A/N: As always, read with care, especially Sirius' section of this chapter. Warnings include (but aren't limited to) disordered eating, fatphobia, mild violence, sexism, referenced child abuse, suicide ideation, and substance abuse (underage).
March 13th, 1976
The truth was that she'd underestimated the accuracy of their accounts. Or maybe she'd overestimated her abilities. Either way, the fifth-year workload penned her in the common room on one of the sunniest days of the year so far, pouring over her half of the Charms assignment, flipping through books and taking notes for Potions, and answering questions and drawing diagrams for Care of Magical Creatures. She wasn't the only one; Alisha was nearby, dejectedly moaning over History of Magic, and Remus and Peter sat by the window, planetary charts sprawled between them. Mary was up in the dormitory, curtains closed around her bed. Mary continued to avoid her, as if that would make Lily's concern magically disappear. Lily hadn't expected her to keep it up for nearly two weeks. The anger had faded, but it scarred.
Only Potter, Black, and Dale seemed unconcerned about the looming end-of-term exams, which for the fifth- and seventh-years, also meant mocks. Apparently Potter had had a tiff with his girlfriend, Black had had a tiff with Potter, and Dale was making a tidy profit off everyone's stress. Lily knew as a prefect she probably ought to work harder to intervene, but he was impossible to catch and she didn't feel like encouraging more people to grab their torches and pitchforks. The purists were enough. And right now, there wasn't anything on the curriculum that asked for a personal account of being hated by a quarter of the population, so she didn't want to waste a second on it. The realisation that her OWLs would be over in three months, and her future decided, provided more than enough anxiety for her to manage.
Alice commandeered the common room for them, bribing the younger students with sweets to go up to their dormitories or to stick to a small corner of the tower. The sixth-years needed no such incentive and were more than happy to take the excuse not to do work. Next year – next year Lily would be free. If only for a year. And she thought it would feel pretty good to look over at the fifth-years and shake her head and think, I'm glad that's over. But for now, she had to struggle through.
Two second-years burst through the portrait hole, shouting and waving their wands, and the whole room looked up from their work. The second boy through the hole pointed his wand at the other's ankle, screwing his face up in concentration.
"Labiacrumbus!" he shouted. Lily clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. As expected, nothing happened, and the boy in front made a very rude gesture for a twelve-year-old and scampered up the stairs. Lily met Remus' eye; they were the only prefects present. Remus nodded and stood.
Remus had been a little skint on the prefect duties of late, but Lily knew he had been unwell and then his group of mates imploded. She was just thankful he came to patrols every week, even if he was quiet and distracted through them, and had done his part of the Charms assignment. He looked ill again, paler and more tired, though it had only been a few weeks back that he'd been sick enough to miss his lessons.
Lily, it was a full moon.
Sev's words came unbidden to her mind. He had been so sure. He was always so sure that there was something weird about Remus. But then, Remus was the easiest of the group to pick at. Peter was too shy to give much ammunition, and Potter and Black were indomitable. Remus stuck his neck out just enough to wack an axe at.
Remus put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You shouldn't mess around with spells you haven't learned yet," he advised. "You'll end up with furry hands for a week." Potter, third year. Lily remembered it vividly. He'd taken to creeping around and appearing out of thin air to put his textured hand on people's arms. The time he'd done it to Lily, she'd reacted on instinct and shot a jinx so overpowered at him that it threw him across the corridor. He hadn't tried again.
"But do you even learn this spell?" the boy frowned. "Dagworth said it wasn't in the textbooks." Dagworth was right. With a twist of her stomach, Lily realised what spell the boy had been trying to use. The spell Severus had started planning for Potter all those months ago. The one he had perfected with her book. The one he'd used on Remus. Her heart stuck in her throat. Remus was surprisingly calm about it all.
"It's not," he acknowledged. "Look, learn some Latin. It helps with the incantations. And it's four syllables, not five. L-sound – something – c-sound – something. You were close."
"That doesn't help at all," the boy pouted.
"What's your name?"
"David Gudgeon."
"Alright. Do you want me to take points, or do you want to go look up Latin?"
