Chapter 15: This Is What You Get

The sky was falling in.

That was Remus' first thought, as he looked up at the glistening sight above him. They were like stars, almost. Glittering. Mesmerising.

His second thought was, not the sky. The ceiling?

And then, not the ceiling. The world.

Sirius thought, later – much, much later – that he would never be able to forget what he had seen. That the images, the sounds, would be forever branded into his brain, shapes and movement even when he closed his eyes. Standing there, on the side-lines, watching Remus' open, thoughtful face tilted upwards; the flash of realisation, abrupt, awakening; Ollerton grabbing at his hand, pulling him down; Remus' eyes finding his, just for a moment, across the crowded hall, before –

Pain. Nothing new, not really, not to the boy whose own mother delighted in drawing out every possible agony from his lips, in search of a change he had no ability to make. He could no more make himself the pureblood darling that she wanted than he could stop whatever it was raining down on him now, each droplet a fresh blade.

Death by a thousand cuts, he thought, before thoughts broke away entirely.

Lily didn't have much time to think. One moment she was watching James and Cadence banter and touch each other and smile sweetly, and the next, he had pulled her down. Pulled them both down, his broad body a shield. When had he become big enough, strong enough, to do this? She realised, even as this thought slipped through her mind, that now was not the time to consider the many ways in which James Potter had changed. Because something was wrong, and it lodged in the pit of her stomach, unassailable, immutable. He had looked at her, if only for a fleeting second, before the ground rose to meet them – a moment where the fear in his eyes had done something odd to her, like the twist of a knife, and she didn't have time to analyse why that was, or what it meant, because then there was screaming, a sound that ripped through her, and the shield was no longer a shield but a dead weight, and then –

That was when she realised that the screaming she could hear, was her.

Charlotte Swift blinked. She saw her wand in her hand – held aloft, an instrument, a weapon – and she saw, beyond her, chaos. Screaming and shouting and bleeding and fear, pure fear that swept through the room like a virus.

She frowned.

And then, the tug of magic, her wand whipped from her hand: it spun through the air and into the outstretched grip of Professor McGonagall, who stared back at her with an expression Charlotte had never seen before and couldn't parse. Disarmed, by her head of house?

She didn't understand.

She looked down, saw her own hands now shaking, a trembling almost violent. At the tilt of her head, gravity led something wet, sticky, down her cheek. A finger, to investigate, came back crimson, and she looked up at McGonagall again, a question in her eyes – one of a thousand, maybe, because why was she bleeding, and how did she get here, and what had happened to them all?

And then, her knees buckled, her vision swam, and all the questions faded to nothing.

"Lily!" The word wrenched her eyes open, and she realised she could move, now - she didn't have to stay there, curled up, arms raised over her head in desperate protection. She blinked once, twice, trying to make sense of what was in front of her. "Lily!" That voice again. She turned, and was met with Cadence's bright blue eyes, staring back at her in such naked terror that it didn't quite seem real. "Are you…? Are you bleeding?"

Lily looked down at herself, seeing blood there, but somehow she knew, without checking further, that it wasn't her own. Her body ached, a little, from being forced to the ground, but she didn't feel like she had any cuts, any open wounds. But then...whose blood was it? "No, I'm not," she replied shakily. They both looked, in horrified unison, to where James lay slumped to one side.

His face - usually so animated, lit up with mischief or delight or furrowed in utmost concentration - was painfully still, his glasses askew, the glass cracked on one side. Deep red oozed from what must have been dozens of cuts to his brow, his cheeks, his scalp.

He was lying face-down, arm strewn out towards Lily as if reaching for her. His arms, too, and his back were littered with gashes that seeped endlessly through the tears in his shirt. His shirt, once white. Now, blossoming with red.

She paused, then lurched to the side, emptying the contents of her stomach almost violently.

Hands on her back, then; Cadence pulled Lily's hair back from her face, rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades until there was nothing left to expel, no energy left inside her. "Sorry," she mumbled, closing her eyes a moment.

"It's okay," Cadence whispered, her voice sounding fragile, hollow, almost. "We - we need to try to stop the bleeding...if you - if you don't think you can -"

"No," she said, straightening, turning back to James, to the unending well of red. "No, I can help. I want to help."

She wasn't going to sit at the side, throwing up and wanting to cry. She wasn't going to be useless.

She had to do something.

