A/N: Happy (slightly early) Christmas!
Very soon I will be in England and I will have to find out just how much I've bastardised it in my writing. Excited beyond measure.
Some warnings for this chapter: implied/referenced underage sex and sexual activity, referenced underage drinking, underage smoking, misogynistic language, referenced incest (in terms of pureblood families etc, nothing in-depth), some magical violence, blood purity, classism, and internalised homophobia. I think that covers it, but as always, please read with care.
And if you follow me on tumblr and noticed that something is missing, James and Sirius' segments got moved to 46. They are mostly written and will be coming, they just would've blown this chapter out too much. I'm trying to stay around 10-15k rather than 15-20k, so I can hopefully get the chapters out a bit more regularly.
March 3rd, 1976
"Oi, Snape!"
Severus flinched at the sound of his name being called, instinctively reaching for his wand. It was pointed across the courtyard before he even saw who the voice belonged to. The older boy practically skipped across the yard, face smeared with dirt, dragonhide gloves on his hands. Severus' cheeks heated and he shoved his wand away.
"Rosier," he greeted.
"Evan," the other corrected, grinning. He was so like Potter in his mannerisms that it was disconcerting. He wrenched his gloves off and tossed them into his satchel. Severus shifted, eyes flitting across the lawn to where the rest of his classmates disappeared into the castle. "I suppose I should call you Severus then, shouldn't I? Anywho, what've you got next?" Evan looked as though he might throw his arm around Severus, and so Severus started walking, hoping to lose him. Evan kept up easily.
"History," Severus answered shortly. Evan had been hanging around him since the quidditch match, and seemed hell-bent on bringing Severus into the fold of his friends. Severus mistrusted him. Evan and his friends, while they shared the main ideals that all who met in the disused dungeons held, were more cut in the cloth of typical Gryffindors than Slytherins. They were loud and unreserved; they openly drank whiskey from stout, square-bottomed glasses in the common room, neat or over ice; they got girls down to their rooms, and weren't ashamed to take their hands and whisk them into a leather armchair half-concealed by a tapestry, where the girls would perch in their laps and lean down to kiss them. The only purpose Severus could see them seeing in him was for a laugh. For a mockery he could not name, could barely describe, but knew, knew in the depths of his bones. They would bring him in; sit him in the middle of their crowd, smile, say how much they liked him, and invite him everywhere - and that would be the joke. His very presence would be the joke. Can you believe it, they'd say. He really thinks we genuinely like him. He thinks he's one of us. It was the kind of thing you could not explain to an adult - Severus had never tried, but he knew how they would react anyway. With blank stares, bemused smiles, and a, 'but they're being so friendly to you, aren't they?'
"History," Evan repeated, nodding furiously. "What a pisstake." He withdrew a silver tin from inside his robes, engraved with his initials in swirling font. He withdrew a cigarette, held it between his lips, and lit it with the tip of his wand. "Selwyn's father sent him a new set of darts, we were going to play. You should come." Selwyn. Severus nearly laughed. Selwyn was wealthy, arrogant, and rarely spoke to Severus except to question something he'd done. If Evan wanted to humiliate him, he would have to try harder.
"I intend on getting nothing less than an 'O' on my O. ," Severus informed him. "Regrettably, they don't have an examination for throwing darts." Evan laughed.
"Right then, right," he said, shrugging. Severus reached stone floor and Evan lingered on the grass, eyeing the doorway which led into the castle proper. Smoking indoors was prohibited. "Enjoy Binns," Evan said, inhaling smoke.
"Thank you," Severus said shortly. He left Evan and made for the first-floor classroom.
Avery frowned at him, but said nothing, and the Gryffindors hung in their own packs, scruffy and wild-haired. He caught Lily's eye and gave her the ghost of a smile, after checking that the other Slytherins were occupied. She shrugged and returned his look precisely, lips twitching so fleetingly he couldn't be certain she'd really even seen him. His heart spasmed. He turned away, clenching the ends of his sleeves. Had she spoken to Vane? Had he made up lies about Severus? His body thrummed with nervous energy. Some kind of chasm stretched between them, and it seemed with each plank he added to the bridge he was building across it, she kicked another off her end. He wanted to talk to her; he was longing to; but every time he saw her, she was surrounded by friends, Gryffindors. Today there was no Macdonald, but McKinnon hovered almost protectively, and the half-wits were only feet away, the fat little sycophant laughing at something inane Potter had said. Lupin stood, smiling, as if he wouldn't tear them to pieces if given half a chance. The sight of him made Severus ill; his instincts urged him to run. I know your kind, Severus thought, blood raging. Smiling, conniving, charming, and once you've got her trapped in your web you lash out. Once's she's trapped. How was he the only one who could see it? Sometimes he felt as though he was going mad. But did they just not care? They would forgive anyone who was funny enough, good-looking enough. Not that Lupin was either, but plenty of girls fancied Potter and Black and plenty of boys thought they were cool; their friendship cast a Shield Charm over the two weaker members of their group. His heart clawed at his chest as Lupin said something to Lily, and she replied light-heartedly; how could she not see it?
"Alright, Snape?" Potter shouted, catching sight of him. Severus seethed, balling his hands. "Like what you see?" He threw his arms out dramatically. Lily rolled her eyes, but there was no force behind it. He might've been an annoying joke. Not a pest.
"The foulest, most loathsome creature to have ever sullied these halls?" Severus snapped loudly. "Merlin, Potter, the only thing I envy about you is your sight: with your presence in this castle I wish I was blind."
"So you are jealous of me?" Potter looked pleased. "I knew it."
"And that's very insulting to Mulciber, I'll have you know," Black added, practically gleeful. "He works very hard torturing first-years and terrorising girls to be the foulest, most loathsome creature in the castle. I thought you'd give your fellow Slytherins some credit, but I can see why you all hate each other. It must be very upsetting to only be the second-worst person in the castle."
"Never fear," continued Potter. "You'll always be the worst person in our hearts, Snivellus."
Severus exhaled angrily through his nose. Lily gave Potter and Black a stern look.
"Grow up," she said, but it was more exasperated than furious. She and McKinnon edged away. Severus froze. She was leaving him. She wasn't going to argue with Potter about it. She was letting them do it! What was wrong with her? She and McKinnon whispered about something to each other. Vane? Was that it? Was everything about Vane? A black storm swirled in Severus' stomach, and he trembled, reaching for his wand. Potter and Black weren't even looking at him now; they were laughing between themselves, and then Black muttered darkly, hair falling over his face. Everything was a joke to them. Everything was a game. They didn't know anything outside of their pampered, ignorant lives, where everyone believed they were the greatest people to ever live. What would they be without idiots like Pettigrew fawning over them, without girls like Lily being tricked into thinking they were just a bit of harmless fun? Why couldn't she see it? Even Hoover, who was supposed to be helping Severus, never gave him anything useful about Lupin; whatever he did, it was framed as harmless, a laugh. The injustice of it all made Severus want to scream.
He traced the wand movement in his mind, making a quick decision, and pointed. He could've done it wordlessly, but he needed it to work. Needed.
"Levicorpus."
Potter wasn't even looking. He'd thrown a lazy arm around Pettigrew, head tilted back as he chuckled, dark eyes alight behind his glasses. The spell caught him in the ankle, as it was supposed to, with a flash that drew looks. One moment, Potter was on the ground, carefree as you like, the putrid prince of Gryffindor; the next, he dangled from one leg in the air, glasses falling to the floor and shattering, his robes falling down to reveal hairy legs and striped, crimson boxers. His messy hair stood on end as though an owl lived in it, and for a second, he appeared completely bewildered. Caught off-guard. Severus' heart soared and he smirked, excitement thrilling within him.
"Merlin, Sniv," Black called, breaking through the peak of euphoria within Severus' heart. "If you want to take a look at someone's pants, you usually buy them flowers first. Orchideous oppugno!" Flowers burst from the tip of his wand and shot towards Severus. Severus could not defend himself without breaking the Dangling Jinx that held Potter up, which was obviously what Black intended. Instead, he side-stepped. Black laughed harder. "Scared of flowers?"