The kid made the obvious choice. Remus raised his eyebrows at Lily, clearly showing just how impressed he was, and then went back to Peter. Sev used that against you. I helped him. I thought it was going to be for Potter – I thought it was a nice hobby – I helped him hurt you.
Her muscles tightened. She didn't want to look. She was loathe to believe Sev.
Reluctantly, she took out her Astronomy revision. Moon charts were bound to be on their mock exam, and Professor Oddpick said that if he were to be preparing for it, he'd take another look at them. As practice, Lily had plotted the moon for the previous two months and the next two months.
The full moon last month had been on the night of the fifteenth of February, and their Charms assignment had been given on the seventeenth. The full moon this month was in the early morning of the sixteenth. Less than four days away.
And Remus was starting to look ill again.
Lily shoved her charts away, burying them at the bottom of her bookbag. It would be stupid to call it anything but coincidence; after all, Remus had been away on the seventeenth of February, not the fifteenth. She didn't know where he'd been on the fifteenth, but there was no reason to think he'd spent it as some monster.
And Remus could well be over his illness by the time the full moon came around this month. It could be a day or two's fatigue and finished.
Sev would think it was something.
Lily groaned frustratedly. Sev thought everything was something. What was most likely true? Remus had a bad constitution and got sick easily, and some of those times were bound to end up at the full moon – just as he probably got sick on a new moon, or a crescent moon, or a half moon sometimes. Lily usually didn't stick her head out the window to check the moon phase when she came down with a cold. Why would Remus?
The portrait hole swung open, and relief flooded Lily. She needed a distraction – she couldn't keep going round and round in circles on this, or she was going to have to go talk to Severus, and she really didn't want to. Not after how he'd treated Remus the other day. And she already knew what he'd say.
"Marcus," she said, standing suddenly. The portrait hole swung shut behind him, and Marcus McLaggen stopped, adjusting his horn-rimmed reading glasses. He smiled widely, all white teeth against dark skin. He looked nice with glasses, Lily thought. They suited him well. Struck by sudden inspiration, she scooped up her things and packed her bag. Marcus joined her, passing her books carefully.
"Are you well?" he asked. Lily laughed and indicated her books. Marcus frowned in concern. "Are you having trouble?"
"Not trouble," Lily supposed. "It's just a shame it's not storming. I work well in thunderstorms, on rainy days, even with snow. But not with that!" She jokingly flung her hand towards the window. Marcus studied her. She met his eyes. The glasses reframed his face entirely. They brought his long lashes into focus, highlighted the angle of his cheekbones. She felt a bit light-headed.
"You should go somewhere darker, then," Marcus said wisely.
"Mm. True, true," she said, buttoning her satchel and slinging it over her shoulder. "Are you busy?"
"I've just come back from patrols," he said. Of course. He and Laura had taken the Gryffindor shift today. "I was going to go up to my dormitory and work on my Potions essay."
"Bet it's dark in there," Lily said. "I'd go up to my dormitory, but I think one of my roommates would rather not see me at the minute."
Marcus hesitated, and Lily could see his mind turning. A slither of guilt curled in her stomach. She ought to be straightforward and outright ask, but she just couldn't face it. If he said no – which he was perfectly entitled to, but she hoped he didn't, all the same – she wouldn't be able to stand sitting in the common room with questions chipping away at her. She'd have to go see Sev. She wouldn't be able to stop herself, even though they'd row and she'd end up in tears and know something she really didn't want to.
But she still felt guilty.
"There's somewhere else," he said haltingly. "We could both have a desk." Lily's jaw tightened. He glanced back at the stairs and his eyes flitted between the others in the room. What would it look like? For better or worse, people gossiped when a girl followed a boy upstairs. It would get back to Mary. It would get back to Glen. She didn't feel like fielding questions from Marlene. But all the same, the thought of something wrong – just a little bit – flared in her stomach.
"It sounds nice," she said lightly. Marcus blinked a few times, lashes fluttering.
"It is."
Lily followed him out, stopping only briefly to exchange notes with Remus for their Charms work. She made to go down the corridor and follow the stairs, but Marcus only crossed the wing and rapped on a worn grey stone. It shimmered. Lily stopped dead. Marcus looked over her shoulder and gestured for her to do as he did. She slowly walked to him.