Remus lurched up, cracking his head against the underside of the Ravenclaw table, but didn't give the dizzying ache a chance to embed itself - he didn't have that kind of time. Owain lay just to his side, half under the safety of the table, half uncovered, his eyes open wide but unseeing, it seemed, as he stared blankly upwards. "Owain?" Remus said, his voice frantic as he knelt at his side. "Owain...can you hear me?"

Owain blinked, taking a moment to find the source of the noise that had interrupted his daze; finally, his eyes tracked over to Remus, and for a second, Remus wished that they hadn't. He looked terrified.

"You're - you're bleeding," Remus carried on, pointless and obvious words all he had left. He tugged off his jumper, bundling it up to press against the worst of the cuts, a long, deep gash that arced down Owain's left arm - the hiss of pain that Owain gave at the pressure made Remus wince. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I - I have to do something to stop the bleeding, until...until Madam Pomfrey…"

Owain seemed to be getting paler. He kept his gaze firmly on Remus, though, as if that alone could keep him going. Remus paused to scan Owain's body: his chest and arms were scattered with lines of oozing red, but the injuries came to an abrupt stop just above his hips. That was something, at least.

"I'll stay right here with you," Remus said, turning his attention back to Owain's face. The look in his eyes made his gut twist, and he leaned forward, blinking back tears as he pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "It's okay. Someone will be along in a minute."

But the carnage around them - the cries, the screams, the dozens and dozens of people in as bad a state as Owain, if not worse - made Remus wonder if he was just lying to Owain, now. He had no idea if anyone was coming, if everyone was too injured to be able to help.

No. He swallowed down his panic, and renewed the pressure of his jumper against Owain's arm. Someone would come. And it would be fine.

"Just hold on," he murmured. He didn't want to look up and around, again. He just held Owain's gaze, and tried to ignore the dampness of the blood that was now soaking through his jumper, the same shade of red. "It's okay…"

It had to be.

The arrival of Madam Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore, and a host of other teachers was like a balm to Lily's soul. She had always been in awe of their headmaster: he was always so calm, so placid in the face of any stress or suffering. From her position, kneeling next to James, trying to stifle the flow of blood, she watched as he made a quick, assessing sweep of the room, directing his staff with simple gestures and few words. The cries, the panic, seemed to die down a little just by his presence, like a human calming draught in action.

And then, suddenly, he was kneeling across from Lily and Cadence, blue eyes serious as he surveyed James' prone form. "You are doing a wonderful job," he told them both, looking at them briefly before catching Madam Pomfrey's eye. "Poppy - St Mungo's, I think."

"What?" Lily breathed; it felt like her heart was in her throat. She had known it wasn't good - he was unconscious, and losing so much blood that the floor had become slippery beneath them. But...St Mungo's just seemed like such a serious move. "Is he - I mean, Professor, is he - is he going to-"

Dumbledore drew his hands above James' back a moment, wandless magic that stemmed the bleeding for a second or two, a brief, hopeful time before it started again. He frowned. "Ms Evans, Mr Potter's injuries are more serious than we can hope to deal with in the infirmary," he replied; another wave of his hand, and James was slowly lifted into the air, floating almost peacefully. "Please fetch Professor McGonagall, we will need her to accompany him."

Lily stood on trembling legs, casting a quick glance at Cadence - whose face had paled to an almost ghost-like hue at their headmaster's words - before she moved across the room, through her injured and terrified peers, adrenaline the only thing keeping her moving.

She feared that if she stopped, even for a second, she might not be able to move again.

"Mr Lupin." He looked up, distracted, to find Slughorn frowning at him. The Great Hall was almost empty, now; the injured triaged and sent to the infirmary, or their dorms. Caradoc Dearborn, the head boy, had led some of the prefects in helping Professors Flitwick and Slughorn clearing up the detritus left behind. After Owain had been whisked off to the hospital wing, Remus had felt the need to be helpful, in whatever way he could. If that meant tidying, magicking away trails of blood from the floor, then so be it. "Are you injured, dear boy?"

Remus blinked in brief confusion at his teacher, before looking down: his hands were stained red, his shirt too. "Oh," he murmured, and shook his head. "No. It's...not my blood."

"Ah." Slughorn looked uncomfortable. "Well. Good." He looked around. "I think we are finished in here, if you'd like to rest, or visit friends-"

Remus swallowed against the lump in his throat at the thought. It felt like only seconds ago that he'd watched Dumbledore and McGonagall guide a floating, unconscious James out of the hall and away to the nearest Floo; that he'd watched Sirius, and Owain, hurried out to where Pomfrey could apply proper bandages, potions that could stop the bleeding. Three people who mattered so much to him - broken, in a matter of moments.