Lupin and Pettigrew tucked their wands away, and now Potter's glasses were mended and the hems of his robes defied gravity, standing straight around his ankles and covering his skinny legs and knobbly knees. Potter folded his arms as though bored. The other students began to look at Severus with a hint of amusement in their eyes; at him, not with. But Potter was the one in the air!
"That fat head of yours might just burst with all the extra blood going to it," Severus snarled, advancing on him. "Considering how swollen it is with your baseless pride and surpassing ineptitude. You might get a coherent thought in for the first time before it explodes; I wonder what that'll be like for you?"
Potter grinned. "You would wonder. It's never happened to you, has it, Snape? A real thought?" Pettigrew, with the mind of a mashed potato, laughed the loudest. Severus brandished his wand threateningly, heart beating in his throat.
"You've got guts," Severus said, eyes lingering on Pettigrew's plump stomach, and Avery sniggered at that. "Have you ever had your own idea, or do you not mind being the stupidest person in our year? If I were you, I'd be worrying about my O. , not giggling like a little girl whenever Potter or Black command it. You know, I don't think they've ever sent someone back a year, but I'm sure they could make an exception for someone as clever as inbred donkey. Will you be able to spell your name without Lupin whispering to you? You know the only reason Black and Potter let you cheat is so you don't embarrass them anymore than you already do by trailing after them like a pig balloon."
"Severus," Lily said, as Potter shouted, "Oi!" Lily frowned disapprovingly, but Severus couldn't care. You're blinded! If you knew – when I explain to you – you'll understand. There wasn't time for it now. Pettigrew wilted, but Black stepped in front of him, all bravado.
"Inbred?" Black snorted. "Avery's family tree is a wreath and the only witches the Rosiers shag are their sisters. Well, except maybe the little one. Is it true he fucked a Crabbe, or has he just got crabs?"
"You couldn't pay someone to get into bed with your grandmother, if that's what you're asking," Raimund said, his voice even but dangerous. "Wasn't she a third-year when she had your mother? Who then went off and married her cousin, so you're in no place to be pointing fingers when your blood's as clean as an erkling's. I understand you must be upset because your cousin ran off, but given how much you consort with blood traitors and filth, I'm certain you won't mind having the mudblood's used-up whore."
Black launched, throwing hexes, and Potter slung them even as he hung upside down. Pettigrew ran forward and Severus shouted, shooting a jinx and throwing him out of the way. Potter slammed to the floor with a crunch; one of the Gryffindor girls shrieked. Lupin grabbed Black but let go of him just as quickly, as though the touch burned him. Is he wearing silver?
"Rosier, Snape," Padgett said firmly.
"Do something!" Lily screamed at him, jumping into the middle of them. Black grabbed Rosier by the collar and threw him to the ground; Potter rushed at Severus, who pointed his wand.
"Flagellum Afflictio!"
"Stop it!" Lily yelled.
"Protego!"
"Petrificus Totalus!" Severus aimed around Potter's small shield and hit him in the legs. Potter froze almost comedically, and stiffly fell onto his back, arms and legs bound to his sides. He turned his wand on Black, who had blood dripping from his nose though he was on top of Rosier. Avery swooped in from the other side, but Lupin disarmed him.
"Levicorpus!" Severus shouted, hoisting Lupin into the air. Potter might not find it humiliating, but a quiet boy like Lupin would. His robes flew down and revealed his pants to the crowd, along with a criss-cross of red scars along his thighs. Monster, Severus thought, smiling manically. Monster! There was the proof of it!
"Lily!" he called, but Lily had her wand out, eyes sparkling furiously.
"Expelliarmus!" Severus' wand nearly flew from his hand. Her red hair whipped through the air like a slash of blood and she levitated Lupin's robes, so that they would cover his shame. Severus' throat slicked with bile. Disarmed. She had tried to disarm him. Some coil of hatred screamed inside him, but it was Lily, it was Lily. How could she? His mind burned white with fury. He moved towards her and trod hard on Potter's wrist, burning all the while. He just managed to keep Lupin afloat. Padgett and Gamp separated Black and Raimund as Binns floated through the door. They stopped, Potter frozen on the ground, Black dripping blood, Lupin in the air, Pettigrew with his wand raised, Raimund with Padgett gripping his shoulder, hair dishevelled, and Avery halfway through a hex he pointed at the ground. It alone moved as the rest of them stilled, and a pathetic flash of light bounced off the stone floor and hit Pettigrew, who moaned as leeks sprouted from his ears.
"Professor," Lily said, eyes wide, panting. "They've been duelling -"
"Keep your nose out of it, Evans," Black snarled. "Your little creep of a friend started it."
"Potter started it!" Lily said, looking at Black incredulously, and the pain in Severus' soul eased perhaps a little. "He was taunting Sev -"
"Snivellus was staring like a fucking vampire!" Black said, wiping the blood off his lips with his sleeves.
"It is time for History of Magic," Binns said, impervious to their argument. "Please enter."
"But Professor -" Lily started.
"Your lesson started a minute ago, Miss Ivan." With that, Binns floated through the door. After an exchange of wary glances, the bystanders flitted into the classroom, muttering to each other. Avery pulled Rosier up to his feet, and they too ducked by without a word to anyone. Severus breathed hard as they passed, fingers curling.
Lily stepped forward, her wand still trained on Lupin, who looked more corpse than man. However, he green eyes were fixed on Severus. He inhaled shallowly. There was a ferocity to her features he scarcely recognised; it unnerved him.
"Put him down," she hissed, words thick with venom. Severus' lungs hitched. His eyes swept sidewards to Lupin and back to Lily.
"He's a monster," Severus said softly, lips barely moving. "You saw his legs." Lily shut her eyes.
"I'm not playing this game with you," she said, strained. "Nobody's taking points, just put him down, okay?"
"Or you'll disarm me?" Severus spat, the words leaving his mouth before he could process them. He regretted it immediately. Her green eyes opened and glistened with hurt.
"Sev." One word, soft, like a prayer. He couldn't stand the intensity of her look. He turned his head.
"Liberacorpus." Lupin dropped to the ground, but not as harshly as Potter had. Black went to him, as did Pettigrew, hands over his ears. Once he was up, Black revived Potter, who immediately opened his mouth and thrust forward towards Severus.
"No!" Lily barked, pointing to the ajar door. "Get inside. Nobody's losing points now, but if you have another go at him I'll tell Professor McGonagall you started and you'll get yourself a detention during the match, alright?" Potter stopped, slightly stunned.
"She wouldn't do that," Potter said. "She wants us to win the Cup."
"Well, there's not much chance of that, is there, when you've been playing as rubbish as you have?" Lily said impatiently. Severus smiled. "Go on."
"You always take his side, Evans," Potter said, frowning now, rubbing the back of his head. "When does he take yours?" With that, he strode into the classroom, Black storming behind him and Pettigrew following. Lupin hesitated, his brown eyes unreadable, and then he ducked through the door, leaving Lily and Severus alone.
"You have to understand -" Severus started, but Lily shook her head.
"I understand enough," she cut in. "You don't make it easy for yourself, do you?"
"Potter started it!" This was riotously unfair; how could Lily blame him?
"You made up that spell, didn't you? Levicorpus." She bit her lip. Severus swallowed, and drew himself up a little taller.
"I did," he said. "I worked hard on it."
"With my book?" Lily asked, eyebrows rising and meeting in the middle, almost sad. As though she wanted it to not be true. But you helped me, Severus thought. I created magic, I am magic, how could you be upset about that?
"The book you gave me," Severus corrected instead, shifting his weight very slightly. Lily exhaled a quick breath and looked up to the ceiling, face pinched.
"For bullying," she said tightly. "I gave you something I thought you'd like and you used it to torment other people."
"They torment me!" Severus pointed out, anger rising again. "Every day of my life, every day at school, they go out of their way to torture me! What's hoisting them in the air to that?"