"It's like the platform," he said quietly. "Rap thrice then twice." And without hesitation, he walked into the wall – and disappeared.
Just like the platform, then. Lily couldn't believe she'd never known that – well, that whatever the bloody hell it was was right there. Within view of the Fat Lady. How had Marcus found it? Lily had no knack for discovering anything in the castle. She was lucky to find a well-signed toilet. She blew air through her lips and did as Marcus said. Three knocks, then two. The stone shimmered again, a faint, calm blue. Lily adjusted her satchel strap and stepped, trusting Marcus not to prank her.
She went cold through the stone, but warmed the moment she entered the other room. It was long and narrow, lined with books and bathed in golden light from swinging lanterns overhead. Two portraits hung on the far wall, framing a vibrant fireplace. Marcus smiled at her, gesturing to the wooden table in the centre of the room, already equipped with quills and inkpots. One shelf held rolls of fresh parchment, too many to count.
Lily's first instinct was to swear, but she controlled herself. "Wow. Has this always been here?"
"As far as I know," said Marcus. "You should sit." He did, and so she took the chair nearer to her. An unearthly groan slipped from her mouth. It was bliss on her back, cushioned and comfortable. Marcus looked bemused. Lily stretched out her legs and then crossed them, hefting her satchel onto the table and unpacking.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't spread the news," Marcus said, aligning his textbooks neatly. "I'd hate for someone like Potter to come here and ruin it."
"This is a haven and can't be disturbed. I agree," Lily grinned. It really was nice. Lily might've liked a window, but save for that, it was well-equipped and well-decorated. Marcus stopped when his things were tidy, and Lily belatedly neatened hers. She wasn't messy by nature, but she usually didn't bother with pin-point precision on the alignment of quills. That they were in a line was enough. Marcus nodded when she tapped them into place.
"What are you to start with?" he asked. Lily thumbed through her work.
"Care of Magical Creatures will probably be quickest," she decided. "It'll make me feel accomplished." She pulled her diagrams out and started flipping through her textbook. Marcus frowned, a crease forming between his thick brows.
"I can't believe a girl like you takes Care of Magical Creatures," he said, unfurling a roll of parchment covered in tiny black runes. Lily laughed.
"A girl like me?"
"You're intelligent," he said, as she found the pages on porlocks and began labelling their hooves. "And I don't believe you want a career in creature work, do you? You're in Professor Slughorn's club. I assumed you were destined for the Ministry."
"Thanks," Lily said. "And no, I don't think so. But I really don't know. Probably something in potions, and I guess that's why I chose it. It's nice to see both ends of the ingredient-making process." He smiled gently and looked away. Lily leaned forward. "What?"
"Potions is dirty work. Would you really do it?"
"I don't mind getting my hands dirty," Lily said honestly, trying not to laugh again. It was funny that he'd be so taken aback by it. She supposed they didn't share lessons – he didn't know how much she liked it. Before she'd been a prefect, that had been the only thing most people knew about her. Marcus pushed his glasses up his nose. He opened his mouth, but hesitated. Lily narrowed her eyes playfully. "What?" she asked again. He shook his head.
"Nothing."
"Tell me."
"I shouldn't distract you," Marcus said firmly, taking his quill in hand. "This is a room for work."
"Clean work," Lily corrected, one corner of her lips twitching upwards. Marcus looked at her through his frames, expression unreadable, dark eyes liquid, shifting in the light. Lily met his gaze, breathing in the moment. The shape of his eyelids, the flare of his nose. And when his mouth opened again and he inhaled, she ducked and scribbled away on her diagram.
Lily finished them off quickly enough, and moved onto Charms, while Marcus worked silently. She didn't know for certain what she was doing, but her heart beat faster when she remembered his look, when his veined hands came into her line of sight. Each time Remus or Severus or Mary entered her mind, she forced herself to look up at him, to take the measure of his glasses and his jaw. The glasses were transformative. She swore he'd never looked like that before.
After an hour and a half, Lily shut her book loudly and sat up straight. Marcus dotted the end of a sentence and set his quill down.