Was it selfish, to want to put off seeing that again? He needed to reset his mind, wipe clean the images of blood, and fear. "Do you need extra patrols, sir?" he asked instead, not caring about the look of surprise on Slughorn's face. "I want to help where I can…"

"Oh, right," Slughorn nodded. "Well, if you're sure - very good of you, very good indeed. Twenty points, I think, for - you know, stepping up bravely and so on." He gestured for another of the prefects, who wandered wearily over. "Trant, you're to patrol with Lupin. Make sure everyone is back in their houses."

"Yes, sir," Trant nodded, casting Remus an appraising glance before he nodded to the door.

No one was out of their houses. Trant muttered under his breath about the pointlessness of the exercise, that no one was stupid enough to be roaming around when a good portion of the school had just been sliced to ribbons.

Pointless, maybe. But a good distraction, for now.

It was still dark outside when Sirius opened his eyes: that had to be a good sign. Unless a full day had passed, but that seemed unlikely – his body still held so much soreness, such a raw edge to it that he didn't think he could have had that much time to heal.

A few moments passed before he realised he wasn't in his dorm. It hurt – fuck, it hurt – to sit up, but he did anyway, his eyes scanning the room quickly, and his shoulders sagged with something like relief to realise he was in the hospital wing. Somewhere safe.

He'd never seen the room so packed: all the usual beds were full, plus others had been conjured, squeezed into spaces and corners in a way that probably made the wing very difficult to navigate. Every patient seemed to be parcelled up in bandaging, white gauze which blood still oozed through, relentless in its pursuit. Most were unconscious, and Sirius thought that was probably a blessing, because being awake was agony.

A panicked thought seized him, then, and he scanned the room once more, desperately looking for familiar faces. The only one he recognised, though, was Ollerton, in the bed next to his. Passed out cold, his arms and chest barely visible through the layers of bandages.

So that had to mean that Remus, and James, and Pete, and Lily, and Mary…that they were okay. It had to mean that, Sirius decided, because he didn't want to contemplate what else it could mean, and just as he had come to this conclusion, the doors of the wing swung open and Lily hurried inside.

The relief he felt was overwhelming, for a moment, and he had to swallow down the urge to get emotional just at the sight of her. Maybe the pain didn't help there - he wasn't normally so touchy-feely. "Evans," he greeted her, finding his voice hoarse, shaken. He didn't like it. It sounded...weak. "You're okay?"

She flung herself at him, not immediately noticing his flinching at the fresh wave of pain this brought. "Jesus Christ, Sirius," she murmured, half a sob, half a laugh, "am I okay? Are you okay?"

"Well, you know…hurts like a bastard," he replied, at which she pulled back, wincing in apology. "But I'm here aren't I? Still standing." He paused, then amended, "or, sitting."

She dragged a chair closer to the bed, sitting down and grasping his hand in hers. "I was helping out with some of the smaller injuries, in the hall," she explained. "Otherwise I'd have been here sooner."

He nodded absently, looking round the room again. "Everyone else is okay, too? Moony and Prongs and everyone?"

At that, she hesitated, a hint of anxiety twitching across her face; it was a minute movement, and so it was a bit of a miracle that he caught it at all, given the way his focus was currently torn into pieces. Still, catch it he did, and he felt his whole body tense. "Remus is fine," she replied, caution evident in her tone. "Owain managed to yank him down and under a table. Mary had some smaller cuts; Pomfrey sent her to rest back in our dorm." She sighed. "James…"

Sirius squeezed her hand, perhaps a little harder than he should have. "Evans, if you're trying to scare me, you're succeeding admirably." There was nothing he could do about the violent edge to his voice - it was all he could do not to panic completely.

Lily shook her head. "He pulled me and Cadence down," she told him quietly. "Pretty much used himself as a shield to protect us, which meant…" She let out a shaky sigh. "They transferred him to St Mungo's almost straight away. He was losing a lot of blood, and – and Pomfrey didn't think she'd have enough replenishing potion, not with everyone else injured, too…"

For a moment, all Sirius could do was stare at her. This had to be a joke. James – James Potter, for fuck's sake – didn't get injured. A bash with a bludger, maybe, or a scraping from the Willow, but not enough to need… He swallowed down against that thought, a chill settling over him that he didn't think any number of warming charms would be able to banish. "Fuck…"

"Yeah," she agreed, voice soft, scared. "Cadence wanted to go with them, but…she got herself in a bit of a panic, and…Pomfrey sent her back to her dorm with a calming draught." She seemed to take a moment to school her expression into something much harder to read. "McGonagall sent a Patronus to his parents, they were meeting them at the hospital."