"Lupin's not like Potter, why'd you have to show those scars?" Lily said hotly. "What if that's from home? How would you like everyone seeing those bruises -"
Severus nearly burst into flame. "Why do you always have to argue with me?" he yelled, and found his wand raised in an attacking position, though he had not meant to do it. Lily's eyes widened. "Why do you make everything my fault? Why do you let them do it? You're so busy – what? Trying to be popular, trying to get boyfriends -"
"What are you talking about?!"
I saw you kissing him, Severus wanted to scream. I know what you did.
Instead, he took a deep breath, and said, "You've changed. The Lily I knew always stood up for what was right. But now you don't even care, just because you think Potter's fit -"
"I think he's awful!"
"- you've not been nice to me once since Christmas," Severus said. "You say you want to keep being friends but you make it impossible. You don't -" He couldn't finish it. The life in him died. Mercifully, mercifully, in his last Defence lesson, facing the trunk, hand like steel around his wand, he had been able to play it off as a joke. I'm scared of mudbloods, he'd laughed. What's worse than that?
Lily pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes.
"I'm not siding with them," she said, voice strained. "I don't want you to be fighting at all." She lowered her hands, and her stare was raw, frayed. "It's been – it's been a rough few months. I don't want to argue." Severus teetered, watching for any microexpression that might give her away. But she was solid. She looked to the door. "Sit with me?"
They would have to find desks at the back, where it would not be glaringly obvious to Avery and Rosier, where they would see so little that he could spin it into a tale of punishment and they would shake their heads and pity him.
"Of course," he said gently. He took a deep breath, and followed her into the classroom, where Pettigrew's ear-leeks were now spinning like helicopter blades.
March 4th, 1976
"I can't believe you're going out with him," Marlene said plainly, as Lily clipped in her earrings. "On a school night, no less. What happened to my dearest friend who could never think of such a thing? What if – Merlin forbid – you're tired in Transfiguration tomorrow?"
"You just don't like him," Lily said, walking over to her bed and grabbing her jumper. She glanced out the window. It hadn't been freezing through the day, but it wasn't warm either, and she didn't know if he intended to walk around the grounds or stay inside. Her cloak might've been a better option, but she only had the school one, and besides, tonight she was dressed all-muggle. Glen had warned her that a fourth-year had been harassed after dark the other day for wearing jeans, so Lily chose her favourite pair and a cream turtleneck.
"You don't like him," Marlene said, folding her arms across her chest. She was already in her pyjamas. "You're wearing trousers."
"Yes?" Jumper, or no? Was she better off borrowing one of Marlene's vests? She looked across to Mary's bed. The curtains were drawn, and the other girl had disappeared behind them immediately after the shower that followed dinner. Lily maintained that she had done nothing wrong, and if Mary was going to lose her temper over it, fine. But all the same. She looked back to see Marlene smirking, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, what? What do trousers mean?"
"Well," Marlene said, leaning back. "It's not the easiest thing, is it? Getting them off?" Lily glared at her mutinously.
"That's not the plan," Lily said. "My trousers are staying on, thanks. We're going to talk, and maybe have some dessert, and -" Marlene made a suggestive hand movement. "No."
"See!"
"Just because I don't want to – sleep with him – doesn't mean I don't like him." Lily chewed her lip frustratedly. "When did that become a requirement, anyway? At the start of the year, nobody was doing that. Now everyone's like – ooh, did you? Are you going to? Have you?"
Lily's hands lingered on the brown jumper, and after a moment's deliberation, she pulled it on.
"I don't know," Marlene shrugged. "Padgett did it, then Amy," she ticked her fingers off, "Striding from Ravenclaw, then Dale -"
"Dale?" A rather mean thought crossed her mind, which she promptly shoved out. "Never mind. So what, four from our year? That's hardly grounds to interrogate everyone about it. We're not all sex-mad."
"No," Marlene agreed, "but now that's sort of the limit. Have you done that? If not, what have you done? Handjobs barely blink an eye now." Lily folded her arms across her chest.
"A real shame," she said sarcastically, before biting her lip again. "Look, I like Glen. I do. He's nice, clever, responsible -"
"Steamy."
Lily ignored her. "He's a prefect, he's not prejudiced, he doesn't expect anything from me. And," she looked at herself in the mirror, fixing her hair, "he was my first boyfriend. I think there's something romantic in that, don't you?" Alright, maybe it was a bit stupid, but she did like the idea of telling people, 'oh, yes, we've fancied each other since we were children'. That was a nice story to tell about one's grandparents, wasn't it?
Marlene laughed. Lily looked at her. Marlene didn't stop. "You were twelve," she said.
"Thanks for your support," Lily said, grabbing her handbag. "I'll see you later?"
"I don't need to wait up?" Lily shooed her off her bed, closing the curtains. "No, but seriously. If you don't like him you should just tell him. If you didn't like kissing him the first time, you're not going to like it now."
"Who have you snogged lately?" Lily asked, though without venom.
"I can tell by looking at someone if I want to snog them or not," Marlene said. "That's why I haven't been wasting my time." If Mary had been with them, Lily could've appealed to her, whom she had no doubt would champion Glen's cause as a kind, if bland, person. Bland. Not bland, just – plain. No, not plain. Usual?
Maybe Marlene was infecting her brain.
"Goodbye," Lily said pointedly. "If I'm not back by curfew, I command you to come rescue me."
"You're giving yourself barely a bit over an hour," Marlene said, face full of surprise and amusement. "You hate him."
"We like following the rules," Lily said. "Now go do some homework."
"Nah. No Lily means we can smoke in the dorm."
"You'd better not!" Lily warned, wagging her finger as she left, shouting a 'thanks!' to Alisha's yell of 'good luck!'
The common room, to her dismay, was quite full; older students claimed the tables, spreading out their coursework, sighing and exchanging notes; a group of third-years, including Potter's girlfriend, Lisbete, played a rather intense game of cards, with Lisbete practically sitting in a redheaded boy's lap – had she and Potter broken up? Lily expected she would've heard about it by now, unless it had only happened since the end of their lessons that afternoon. Even if you barely spoke, sharing a year and a house meant there were only so many things you could keep from each other, and a relationship (or lack thereof) was one of them, unless you were making a particular effort. Potter and Lisbete made for a very odd couple, in Lily's opinion. Lisbete was younger, and she couldn't see what they had in common; Lisbete didn't play quidditch, they didn't share friends, or a club, and as far as she knew they hadn't grown up together – she'd never really seen them together before they started going out. But Potter wore a chain around his neck, that according to Marlene who'd heard it from Sirius had been a Christmas gift from his girlfriend. And she'd catch them talking in the halls, or Lisbete would sit on the arm of his chair as he spoke to his friends, giggling and draping herself across him. The only quality Potter and Lisbete shared seemed to be an exceedingly inflated opinion of the former. Did they spend hours talking about his stupid hair and the way he rode a broom and his infuriatingly high marks in Defence? Did they laugh at the same people?
Though she was well away from the fire, and its heat was borne by a sea of students between her and it, she felt uncomfortably warm. A knot of nervousness niggled at her stomach as she approached the portrait hole. She was thankful she'd worn jeans; in Gryffindor, they weren't too uncommon, and she would've stuck out more if she'd put on something nice on a Thursday night. People flipped through magazines in their pyjamas, or listened to the radio, and while a couple still wore their uniforms as they dipped their quills in their inkwells, wiping their foreheads, nobody was dressed to go anywhere. In twenty-four hours it would be a vastly different story, but it was too late in the week to muster any sort of enthusiasm and a school day still stretched between them and the weekend. Lisbete was in her pyjamas, a long, pink frilly nightgown. It wasn't the kind of thing she imagined Potter pinning up on his wall. But what did she know about what he had on his wall? She didn't want to know. What did Glen have up? Nothing, she thought. A study timetable, probably, and maybe some photos of his family, one of his mates. No girls. He was sensible like that, and respectful. She liked to think that she was, too. They had plenty more in common than Potter and Lisbete. She and Glen were both prefects, both liked Charms and Potions. Neither of them were overly invested in quidditch, though they could appreciate when their house won, and had friends on the team. Neither took drugs or had a habit of passing out at parties, and detention was unknown to Glen, a rarity for Lily. They were studious, but well-liked, and Glen was kind – and people had told Lily she was, too, though she thought it rather depended on who you asked. Nevertheless, they were similar, and they made sense, as a couple. It was why they'd gone out in second year, and it was why they were going out again. They worked.
