into the silence, and he lets out a high pitched shriek and pitches forward, catching his footing just in time and spinning round to face me.
When he sees that it's me, he lowers his fists sheepishly. "Instinct," he explains in a mumble, as I try unsuccessfully to hold in my guffaws.
"What are you doing here?" I ask when I've got my laughter under control.
He gives me an odd look. "Couldn't sleep," he repeats my words back to me.
"But what are you doing here here. At the quidditch pitch. Rather than climbing the school roofs." He shoves his shoulder into me, making me bob on my broom. "Contemplating what could be if you could fly?" I guess in a lowered voice, though the likelihood of anyone else being out and about is not high.
He doesn't respond for so long that I don't think he's going to at all. "They don't make a big deal of it," he says unexpectedly, "but I can tell I cramp their style." I open my mouth to ask who we're talking about, but then shut it again abruptly as he continues. "We went to a game as a family last summer, Puddlemere against the Harpies, and Mum got us VIP access because she used to play for the Harpies. After the crowds were gone the Harpies offered to play a match with us, but there were so many people still around — managers, cleaners, staff and whatever — that Mum had to turn them down in case it looked odd for Al and Lily to play and not me, and someone started asking questions. The Harpies are Lily's favourite team, and I just…" he swallows. "I dunno, I mean I guess there'll be other opportunities, Mum having the connections she does, but I just felt bad, you know?"
"Yeah," I agree quietly, not knowing what else to say. We stare at the empty pitch by the growing light in the sky for some time. Eventually I say hesitantly, "Look, this is probably a stupid question, but you have tried, like, learning to fly, haven't you?"
"Of course I have," he replies sharply. "My dad's hired the best and most discreet teachers to try and teach me, but one by one they've all given up. It's a phobia; you can't teach someone not to be afraid."
The word phobia triggers something in my mind. "Actually," I say slowly, "I'm pretty sure you can."