It still didn't make sense. Surely James would pop out from behind a screen any minute now, laughing his arse off at the worried look on Sirius' face. But then, being the hero – saving the two damsels in distress – that was very much the sort of thing that Prongs would do, the noble git, and that would have left him entirely at the mercy of… "Does anyone know what happened yet?" he asked, then. "All I remember is – the pain."

Lily glanced around them, lowering her voice. No one was awake to listen, or so it seemed, but she was exercising caution nonetheless. "Charlie Swift cast the spell," she replied. "Something complex. It – basically, it transformed the enchanted ceiling to glass, and then shattered it." She bit her lip. "Not just normal glass, either, because…well, it was very dark magic, and that leaves a trace, apparently."

He stared back at her, disbelief writ large across his face. "Charlie Swift?" he asked. "Performing dark magic? But – why? That makes no sense at all."

Lily shrugged helplessly. "She fainted after she was disarmed. She was in here, for a bit, then…" She drew in a breath. "Dumbledore thought it was because the event was about promoting understanding and awareness of Muggles and Muggleborns."

Sirius laughed, not that it was remotely funny. "But isn't she-"

"Muggleborn? Yes," Lily sighed. "None of it adds up."

He tried to think back to that evening, to being in the Great Hall. Had he seen Charlie there? He didn't remember – the bald truth of it was that he'd mainly been watching Remus. Sirius being caught up watching Remus was the reason why he'd been so ill-prepared for dark magic-laced glass to cascade down from the ceiling, why he hadn't been ready to find shelter. Charlie could have walked right past him, for all he would've been likely to notice her.

He didn't know her well, but he knew enough to know that Charlie Swift wasn't a secret Death Eater. For starters, she was in Gryffindor – hardly a dark arts breeding ground. Okay, he knew it wasn't always as simple as that, but it was usually a pretty decent indication, as far as he was concerned. Then there was the fact that the fifth year was about as friendly and gentle as they came, and hardly the self-hating type. He'd seen her in tears over reports in the paper of another attack on Muggles only a month ago. If he had to predict the last person who would try to cut to ribbons every Muggleborn in the castle and anyone who supported them, that prediction would've been Charlie. Well, and James. And Lily. Actually, it was a good sized group of people who he would never expect it from – that was a reassuring thought – but Charlie was definitely among them.

"I should probably go," Lily sighed, when he hadn't said anything for probably several minutes. Now that he looked at her closely, he could see the exhaustion weighing heavily on her face. This evening had been a long one, and he knew she was already finding sleep a struggle with everything going on with her mum. "It's nearly curfew. Remus is doing an extra patrol, but – he said he'll be by in the morning."

Sirius nodded, although he had a feeling that Remus might not be desperate to see him. He'd be impossible to avoid, though, given he was sleeping in the bed next to Ollerton. "You'll find me," he asked, too tired himself, too mired in discomfort, to care about the plain need and worry laid bare in his voice, "if you hear anything? About James?"

"Of course," she promised, standing up and giving his hand one more squeeze before she let go. "Get some rest, Black. I'll see you in the morning."

He tried for a smile; landed somewhere closer to a grimace. "Night, Evans."

He watched her leave, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving behind a room that was full but might as well have been empty for how silent it was. Sirius had never liked staying the night in the hospital wing – there was something unsettling, something lonely about the place.

As he settled back against the pillows, he wondered if he would be able to sleep when James was out there, in Merlin knew what condition – his best friend, his brother, and he had no idea how he was. That worry settled over him, a threadbare blanket that offered no comfort, turbulent thoughts inside his head until finally, thankfully, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

When James opened his eyes each morning, he was used to the world being a blur. Detail and nuance had no place in his life until his glasses could be rammed onto his face. Sometimes, he would lay there a while longer, letting the smudged dorm continue around him, because a place he couldn't see could have no demands of him, no pressures or requests. These times didn't last long: he'd always been curious, keen to see everything and everyone exactly as they were.