She didn't need to be nervous. It was only Glen. He liked her how she was, and he'd asked her out. Lily didn't let herself look round for Mary, or try to catch her reflection in the mirror and fix her hair. She swallowed hard, took a breath, and climbed through the portrait hole, telling herself firmly, it's going to be fine. You'll have a good time. It's Glen.
"Lily."
He was, of course, waiting for her right outside the portrait hole, holding a bunch of flowers – lilies, to be precise – and dressed well in navy robes. He smiled when he saw her, picture perfect. "You look beautiful."
"You are unreasonably nice to me," Lily replied, and hesitated for a moment before kissing his cheek. It was only a quick brush of her lips, polite, appropriate for a date, but not – well, not overenthusiastic. It shouldn't've mattered, because there was nothing wrong with snogging him senseless, but Marlene's voice was still banging around in her head like a stack of pots falling. Glen smiled and gave her the flowers. Lily sniffed. "These are great. Thank you."
"Of course," said Glen, offering his arm. Lily took it, shifting the bouquet to her left hand. "Thank you for agreeing to step out with me." It was very old-fashioned. Lily tried not to grin.
"We're mates," she said, and bumped her hip against him, hairs prickling nervously at the base of her neck. "I love hanging out with you." His expression flickered. Only momentarily, but it made Lily's chest tie itself in knots.
"Where are we off to, then?" she asked, starting to pull him down the corridor. Lily mentally ran through the popular spots for dates, when Hogsmeade wasn't an option and they weren't at the level of holing up in a broom cupboard. One advantage to being prefect was that she had become rather familiar with who went where and for what purpose. There were the outdoor gardens by the Herbology greenhouses, the back corner of the library where Madam Pince never heard you talking, the Astronomy Tower if you wanted a decent view, the lakeshore if it was warm –
"I thought the Clock Tower Courtyard would be nice," Glen said. Lily smiled.
"So long as we don't have to be turning other people away," she joked. "I haven't got my badge with me." Glen's face dropped.
"You haven't?" he asked in a strange voice. Lily's smile dimmed.
"Er," she said. "Well, I wasn't really going to tell people to head off." Glen stare for a moment, then shook himself, laughing a notch too high-pitched.
"No," he said. "No. Anyway, I've got mine, so I'll vouch for you if we need." He patted his pocket. Lily raised her eyebrows in mock-admiration.
"Good job," she said insincerely. Glen nodded.
"Alice did advise us at the beginning of the year to keep them on us at all times," he said. Did he even know Alice, really? Lily used her first name, but they saw each other every day and talked several times a week, about patrols and incidents in the common room. They'd organised a dance together. Lily wasn't sure if she'd ever seen Alice look at Glen. "After all, prefects are never off-duty, and we need that proof of authority to back us up," he continued.
They rounded a corner and started down the stairs. Lily chewed her lip, thinking.
"There's only twenty-four of us in the whole school," she said, watching his hand run along the banister. "Isn't the idea that by this point of the year, they know who the prefects are? Unless they're first-years, if they don't know or don't want to believe you're a prefect, I don't think the badge is going to make that big of a difference. What's to stop, I don't know, Potter pinching Lupin's badge and running around telling the younger kids that they'll get detention if they don't jump into the lake?" Glen frowned at her. They stepped off at the next landing, and Lily watched him thoughtfully.
"Potter wouldn't do that," Glen said slowly. "I know he likes to cause trouble and jinx people and have parties, but there's a big difference between doing that and misappropriating a prefect's badge. Impersonation of a school official is very serious business."
Lily gazed down the hall. "Inflating someone's head really pales in comparison to lying about being a prefect, doesn't it?"
"Precisely," said Glen, nodding seriously.
All that as it was, when they reached the courtyard, it was empty. She and Glen sat on the edge of the fountain in the centre, and from there lapsed into silence. Lily tilted her head back, looking at the sky. A thick grey down blotted out the stars, and they were lit only by the glowing windows of the school. She crossed her legs at the ankle and looked expectantly at Glen; after all, it had been his idea. But he didn't say anything either. When they'd just spent time together as friends, the words had flowed, mostly; even at Slughorn's party, even in lessons. Part of her wished they'd waited for a Hogsmeade weekend; there was one only next week. It was easier to make conversation when there were things to see and people to run into, even if it was nothing interesting. Lily started mauling her lip, wishing Marlene might swing by and rescue her. The courtyard was still, their only companion a chilly breeze.
"Say," said Glen, eventually. "Are you going home for Easter?" The end of term was a good six weeks away. Lily bit into the ridge of soft flesh curled over her bottom teeth.
"I don't know," she said. An awkward beat passed between them. "Er, I know a lot of people stay in fifth year. I guess I'll write home and see." Sue would be close to the end of her term at Easter. It was still surpassingly strange to think that a girl Lily had once shared a skipping rope with would have a baby of her own.
"You should stay," Glen said firmly. "The fifth- and seventh-years all but have the library to themselves over Easter. I find that going home brings such distractions from revision, don't you? And really, once the Easter break is over, we've only a little over a month until our O. . It's a ticking clock." Lily grimaced, bending slightly. In three months, she'd be finishing her exams, and finishing her fifth year. After that, only two years remained and then she would leave behind Hogwarts forever. She'd be out in the real world, where people did have babies, and got jobs, and then life was just one great spiral of madness until you died. It made her stomach hurt. For a panicked second, she felt like she was running out of time; a stupid thought. She was only sixteen, for Christ's sake.
"Lily?" Glen's voice cut into her thoughts. She hugged herself.
"It just comes so fast, doesn't it?" she said. "Half the time I still feel about eleven years old."
He laughed. "An eleven-year-old couldn't do half of the magic you can do." Lily smiled weakly at the compliment, unable to manage a 'thank-you'. "It seems much worse when you think about careers, too. Those pamphlets will start coming soon, Claire said they start in the middle of March. Have you thought about what you might like to do?"
No.
It was a pathetic answer even to her own ears; she didn't have the casual coolness to pull it off, the ability to lean back and laugh and quip about the pointlessness of trying to choose a lifelong career as a teenager. And least of all could she pull it off to Glen. His gaze was hawklike. The trouble was that she genuinely had no idea what to say. Not one. Embarrassingly, she'd never known what she wanted to do. As a little girl, she'd never even had something she wanted to be when she grew up. Well. Sort of. Petunia had told people she wanted to marry a prince; Lily had told people she wanted to be a witch.
What did you do if you became what you wanted to be when you grew up when you were eleven? Where did you go from there?
Lily supposed she hadn't been alive very long at all before she realised she had magic. She'd met Sev when she was nine. What would that end up being, in the big scheme of her life? A tenth of it? An eighth, maybe? And she'd known she was different before then. Deep in her bones. With a jolt, she realised that she had known she was magical for nearly as long as she hadn't. She had known Severus nearly half her life. Her chest tightened. She tried to think of something else. What had she wanted in those two years, when she'd known what she was, but not completely understood that there were wizard jobs, and wizard lives, and that she wouldn't be mixing up magic potions and laughing with Severus at her sister for the rest of her life?
She hadn't wanted anything. She hadn't wanted to work, she hadn't wanted to become a mummy like some of her friends, or work in a shop, or become a secretary, and what else could a girl from Cokeworth be? She'd wanted to be a good witch, like in the Wizard of Oz, only sometimes making Petunia's hair frizz out. She'd wanted to go to Hogwarts. Sometimes she and Sev had talked about opening a potions shop, though she hadn't fully understood that they would be one of many; she had rather imagined it as them travelling around England, making people fall in love or get crazily strong or burp bubbles.