"Thank you," she said. "For taking the patrol today. And pretty much always. It's appreciated." Marcus smiled awkwardly and fiddled with his badge.
"I know how busy fifth year is, and I expect seventh year is worse. I think it should be a sixth-year's duty to supplement," he said. Duty. He sounded like someone out of an old book. What other sixteen-year-old boy cared about things like that? Nobody in Cokeworth, she knew for sure. Well, maybe Sev. It'd be the kind of thing he'd like to think he would say.
"I'll try to do the same for you next year," Lily said. It was the least she could do. Marcus' smile broadened and he pressed it down.
"Lily," and his voice rose higher, "could I ask you something?"
And Lily knew what he was going to ask. And, unexpectedly, she didn't mind. She wanted something else in her life, that wasn't work or drama or endless bad news. And if he kept wearing those glasses – she wouldn't even mind if he did what Glen had. She wouldn't mind at all.
"Go ahead," she encouraged, teeth darting across her lip. Marcus' throat bobbed and he adjusted his badge again, before talking to the desk.
"Have you heard of Swivenhodge?" he mumbled. Lily blinked.
"Erm," she said. "No. Not…really." Never in her life. He deflated. Lily scrambled. "Is it…Swedish?"
"What?" he looked blank.
"Well, the Swi… erm, Swiss would probably make more sense." His confusion grew. Lily winced. "What is it?" she asked finally, adopting a soothing tone. He bent his head so low his nose nearly touched the wood.
"It's a sport," he said in a small voice. "It's not as widely played as quidditch, but we have a small competition here… Sometimes we are awarded points. I play."
"Oh," Lily said. She'd never pinned him as the athletic type. "That's nice." She pivoted; she needed to say something good. She needed something else to occupy her mind and her time and her hands and he was sitting in front of her, if she could only figure out how to do it. And he was everything he ought to be: kind, clever, responsible, dutiful. He'd thrown his plans out the window today to spend time with her. It meant more than she could find the words for.
"I'd love to see you play," she said, leaning down to see his face. He tilted his head up.
"You would?"
"I would." And in a moment of boldness, she reached out and touched the rim of his glasses. He froze.
"We have a game," he managed. "Next weekend. Sunday. If you aren't otherwise occupied."
"I'll be there," Lily said. "You can show me what it's all about. Swiss or Swedish or whatever else."
"It's not Swiss or Swedish," Marcus frowned. Lily grinned.
"Well, now I know something about it." And something else about you. And they settled back into their work, Lily's chest a little lighter – but her stomach a little tighter.
March 14th, 1976
Mary had never been to Hogsmeade alone.
She nearly hadn't come. The sunshine of the day before turned to bitterly cold rain overnight, and Marlene had left the window open after a midnight cigarette, which led to a row in the dorm that morning between all five of them. Lily thought Marlene shouldn't be smoking in the dormitory; Mary had a sore throat and sniffles; Alisha had left 'Intermediate Transfiguration' out and no matter how many Drying Charms she tried, the pages were holey and brittle; Amy simply thought it proved Marlene was a troglodyte. Marlene and Amy shouted and Mary shut her curtains, only for Lily to knock lightly on her bedpost.
"You should have some Pepperup," she said. "It's better with food. Come to breakfast."
It was an olive branch, but one with barbs. Mary wanted to go back to normal with Lily. She felt like a ghost without her friends. The only person who had really spoken to her was Dorcas Meadowes, and that was only because Dorcas was tutoring her. Mary dug her nails into her palm. She was practically invisible. And her notes were terrible, and somehow she always missed the latest notice or piece of gossip, and she was so lonely. She wanted to go have breakfast with Lily.
But she couldn't. And she couldn't explain it, either. Lily wouldn't understand. Nobody could. Nobody knew what it was like for her. Mary could tell by the looks on their faces they all thought she was some silly little girl unhappy with how she looked. Mary was unhappy about how she looked, but it wasn't like - it wasn't like she was choosing to lose weight, or skip meals. She had to.
"I'll have some later, thank you," Mary said, voice small and polite. Lily's gentle smile hardened.