Now, he opened his eyes, blinking blearily, and the blur was no surprise. What did seem odd was the colours, the shapes – no Gryffindor red or gold, no sharp angles of bed posts. Everything seemed to be one of many shades of greyish-green, the world's least interesting spectrum. Closer to him – although still far enough away to possess no distinguishing features – was what must have been a person, a person wearing dark colours. It was only when the soft scent of bergamot crept into his senses, fighting past what was otherwise a sterile sort of smell, that he realised who it must be.

A shuffle of movement, then, as the dark-clothed figure moved closer, closer, and then his glasses were placed gently on his face and he could see. His mother gazed down at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears and an attempt at a smile on her face.

"Mum," he croaked, and frowned. "You alright?"

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that he had always and would always associate with home, with safety. "James Fleamont Potter," she sighed, brushing his hair from his forehead. "I am fine. You are the one who was rushed to hospital."

Ah. The clinical surroundings made more sense, now. He wasn't in pain, which had to be a good sign – or a sign of lots of strong potions at work. "Is dad here too?"

Euphemia nodded. "He went to get us a cup of tea," she replied. "He'll be back in a minute." She moved – away from him, for just a moment, and even though he was nearly seventeen, he felt bereft, untethered – but only for a second, as she pulled the chair closer so she could sit down and grip his hand between both of hers. He knew she suffered with her back; it probably hadn't been terribly comfortable, holding vigil at his bedside for…however long it had been. "Do you remember what happened, darling?"

He paused to consider her question, looking down at his free hand as if that might spur his memory into action. Funnily enough, it did: a long, jagged slash of red stretched from his thumb across his hand, and he could almost exactly remember the moment that had happened. He frowned. "There was…an attack. At the SWEN thing," he said. "It was – it was raining glass."

Euphemia pursed her lips, taking a moment to, presumably, keep her emotions in check. "A dark spell," she confirmed. "Transfigured and shattered the enchanted ceiling. And you-" She raised her eyes to the ceiling a second, imploring some deity or other. "-you acted the hero, of course, to protect your girlfriend and your friend."

That, he remembered, too. The brief flash when his eyes found Lily's – the momentary guilt that she had been the one he sought, and not Cadence – the fear, pure, cold fear, that he saw in her eyes, that he knew was reflected in his own – the instinct, driven beyond reason, beyond sense, to make sure that neither of them were hurt. His body, covering theirs, panic pulsing through him as he looked up, up at the ceiling, for reasons he couldn't even name now.

"I wasn't acting the hero," he said, eventually, his words sounding fragile even to his own ears. "I just – it was instinct, mum."

"I know, dear," she sighed, stroking his hand absentmindedly. "I do wish you had some instinct towards self-preservation in there, too, but I suppose I did raise you this way."

He gave her a small, weary smile. "Exactly," he agreed. "No one to blame but yourself."

"Ah!" They both turned to see Fleamont standing in the doorway, two cups of tea hovering in the air in front of him and the most delighted, relieved smile on his face that James had ever seen. "Look who's awake! The hero of Hogwarts!"

James rolled his eyes – surprised to find that action hurt, at the moment. "No heroics," he replied. "Just…being a decent person."

"I'm sure your mother has already told you off for being a decent person," Fleamont noted, floating one of the cups over to his wife, and the other onto the small side table nearby. Thus unburdened, he moved over to the bed to press a kiss into James' hair. It made him feel six years old, again, in a wonderful and strange sort of way. "You're to stop it at once."

"Yes, dad," James couldn't hold back his grin, this time, even if the movement stretched and wore at whatever cuts littered his face.

"Good." Fleamont reached for his drink and moved a chair next to Euphemia, pausing to dot a kiss to her cheekbone; she smiled, softly, sadly, never looking away from her son. "How are you feeling? Sore, I expect?"

"A bit, but not a lot," James replied. "I suppose I've been drugged up to the eyeballs, have I?"

"You lost what we in the Potions business call 'rather a lot of blood'," his father told him, as lightly as he could. "And the wounds are tricky to heal, given the dark magic basis of the spell."

"Charlie," James blurted then, and tried to sit up, for reasons passing understanding. As if he could help her, somehow, even prone and apparently bleeding excessively. "She wouldn't-"

"James," Euphemia frowned. "Settle back, darling. Professor Dumbledore is dealing with the young woman now-"

"She's not a blood purist," he insisted, more shakily than he would've liked. "She's a Keeper! She's a Muggleborn, for fuck's sake!"

"Language," his mother tutted instinctively.