That wasn't going to happen now. Her heart stung. Even if he ditched his stupid friends, even if he woke up to what was going on, it wouldn't happen. He'd say it was too dangerous for a muggle-born to openly be the owner of a potions shop, and they'd quarrel, because Lily agreed that it was dangerous but would want to do it anyway. And he wouldn't let her. He'd pull out.
"I think it's important to do what you're interested in," Lily said finally, a little numb. "I want to do Potions and Charms N.E. , and I imagine I'll follow that thread. That's what I'm best at."
"Oh," said Glen. He was disappointed, she thought. Lily scraped the toe of her shoe along the cobblestones. What had he wanted her to say? 'I'm going to be the next Minister for Magic?' 'I'm going to create my own potion-brewing company?'
"Has your mother always worked?" she asked, for no reason but the hope of picking at a wound. It was a stupid thing to bring up; she was stupid to have even come, she was beginning to think. Some part of her wanted to cry. She could've just asked him what he wanted to do and let him talk about himself, but she really, really didn't want to hear his grand plans. The whole thing made her want to shrivel up.
You're being unreasonable, she chided. He was proud of his mother, wasn't he? And you saw how those men spoke to him. Like he was nothing because his father's muggle-born.
Something pattered on the roof over the breezeways. Lily jumped to her feet and had her wand in her hand in a moment. Her heart pounded. Was it Slytherins? Or just a couple? Was it a group of younger kids out of bed?
"Lumos," she cast, the word so quiet and quick even she could barely hear it. The tip of her wand lit up and she pointed it towards the area the sound had come from. She couldn't see anything. Her lips folded together tightly, and she tried to remember everything she'd ever learned in Defence. A shiver of fear swept up her spine. What if someone was coming into the castle? What if someone had broken through the enchantments? It was going to be like Christmas. It was going to be Christmas all over again if she couldn't find what it was. She had to know.
Maybe it would be the same wizard who got Jane's mother.
"Lily!"
"Shut up!" The words were out of her mouth before she could think twice about it, and Glen, who had stood, flinched. Her hands shook. He was going to give them away. So was her light. She muttered the counter-spell and then a wave came over her, a spell she couldn't believe hadn't been her first thought.
"Homenum Revelio!"
Someone was near.
A thick panic rolled through her throat. What now? She couldn't see them. Tears sprung in her eyes, but she couldn't cry, she had to sort this, figure it out. She couldn't start hurling curses at the roof. Was it better to find somewhere to hide and defend herself and then attack them when they came out? Ought she send Glen to get a teacher?
"Lily!" He was at her side, reaching for her arm but not touching. "Lily, what's going on?" He didn't understand. How could he? He hadn't been there, he didn't know, he hadn't…She really couldn't breathe.
"There's -" A dark shape on the roof moved. Lily shouted and then clapped her hands over her mouth, realising they would've heard her, they would be in the line of attack. She scrambled backwards, trying to find her voice to cast a Shield Charm, and a tawny owl launched from the roof and soared above them, taking wing for Gryffindor tower.
An owl, she realised sluggishly. It had been an owl.
She lowered her wand.
She was humiliated.
"Lily, what on earth?" Glen exclaimed. It had only been an owl. Here she was on a date, inside Hogwarts, perfectly safe, and she had been half-crying and spurting off spells and convinced that some random wizard – creature – thing from three months before had somehow broken some of the strongest enchantments in Magical Britain for – what purpose? She was going round the bend. And she'd been a complete mess so far with Glen. She wanted to crawl into bed, hide until she fell asleep, and then wake up again that morning and do everything over.
"I thought I saw something," she said, trying to shake it off. "Sorry. And sorry about tonight, I'm -" she improvised, "- I've been so worried about our Charms assignment, and History, and -"
"It's okay," Glen said at once, and Lily felt a rush of gratitude for him. "I understand completely. Has Lupin been helping you with the Charms assignment? We could meet, you and I and Macdonald and Lupin, and we could all work on it together if you like. Us Ravenclaw prefects like to say, 'if you can't bunk it, chunk it.'" The phrase was so absurd, and Lily's eyes still so damp, that she laughed.
"I would like that," she said, though it was a thousand miles away from what was turning through her head. Her pulse hadn't caught the message that she was safe; still it beat erratically in her wrists. She hadn't panicked like that, she didn't think, in a while. Why was it that sometimes she was fine and other times she'd lose her head? What was the difference? Was it because she had been thinking about being muggle-born when she heard the commotion? She had to put it aside to focus on the boy in front of her. She'd felt more at ease with him in the last two minutes than she had in the previous twenty.
"Glen," she started hesitantly, dread filling her. But she had to say it. She had to put a stopper on this night and hang her head and tell Marlene everything. She couldn't have it hanging over her for another second. The memory of his lips lingered; it had been a nice night, and she'd enjoyed it, sitting out by the lake, even being kissed. He was intelligent, and responsible, and kind even when she didn't deserve it – even when she'd done what she'd done tonight, being completely irrational. And that was why she had to say it, in a way. If she'd liked him less, she might've let it go on longer.
He took her hand. The two of them stood in the night air, only the bubble of the fountain disrupting them, water pouring and rising and falling. Lily tilted her face to the sky and wondered if it might rain. But that would be too storybook, she thought. The occasion really only warranted grey skies and a bit of quiet.
"This hasn't been what I planned," said Glen, in his lower, smoother voice. Honest but not earnest, if that made any sense. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to change her mind. He was nice, and he was handsome, and her heart was hammering in her chest from when she had thought she was going to face – it seemed ridiculous to put a word to it. But she had thought she was going to face a Death Eater. Like she was some hysterical case the papers warned against. Her cheeks were still blotchy and now Glen held both her hands, blue eyes full of unspoken apologies, and a promise of second chances, and the fountain burbled and splashed and it might've been rain.
He kissed her. She neither leaned forward nor backed away. She returned the kiss but didn't deepen it, a gentle curiosity working her mouth. His lips were soft. His hands were soft on hers, only applying a mild pressure, just enough that she knew he was there. He was the kind of boy you kissed in gardens, and in cool summers, and over cups of tea in Madam Puddifoot's. He could be a listening ear and a revision partner and a shoulder to cry on. Her mum would like him, her dad would tease him gently, and Petunia would sniff but only be able to complain of the sorry happenstance of him being a wizard. She might even let him stand in the back corner of a family photograph.
But when it came down to it, he might've been useful for running for a teacher. Not protecting her. Not standing side-by-side with her. Not even helping her.
She squeezed his hands as they broke apart, and then dropped them.
"Glen," she said again, her voice as soft as spring snowfall. His chest heaved, and he gave a little nod.
"It was nice while it lasted," he said. "I'm glad we're friends, Lily." Her muscles relaxed.
"Me too," she said. She craved a cup of tea. And bed. And Marlene. And a cigarette, even though she didn't smoke. Well, except for the one time. But Potter wasn't welcome in her mind, not now. She didn't know what he was doing in her thoughts in the first place.
Glen offered his arm. "I'll walk you back?"
March 5th, 1976
At breakfast, a tiny dove landed on Dorcas' wrist. She started at the sudden, unfamiliar texture upon her skin, and when she saw that it was a bird she jerked, nearly hitting Cynthia. A slender scroll of snow-white parchment hung from its leg, and Dorcas untied it carefully, heart beating fast. It burned her fingers, and fear bolted through her. Who was it from? What was it? Was she being expelled? Was she losing her badge? Had she done something wrong? She couldn't remember breaking any rules, but half the time she felt as though they were made up on the spot, obvious to everyone except for her. She was better these days, but in her first and second year, she'd regularly lost a point or two for answering rhetorical questions or contradicting the teacher or not following instructions. As the bird flew away, gliding gracefully over their heads, she felt eleven again.
"Ooh," Cynthia said, wiping her mouth with a serviette, "what's it say?"