"She'd – she'd been acting strangely, lately," he added, trying to piece it together in his head. Thinking was far more strenuous an action than it usually was. Connecting his thoughts felt like wading through quicksand. "Not herself. Maybe – maybe she was forced into it, or…"

"James," Fleamont spoke up, gentle, but firm. "We have to trust Albus Dumbledore to be fair in his assessment of what has happened. All you have to worry about is resting, and getting better."

"But-"

"No buts," Euphemia insisted sharply, and a tear finally spilled, unchecked, down her pale cheek. The sight was an awful one – he had never seen his mother cry, before. He never, ever wanted to see it again. That distress, that pain – he couldn't bear to see it there on her face. It made his chest ache. "You don't realise how close you came to-" She stopped, and shook her head. James stared at her, wanting to cry too, suddenly; to cry, and be held, and to drift into a sleep where none of this was a reality. "You will take care of yourself. End of discussion."

Fleamont wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. "No discussions," he agreed, looking back to his son. "Right, Jamie?"

"Right," James nodded, swallowing against the strain in his throat. "Sorry, mum."

She tried not to smile, she really did, but she was always hopeless when confronted with her son and her husband; the smile was teary, but it was a smile nonetheless, and James felt some of that ache in his chest dissipate, just a little. "Do you need any more painkillers, dear?" she asked. He sensed that she needed to feel useful, to keep busy: being still was something she struggled with, just like her son. "You should probably be sleeping."

He shifted a bit, resting his head back against the pillows. "I'm okay," he assured her. "Still quite numb."

"I suppose that's a blessing, then." She stood up, moving to gently remove his glasses and – he had to assume, now he could no longer see clearly – place them on the bedside table. The blur of her face loomed closer, and he felt the brush of her lips to his forehead. "Close your eyes, then, my sweet," she advised gently. "We'll be here when you wake up."

Obedient in a way he hadn't been, maybe, ever, he closed his eyes; the call of sleep was too great for him to want to ignore it, anyway. He could hear the gentle murmurs of his parents, feel his mum's hand still holding his; he knew it was safe, for now, to let it take him over, to sink into slumber for as long as his body would let him.

Everything else would have to wait.

Remus woke often during the night, the half-empty dorm feeling cavernous for the loss of its two loudest members. He could hear Peter tossing and turning on the other side of the room, evidently finding the evening as restful as he was. Every time he managed to drift off, it felt like no time at all before his eyes flew open again, his heart hammering in his chest. In the end, in a bid to help him acclimate after waking each time, he lit the small lamp that sat on his bedside table – that way, he could see that the ceiling wasn't raining glass when he opened his eyes.

Of course, the images – the fear – followed him into each bout of slumber. The sounds and sights and pulsing panic felt so vivid in every dream; over and over, he saw the way Sirius' face paled across the room, the way James, on the edge of his vision, threw his body like a shroud over his companions; and the screaming – relentless, wracked with a sheer and unbridled terror, like nothing he'd heard before.

By six, he gave up on getting any more sleep, and clambered out of bed, his body feeling heavy, unwieldy with the strain of everything that had happened. He turned up the temperature on the shower as high as he could bear it, letting the water hammer down onto his scalp, his shoulders: a scalding reminder that he was here, he was okay, he was in one piece. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, under the water, waiting for it to wake him up. A shower could only do so much.

Pete was still asleep as Remus headed out of the dorm and down the stairs, passing through an empty common room and out into the cool, quiet corridors of the castle. He knew he should probably go down to breakfast first – he hadn't eaten much at dinner last night, hurried along by James who wanted help setting up the Swap Shop, and now, that seemed like a lifetime ago. But food was about the last thing he felt he cared about at the moment.

First, he stopped outside a heavy oak door, knocking briskly before he could consider the fact that it was still early. He shouldn't have doubted his head of house, though: McGonagall answered the door to her quarters, already dressed for the day and looking like she'd been up for a while. "Ah, Mr Lupin," she nodded. "I thought you might stop by."

"James," he said – no time for pleasantries. He tried to keep his voice calm, to not let the fear bleed through his words. "How is he? Is he okay?"

She stood aside, gesturing for him to come in and sit down, which he did, reluctantly; a wave of a wand later and he had tea and toast in front of him. "He is recovering well," McGonagall said, sitting at her desk across from him. "I understand he woke up late in the evening, had a conversation with his parents, before falling back to sleep. The healers are keeping him in for another day or so, just for observation, before they send him back to us."