"Is our prefect breaking the rules?" asked Branton, who was starting to become a permanent fixture. He joined them for every meal now, sitting next to or across from Cynthia, and with him often came Glen, and sometimes other boys too, quidditch players or people from Charms Club or family friends. Dorcas had gone from being on her own, to being accepted, somehow, to be the third pillar of Florence and Cynthia's partnership, and now there was an ever-rotating cast of characters whose names she kept mixing up. Only Branton and Glen had some semblance of constancy.
Dorcas looked to Florence, who said nothing, only watched with her luminous blue gaze. Dorcas swallowed and shakily unfurled the scroll.
'Dorcas,
12:40 in our classroom.
PN.'
A breath of relief fell from her mouth, though it was quickly replaced by a new fear. What had she not thought of? What had she done wrong? She wished the letter was not so vague. Was she failing? Was she to be put out of the course? Had they decided she was too simple to continue learning Occlumency? She didn't know what to expect. Was she to take her Divination books? Her Occlumency ones? Her notes, and which, and how many? Would she be gone for the full hour of that period or only five minutes? She didn't have a lesson then, and she supposed Professor Nicholl knew that, but Herbology and Defence followed that slot.
"Ooh," said Cynthia, leaning over. "That's short! Who's it from?" Her eyes sparkled. "You're not holding out on me, are you?" Dorcas shook her head.
"It's a school thing," she said. "In fourth." Cynthia giggled, for some reason. Glen looked up. He'd been resting his head atop his folded arms for most of the morning, deep circles beneath his eyes, only speaking when he politely asked them to pass him food.
"A school thing?" he repeated, rather flatly. "A prefect thing?"
"No," said Dorcas. Glen gave one nod and laid down again. He didn't normally do that, Dorcas thought. But then she usually didn't get messages from Professor Nicholl by dove at breakfast. If there was something to be discussed, Professor Nicholl generally tapped her on the shoulder and they had a quiet conversation in the corner of whichever room they were in. The secrecy was new, and confusing; at least, Dorcas assumed it was secrecy. Why else use initials, when Dorcas plainly recognised the handwriting? Why else send a note? And a new dilemma dawned on her; how was she to confirm that she got it? Was she meant to seek Professor Nicholl out and tell her? Was there some signal that was lost on her? Was she meant to write a note back? She wished Professor Nicholl had just spoken to her. Even though she trembled with anxiety each time they spoke, until the point of the conversation came out and she realised she wasn't in trouble, it was better than having to wait hours after receiving the vaguest of notes. Her insides coiled up in fear. She couldn't see how she could concentrate until the meeting came.
"A boy?" Florence asked quietly, as they left the Hall.
"What?" They filed out amongst the crowds, clamouring for their dorms or their first lessons. Florence's pale face was solemn, her eyes hard as diamonds. Today her dark hair was twisted into a knot behind her head, and ringlets fell down her neck to her shoulders. She looked like some kind of ancient goddess. Maybe they both were; in Dorcas' mind, their fingers stretched across the Mediterranean, ruling continents with their wands, in the days when the world was new. She would've sacrificed a kingdom for Florence, she thought. Though it would likely not be enough.
"Is it a boy?" Florence asked, taking her arm and pulling her up the Marble Staircase. "I'm happy for you, if it is. I'm not resentful. It's bound to happen eventually." A lump stuck in Dorcas' throat. She hated this part of the morning. She could not move for people, and she could hear them all, smell them all, feel them all. They argued and laughed and whispered and it grated on her ears; the fabrics of robes and pyjamas and cloaks and dressing-gowns rubbed together and created a cantankerous cacophony of noises that made her bones hurt. Even Florence's touch, which her flesh usually screamed for, cried for, craved, felt like too much.
"It's not a boy," Dorcas managed, as they left the first staircase. "Why would it be a boy?"
Florence shrugged gracefully. "Well, you'll be sixteen in a few months. Lots of girls get boyfriends then."
"It won't ever be a boy," Dorcas said shortly. She suspected even if she started to like boys, to be enchanted by their hair and their muscles and their eyes or whatever it was about them that was supposed to be so appealing, they would not like her. She didn't see Glen or Branton or any of the other boys in her year going out with girls that looked like her. Fat girls. And people could pretend all they wanted that nobody cared, that it was all about personality and smiles, but they were lying. People liked bodies. Merlin knew Dorcas liked Florence's. She liked the feel of it under her touch, she liked to look at it, stealing burning glances as Florence dressed, the other girl smiling gently when nobody else was looking. And she wanted Florence to like her body. Dorcas didn't want to be liked in spite of the way she looked. That was worse than not being liked at all. Because then it felt like her weight, her shape, her body was something the other person had to endure. A burden, or a favour being done.
The thought made Dorcas want to sink through the floor.
"Don't be stupid," Florence scowled, dragging her down the corridor. "Don't say stupid things like that. Honestly, you're so clever with coursework, I'd think you'd have more common sense." Dorcas didn't argue, but that was chiefly because her stomach was beginning to flutter and she wondered if they might find a secreted broom cupboard before Transfiguration begun. Still, the word smarted. Stupid. Is that all she thinks of me?
"You can tell me the truth," Florence said, taking her by the wrists. They were at the end of a poorly lit, windowless hallway, giving access only to the most disused of classrooms. Dorcas' breath shortened. Would they kiss here? Where someone could catch them? She didn't want to be caught, but the risk tingled through her, lighting a fire in her veins. Florence's eyes grew luminescent in the dark. Dorcas wanted to lose her fingers in the twists of Florence's curls and kiss her until every thought of Occlumency was driven from her body. Until the mental world she and Professor Nicholl worked so hard to create collapsed.
"It is the truth," Dorcas said, twisting her hands so that they clasped Florence's forearms. The other girl drew a ragged breath and glanced down the hall. "I think it's for Divination," Dorcas continued, trying to draw Florence back to her. "That's all it is." Florence's grip tightened around her wrists.
"You don't like me," Florence said, toying with her lower lip. Dorcas blinked.
"What?" she said. "I-"
"Tell me," Florence said, suddenly insistent. Her gaze sent a tremor through Dorcas, slicing her strength in two. "Tell me you don't like me. I need to hear it. You don't like me in that way." Dorcas stepped back, but there was only the cool wall behind her. They were in one of the oldest parts of the castle, rough-hewn from ancient stone, and jagged edges grazed her spine through her robes.
"You want me to lie," Dorcas says, voice gravelly. Florence's features pinched.
"No," she said urgently. "Tell me the truth. Mean it." She turned her head. "It has to be a game. It's all just nonsense. I need to know that."
It wasn't nonsense. Not to Dorcas. Her limbs grew heavy. She didn't understand. Would Branton ever ask such a thing of Cynthia? Dorcas kissed Florence. They talked. They sat side-by-side at meals and studied together and walked to their lessons together. What was the point in claiming she didn't like her? It was a stupid, completely transparent lie. Sometimes Dorcas felt like Florence was from Neptune. They were aliens to each other. They shared food and kisses and looks across rooms but Dorcas was damned if she knew what went through Florence's mind. She had the feeling she could master Legilimency and still never understand.
"Florence," said Dorcas. Florence tilted her chin up and looked down, blinking furiously, lashes splashing against bubbles of tears, beating like butterfly wings. The movement exposed the soft underbelly of her chin, pale and thin, and Dorcas longed to put her lips to it, her tongue to it, and end this tumult of a conversation.
"Hurry up," Florence growled, and Dorcas ached. She wanted to fix this, somehow, but she hadn't the tools, she hadn't even the eyes to find out where this cord begun so she could snap it in two. What was she to say, now? I could not go on without you. You are a stranger to me. After all these months, I've no idea why I smelt you that night, why you fainted. What did you see? What did you feel when you woke? Why did you seek me out, when you weren't to be told it was because of me? What did I do to you? What have you done to me?
"I don't know what to say," Dorcas said honestly. Florence let go of her and flung herself backwards, throwing her hands over her face.
"Fuck!" Florence shouted, uncharacteristically frustrated. And then she dropped her hands. Her eyes were growing red and her cheeks blotchy, but the sorrow made her face no less beautiful. She looked like a haunted sort of angel. Some weeping Grecian statue. "Merlin," Florence gritted out, brushing her hair out of her eyes, fanning her face. She sniffed hard and patted her finger along her undereyes, blotting out the tears. "I'm acting mad. Gosh, Dorcas." She laughed shakily, and took in deep breaths. She stood taller. Dorcas thought of a puppet, strings pulling taut, preparing for the show. Florence clasped her hands calmly in front of her and stretched her neck up, appearing composed once more.
Dorcas' nerves seem to swallow up any words she could conjure. Half the time she was still dumbstruck around Florence. Sometimes she felt like a hollow pit. An empty void at the end of the universe, no good for fortune-telling or navigating by, not even with the intrigue of a black hole. She was just a blank stretch of sky, bruised black as midnight.
"What?" said Florence sharply. Where to begin? Florence took her arm and dragged her towards class, and the lump in Dorcas' throat swelled. Through the rest of the morning, she couldn't muster the words to speak. It felt like her tongue had been stolen from her. She needed something from Florence, but she couldn't elocute it. How do I not know you at all? Dorcas thought, watching her practise a spell. They kissed and tangled themselves together but Florence never spoke of her family, or why she had not been friends with Dorcas all those years before, or what she really thought of Branton or Glen or any of the others who rotated through the seats across from them. She didn't even tell Dorcas she liked her. Maybe they weren't meant to. But one sidewards glance from Florence set Dorcas ablaze, and the feel of the other girl's fingers against her flesh lingered for days afterwards. Dorcas had never wanted anyone the way she wanted Florence. She'd never known she could.
And she wanted more than Florence's lips, her palms, the featherlight graze of her front teeth, the only part of her that might be considered imperfect for they were half a hair too large. Dorcas loved them for that. But she wanted to talk to Florence, if only she could find the words. It seemed whenever Florence asked her something, Dorcas' whole world spilt forth. The least Dorcas could do was to shoulder some corner of Florence's burden in return. It was only fair.
But the morning came and went and though they had moments sharing notes, catching eyes, walking side-by-side with Dorcas' heart leaping out of her chest every time Florence's fingers brushed hers, a silent row of sinks as they waited for Cynthia to use the toilet, Dorcas could not manage any words at all. It was painful just to force them from her stomach, and they caught behind her teeth every time, slipping sidewards into that unknowable abyss inside her. Florence didn't talk either. Dorcas half-wanted an apology, but she knew it wouldn't come. She wanted Florence to take her hand and say, 'I don't know what came over me. I know you like me. You must, because I'm obsessed with you. My first thought when I wake up is of you.' Dorcas was not in the habit of reading romance novels, but every word she had read seemed to pour forth, men in velvet cloaks and astride horses turning into Florence, Florence in a garden, Florence in the snow, Florence hugging herself, Florence in Dorcas' bed. Dorcas would forgive her almost anything for the ghost of an apology.
But the only ghost that appeared was Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, the Gryffindor house ghost, as they passed a group of fourth-years in the halls.
They had two hours free, more or less, after History of Magic, as neither Dorcas nor Florence nor Cynthia took Care of Magical Creatures. Dorcas' meeting with Professor Nicholl at the end of lunch loomed, and for once she wished she would be going with Florence and Cynthia to Muggle Studies instead. The three of them retreated to the library to polish off essays and revise their notes (O. marched closer every day, and even when there wasn't homework, per se, to be done, there were concepts to review and incantations to master and theories to summarise). Florence sat in the middle, of course, and Dorcas clenched her jaw each time their elbows came within an inch of each other, when the long sapphire plume of Florence's quill danced along her sleeve, when Florence laughed at something Cynthia said, properly laughed, and her nose wrinkled infinitesimally. What goes on in your brain? Why do laugh freely here but not with the others? Why, after that laugh, did she looked over both shoulders and assume a grim mask of concentration? The questions taunted Dorcas, answers just out of reach, but it was better than dreading the march up the North Tower. Her stomach writhed and her tongue grew fat. She wished she knew what she had done wrong; it would be better to anticipate expulsion than to have no idea of what was coming at all.
They took lunch late, but Dorcas could barely eat. She picked at a sandwich and Cynthia beamed.
"Are you going on a diet?" she asked excitedly. "I've been thinking of going on one too. I really need to drop a size. We could be buddies?"
Dorcas couldn't eat at all after that, though it had nothing to do with an attempt at dieting.
Twelve-thirty came too soon, and people packed up their things and headed for their next lesson, Florence and Cynthia included. Dorcas' whole body quivered as she walked them to Muggle Studies, and then, feeling as if she might explode, she turned and made for the Divination classroom. Unfortunately, her feet found the familiar path without her thinking of anything but blind panic, and all too soon she was at the bottom of the ladder, staring up at the trapdoor. Hesitantly, she grasped one rung. Her palms were warm with sweat and slippery on the silver metal. Her intestines cramped. Hollow, she hauled herself up the ladder and rapped against the trapdoor. A moment, then it swung open, and she climbed into the classroom.
The tables were tidy and the fire quiet, with gentle purple plumes of incense drifting through the air aimlessly. The smell of violet and orchard was strong, if not unpleasant, and Dorcas coughed. Professor Nicholl wore sensible peach robes and round, owlish glasses Dorcas hadn't seen before. She stood by the fire, a cup of tea in her hands, and smiled when their eyes met.
"Thank you for being so prompt," she said, setting the cup down on her desk. White flowers bloomed in a vase, stretching towards the snatches of sunlight that came through the window behind Professor Nicholl's chair. Dorcas' heart bobbed nervously. Professor Nicholl didn't seem angry, but Dorcas knew that people could turn in an instant. She would think they were fine and then they'd be shouting at her, jabbing their fingers, tearing at their hair. Her parents were like that. She hadn't written them in some time, come to think of it. The letters were never pleasant. Cordial, yes, but not pleasant. She always felt like she'd said something wrong. They were fine people, of course, clever and upstanding, and she respected them. They just didn't get along as well as they might've all hoped when she was younger.
"Of course," Dorcas said quietly, turning her attention to the matter at hand. Professor Nicholl did not offer her a seat and so she stood awkwardly, fingers fidgeting against her robes, leg shaking a little. She tried to pull the scene apart, to think of what might be coming; no seat means it will be brief, probably. We're alone, so it's not tutoring. There aren't any papers out, so it likely isn't a review of an exam or an assignment. What else could it be? You don't need to be nervous, she told herself, but it did nothing to assuage the tightening knot in her chest.
"I'm sorry to bring you here at an unusual time, I know how much revision you have to do," Professor Nicholl continued, clasping her hands together. Dorcas mirrored her posture. What was so important you had to meet with me now? That it couldn't wait until Tuesday? Professor Nicholl stared expectantly at Dorcas, who realised she was supposed to say something.
"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, hoping to get to the point as quickly as possible, so she could leave and pack her bags or do whatever it was that would be required of her now. Professor Nicholl frowned, and in a dreadful flash fear pierced Dorcas' belly. Then the older woman's face softened.
"No," she said gently, and smiled. "What would you have done worth? I only wanted to discuss the future of your studies with you." Dorcas inhaled. "Your Occlumency studies, that is."
Dorcas' mouth dried. She'd been doing well, lately, she thought. She was making firm progress with Skill Seven, and in the past week, each time she had put her mind to it, she had been able to See the box, to practically feel it beneath her fingertips. It was close to every time, even though it took a great effort, and she was sure that by the month's end that part would be mastered. There was no reason for them to doubt her, and there was no good reason to cancel her lessons, if that was what they wanted to do. They had decided, for whatever reason, to teach her this, and now that she had it she wasn't going to let them snatch it away from her.