Remus felt himself wilt with relief against the hard wooden chair, and reached for the mug of tea to steady himself. Just one sip told him that his teacher remembered exactly how he took the drink, and the sweetness, the warmth, helped settle his jangling nerves. "Thank god," he murmured. "I thought-" He cut himself off, not wanting to put that thought into words - as if it might will the thing into existence, even acknowledging it. Safer, for James, to let it go unsaid.

McGonagall seemed to understand all the same. "Yes, well," she said, taking a sip of her own tea. "The healers at St Mungo's did what they do best, and any crisis was averted." She paused before adding, drily, "Euphemia told me James tried to get out of bed to speak on Ms Swift's behalf, so his need to rescue others has not been damaged at all."

Remus gave her a half-hearted smile, thinking over what she had said. "Professor – Charlie – she's been acting strangely, lately," he said. "Lily and I came across her on patrol last week, she looked almost like she was lost – she seemed confused."

McGonagall gazed back at him, as inscrutable as ever. "It does seem her behaviour lately has been quite out of character, not even considering last night's events," she allowed with a brief nod. "I will pass your thoughts on to Professor Dumbledore."

That sounded like a dismissal, and he stood up, taking the half-eaten toast with him. "I'll let Sirius know – about James, I mean," he said. "He's probably lost his mind with worry in there by now…"

"If you could, I'd be grateful," McGonagall replied. "And I'm sure Madam Pomfrey would be, too."

After a quick goodbye, Remus left her office, making his way to the hospital wing. He felt a bit safer now, facing Sirius with good news about their friend.

Of course, their understandable concern over James wasn't the only thing making him feel nervous to face Sirius. Truthfully, he had been more than happy - relieved, even - to be given an extra prefect patrol the evening before, if it meant having a bit more time before he had to face him. Their encounter in the bathroom was still lingering in his mind, and he had no idea what to make of the experience. That they had come so close to - well, it was madness, wasn't it? Had he imagined it all, anyway? Looked for a chemistry, a shift in their relationship that hadn't actually been there? Had he just taken advantage of Sirius' blatant vulnerability?

He didn't think that was the case, but he didn't trust his instincts when it came to his friend. Sirius just seemed to be able to unravel Remus, his thoughts and self, with one simple look, without even trying - to take him apart in the most beguiling and arresting way. It wasn't impossible that was what had happened by the cool blue light of his wand, that night - that he had been drawn in and taken apart all over again.

Besides all that, there was also the matter of Owain. Owain, who he cared deeply about - who cared deeply about him. Owain, who was fun, and funny, and clever, and thoughtful - who had done nothing but show him affection and light and happiness in the whole time they'd become...whatever they had become. Remus enjoyed the time they spent together; he didn't spend it thinking of Sirius, not usually, anyway. The Swap Shop had been the exception to that, and Remus thought it wasn't unsurprising, given everything that had happened.

He came to a halt outside the hospital wing, staring up at the huge oak doors. He'd been selfish, that much was becoming clear - he should've set aside his anxiety, his turmoil, and come to visit last night. Lily had been: she'd told him as much as she'd passed him and Trant on patrol soon afterwards. He had known, at least, then, that Sirius was okay. But surely he owed Owain more than waiting until the next day…

He drew in a deep breath, set his shoulders, and stepped forward. The door creaked as he entered, but it didn't seem to disturb most of the patients, crammed in every available space, improvised screens attempting to give some privacy. It was a lot to take in. There was less blood than he'd anticipated, which he had to take as a good sign. Poppy had been able to work her usual magic with the same ruthless efficiency as ever.

After a quick survey of the room, he spotted Sirius, and Owain, in the bed just beyond. Well. That made it easier, he supposed.

He stepped quietly between the beds and screens, cautious not to wake anyone; by the time he reached the space between the two beds he sought, he found Sirius' keen grey eyes watching him. "Hi," he said, because he thought he should probably say something.

"Hi," Sirius echoed, his voice a whispered croak. He tried to sit up; flinched; flopped back down against the pillows. "Have you heard anything about-?"

"James is okay," Remus assured him quickly, quietly. He saw his friend deflate with relief amongst the starched blankets of the hospital bed. "They're keeping him at St Mungo's for observation, but...he's okay."

Sirius closed his eyes for a second, drew in a shuddering breath. "Thank fuck," he murmured, a heartfelt declaration that Remus felt in his very soul.

"Yeah," Remus agreed; he paused. "How are you feeling…?"