"I've been practicing every day," Dorcas said evenly, trying to keep her tone neutral. Her father said her insolence sometimes seeped through her words without her realising – she could never hear the change. So she put all of her effort into controlling it now. She refused to be accused of anger or defensiveness, to show anything they could use as a reason to get rid of this. The fire kindling in her bones surprised her – she hadn't thought she would burn so hot over this, that there would be some kind of anger at the idea of losing these lessons. She couldn't believe she could be angry with Professor Nicholl, of all people, who had done nothing but mentor her diligently.
"Good," Professor Nicholl nodded. Dorcas opened and closed her hands, forcing herself to make eye contact, to look calm. Professor Nicholl gazed out the window. "I've been speaking with the Headmaster," she said. Dorcas clamped town on the terror that roared inside her. Be normal, she urged herself. Stay calm. What would Florence do?
She had no idea why Florence did the things she did, but nevertheless, she knew that Florence would only smile, perhaps delighted at the thought of the Headmaster hearing about her, or wanting to be, and would be fearless. Florence was one of the bravest people Dorcas had ever met.
"Oh," she said, in her best imitation. Professor Nicholl chuckled.
"You needn't look worried."
Dorcas had been trying her hardest to look relaxed.
"Oh," she said again. Florence would have some little comment to make here, but Dorcas had nothing to insert. That emptiness was threatening to rip out her tongue again. It was all she could do to grasp the capacity for speech in her fists.
Professor Nicholl laughed again, and Dorcas wondered if she had once more missed a joke. She clenched her fists tighter, curling them against her stomach.
"Don't worry," Professor Nicholl said, showing all her teeth as she spoke. "It's exciting. You should be excited. I've been excited to tell you. That's why I didn't put it in the note – I wanted it to be a surprise!"
Not one particle of excitement entered Dorcas' body. Her dread only thickened. The incense caught her noise, tickling the runs of her nostrils, and she coughed again, lungs forcing the scent from her body.
Professor Nicholl made a short, breathy noise, and then nodded again. It was very strange, Dorcas thought.
"The Headmaster and I agreed that you're doing well," she begun, and Dorcas waited for the 'but'. "You are, as we thought, one of the brightest and most promising Divination students in the entire school. Yes," she added, in response to a question Dorcas had neither voiced nor had any intention to ask, "even rivalling a lot of the seventh-years. We thought that, in recognition of your progress and the extraordinary efforts you are making, and in light of the rapid approach of your Ordinary Wizarding Levels, it would be best to begin having lessons twice a week, rather than once. Of course, that's if you aren't too busy." Dorcas stared. Professor Nicholl flexed her hands, fingers knotted. "I know that one's social life can seem very important at fifteen."
For all that people said Dorcas missed, that did not pass her by. She regarded the proposition wearily. Twice a week. Now, a trill of excitement rose in her, and there was some part of her indeed that glowed at the praise. If she repeated it to Florence, she was sure the other girl would be so proud she would kiss her. The image unfurled in Dorcas' mind, announcing it in the common room, and Florence grabbing her cheeks in each hand and pressing her lips to hers, not caring who was watching, not caring what might be said. And wasn't that image precisely what Dorcas was being accused of; believing her social life was so very important.
But Florence was important to her. Not more important than Occlumency, but just as much. A mistake, she knew: there was no end to the amount of older students who advised against dating until after O. , at least not seriously: there was time for it in sixth year, and by the time seventh year came around you were mature enough to handle whatever had blossomed the year before, but fifth-years were too flighty and overwhelmed to juggle everything. But, she supposed, she and Florence had never been on a date.
The older students never explicitly said anything about snogging, or kissing another girl's neck, or losing lessons to staring at the dark lock of hair that persisted in brushing her cheek.
Dorcas had obeyed the rules.
She went through her schedule mentally, thinking of that Occlumency lesson from months ago, when she had searched for her schedule and instead come across the intoxicating floral scent of Florence's perfume. Something that had become a weekly reoccurrence.
She was busy after dinner every school day of the week; she had prefect meetings on Thursday mornings, earlier than anyone cared for but the only time they all could make it; on Monday afternoons she met Mary Macdonald for tutoring, on Tuesday afternoons she came for Occlumency lessons, and on Thursday afternoons she had Magical Theory. Monday night saw her at Astronomy Club until curfew, and on Tuesday mornings it was all she could do to drag herself to breakfast and then to Charms; and then on Tuesday night she had her Astronomy lesson, which made Arithmancy the next day all the more difficult. Prefect patrols on Thursday evenings didn't go overly late but they were rigorous, but she supposed she could do a Friday morning, if there was no other time. It was that, the time they were meeting now, between lessons, or her Friday afternoons, if Professor Nicholl was free. She did have a luxurious few hours free on Wednesday afternoons, between when Defence ended at ten to three and dinner started at ten past six. But those were for Florence. Since Cynthia had been asked by Branton to go to the fundraiser dance, they had spent their Wednesday afternoons together, and so Dorcas and Florence had done the same, 'revising' in the dormitory, curtains closed around Dorcas' bed. Sometimes they even finished essays.
Dorcas feared, head swirling, that she might lose her voice again. But it came, and with it a question. All day, she had been dying to ask a question.
"I'm confused," she started. "You and the Headmaster think it best in light of my O. approaching."
"Yes," said Professor Nicholl, but Dorcas was not finished.
"I enjoy learning Occlumency immensely. I do. But – at the moment, every spare minute I have is going to revising for my exams." And Florence. "I don't know how using some of that time to do another Occlumency lesson would help. It's not on our O.W.L, is it? It wasn't on the syllabus." Professor Nicholl's mouth opened and closed.
"No," she said briskly. "It's not on the syllabus." She breathed in, and stepped forward, drawing closer to Dorcas than she would've altogether liked. "The thing is, Dorcas, this is a really remarkable opportunity. We've seen this potential in you, and it would frankly be stupid not to nurture it. I know how much you have in your cauldron," and she grabbed Dorcas' hand, which made her flinch, "but I know you can handle it. So does the Headmaster. We can't afford to stop these lessons and there's no use in us going on with only one a week. You'll lose the rhythm. And understanding Occlumency is understanding some of the deepest parts of magic – it will enhance your entire understanding of what it is to be a witch." Dorcas' throat tightened. She couldn't say why, but she felt as if something was closing around her. In on her.
"What was that place you took me to?" she managed, but her voice was much quieter. "Dedalus Diggle's?" Something in Professor Nicholl's eyes frightened her. But she had to keep talking, or she knew her voice would be swallowed up for the rest of the night. "You said I was the only one who could do it."
"It was Sparrowsprout," Professor Nicholl answered. "A project of his."
What can only I do? It wasn't Occlumency; it was a rare skill, and rarer still to have a predisposition towards it, but it was not impossible nor something that was specific to only her: Professor Nicholl and the Headmaster could do it both, and surely they would be better for a task that needed those skills than a teenage girl. She tried to form the words, but it was so difficult, and her brain was screaming at her to run, to hide, to bury herself in her bed.
"I don't understand," she said again, each syllable a battle. Professor Nicholl reacted, and in that moment, Dorcas snatched her hand away, pulse racing. "I'm – I'm very thankful for the opportunity, I just don't understand. I'll – I'll do it, I can do Friday mornings or afternoons, or this time now. But I don't understand." The thought lodged in her brain. She felt as she had when she was six years old and couldn't figure out what it was her parents wanted from her. There was a space that she could not fill.
Just when she thought Professor Nicholl was going to shout, she sighed, and returned to normality.
"It's a school, Dorcas," she said. "All we do we do for your benefit. We're an institution of learning, though your peers tend to forget it, and we want to see you do the best that you can do. That's all it is." She hesitated. "I promise you."
Promise what?
But Dorcas' courage had run out, and was replaced by a clog of fatigue and the urge to hide. It took every bit of might to keep herself together. She's a teacher. It's lessons. You're frightened of shadows again. You're being abnormal again.
"Could we do this time, for our second lessons?" she asked, fingers flailing together. Professor Nicholl beamed.
"That would be excellent. Oh, I can't wait."
A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and happy holidays!
If you're interested in more creature comfort stuff, check me out on tumblr - ohmygodshesinsane.