There was a pause as his friend considered the question; Remus guessed that Sirius had not been at all focused on how he felt in himself, too busy caught up in worry about James. "A bit better than I did last night," he decided. "Still sore, though."

"These things take time," Remus offered uselessly.

"Yes, they do say that about cursed glass, don't they," Sirius replied, watching him for a long moment. "Moony - don't you think we should-"

A prime moment, it would seem, for Owain to wake up. "You're here," a croaking voice came from the next bed along, and Remus quickly moved - not guided by guilt, not at all - to Owain's side.

"I'm here," he confirmed with a faint smile. "Said I would be, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Owain matched his smile with one of his own; it was amazing, how much of a relief it was to see it. "But you also said I wasn't bleeding that much, so…"

Remus huffed out a laugh, sad, tired. "Well, it seemed the kinder thing to say when one's boyfriend is exsanguinating all over the floor."

Owain's eyes lit up, then, and he grinned - a smile stronger than anything he'd managed so far. "Boyfriend, eh?"

Remus had to smile, too, although he felt all too aware of the eyes watching them from the bed next door. "If that's alright with you…?"

"Alright with me?" Owain repeated, and grabbed Remus' hand, tugging him down to steal a quick, soft kiss from his lips. "I've been wondering when we might have this conversation."

"Sorry," Remus brushed his hand briefly across Owain's cheek. "I got there eventually."

"Better late than never," Owain agreed fondly. He looked over at Sirius, a proud smile on his face. "Did you hear that, Black? Got myself a boyfriend and all I had to do was almost bleed to death."

Remus reluctantly looked over at Sirius, knowing what he would see there - although knowing still wasn't enough to make the expression on his friend's pale face hurt any less. Sirius looked like he'd been visited by some fresh agony, his eyes pained as he met Remus' gaze for just a moment, before he looked back at Owain.

"Yeah," he murmured, and didn't seem able to even try for a smile. "I heard."

When Lily woke, it was to the sound of sniffling in the bed next to hers. It took her a moment to get her bearings, to remember what had happened the evening before, and she sat up, shuffling out from under the covers and making her way over to Mary's side. "Mare?" she murmured, reaching out tentatively to touch her friend's shoulder. "Are…are you okay, love?"

She knew it was a stupid question – of course she wasn't okay – but she didn't know what else to say. She watched as Mary rolled to face her, her pale face tracked with tears, and only paused for a moment before she clambered into the bed next to her, lying on her side to look her in the eyes.

"Sorry," Mary murmured, as Lily gently wiped a fresh tear from her cheek. "I just…I dreamt it was happening, again, and…"

"I know," Lily whispered, taking her friend's cold hands in her own. "It's okay. You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Mary shook her head, just slightly. "It's ridiculous," she said. "James – James didn't even wake up! Sirius is in the hospital wing… All I got was a few cuts on my head, and yet I-"

Lily fixed her with her sternest look. "We went through something traumatic, Mare," she reminded her, her voice soft. "I think we're entitled to be upset about it."

Mary nodded reluctantly, pausing. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You were – you were amazing, Lil. All action."

Lily managed a faint, wry smile. "I wasn't at first," she told her. "I took one look at James and threw up."

Mary let out a tiny shudder. "The blood…"

"Yeah." She bit her lip a moment. "I just needed to help, you know? I felt – I wanted to do something, since I got out unscathed when so many others…" She trailed off, clearing her throat, trying to shift the emotion that felt lodged there. "I'm okay."

Mary frowned. "It's okay if you're not," she murmured; familiar words they'd shared before. "To be – to be worried, about James, I mean…"

Lily couldn't seem to meet Mary's eyes. "Of course I'm worried, like we all are," she replied quietly. "But – Cadence will update us, I'm sure, when she knows more-"

At that, Mary rolled her eyes – then seemed to feel a bit guilty for that action. "Sorry," she said. "I just, I can't believe she was completely uninjured but was still freaking out to the point of needing calming potions…"

"Yeah, well," Lily sighed, "like we said – the blood…"

Mary looked away, then. "Sorry," she murmured again. "I'm being a bitch, aren't I?"

Lily reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Mary's ear; the gesture made Mary look up, and even manage a smile, faint though it was. "It's okay."

They lay there for a few moments, just relishing the peace: for now, no demands on them, no new stresses or struggles to fight. No news from the infirmary, or St Mungo's; no reason to let the fear seep in, again; no need to picture the blood, red, blooming like ink across the floor of the Great Hall.

"It's okay," Lily murmured again. Because it had to be.