"Sure," she said, and pulled the curtain shut. Mary pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged herself tightly, still clad in her floral nightgown. She heard the other girls dress and shower and apply makeup and finally the door swung shut for the final time, after Alisha doubled back to grab a pack of gum. Mary peeked through the curtains into the empty dormitory and hesitantly slipped out.
Breakfast would be over in half an hour and the first carriages to Hogsmeade would leave half an hour after that today. In lieu of making a decision, she did something bad, something wicked. Something she had never done before. She bundled up her clothes for the day (a muggle dress with a plain cloak over the top, which she prayed looking wizard enough to get her by), stuffed them and her hairbrush and a handful of makeup products into a bag, and crept out of the dormitory. The common room was almost empty, with everyone either eating or sleeping in, and the halls were much the same. Twice, she nearly got lost, and wandered tearfully until something jogged her memory. She passed the statue and counted on her fingers until the door lay before her. She teetered. If she went in and someone else was inside, she'd be in such trouble. And if she went in and someone else entered – well, that was even more terrifying. The door locked, apparently, but not always, and Mary didn't know how to check.
She pressed her ear against the door. Nothing. Could she be that lucky? Was everyone really at breakfast? It was her last moment to turn back and be a good girl.
But she wanted this. There was an anger bubbling between the fragile bones of her wrists and she just needed to have a moment of relief. And Lily had told her she could come whenever she liked. She didn't know if their row made the invitation invalid. But if it did, and Lily got into trouble for Mary being there – well, Lily shouldn't have told her in the first place. It wasn't Mary's fault.
(She already felt sick with guilt.)
"Lambskin," she whispered.
Nothing happened. Mary tried the door and nudged it open. A sweet smell of soap and lavender floated out. Mary gulped, checked the corridor for people, and slid inside.
The prefects' bathroom was easily bigger than the common room, with a vaulted roof twice as high and stained glass windows that doused the white marble in rainbow light. A bath the size of a swimming pool sunk into the ground, lined by golden gleaming taps encrusted with bright jewels. A mermaid slept in a portrait, scales flashing in the technicolour sunshine, and stalls lined the far side of the room, each one spotless. In a daze, Mary closed the door behind her. Fluffy white cloud-like towels hung over gold racks, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling over the bath, candles glowing bright. Spectacular pillars rose to the ceiling, and upon closer inspection, carved bubbles floated up the path to the roof. Lily had never told her it was so grand.
In shock, she bumbled to the tub's edge, where plush ottomans of every colour awaited. She set her folded clothes upon the maroon. Mary had imagined maybe a few claw-footed baths and a few nice soaps; not this. She was impossibly small in this monstrous room. She slowly walked the perimeter of the bath, frowning at the taps; which was for plain water? She fingered a purple one, heart thudding. She twisted. Clear water, tinted lilac, poured into the tub. It carried that same lavender scent as it splashed to the bottom of the pool.
Mary checked the door and found the lock before she tried another tap. This one spurted forth bubbles. The water rose quicker than she expected, and after a few more tries she turned it hot. After double-checking the door and going through the stalls to ensure they were empty, she undressed. Thick steam caressed her skin, leaving the air warm and sticky. The mirrors fogged and condensation formed on the windows. The light bounced through the steam, leaving little rainbows on her arms and legs and shoulders. She turned the taps off and toed the water. Cool enough to get in.
Warm enough to relax. She skittishly lowered herself over the edge and dropped into the water. She could only just touch here, and the floor sloped after a few feet. Mary hesitantly lifted her feet. She bobbed weightlessly in the water. It was a queer feeling. She pulled herself to another set of taps and cupped a buttery swirl of soap in her hands. She washed herself thoroughly, save for her hair, which she tied up. Her heart leapt into her mouth when she dipped her face into the water, and when she resurfaced she blinked furiously, squinting through heavy lashes, droplets beading at their ends and splashing onto her cheeks. Her eyes tingled.
She put more bubbles into the bath. She felt exposed, naked in this giant hall. She knew she'd locked the door, but with every noise her head snapped around to face it. After a while, the fear eased. It seemed less and less likely she would be caught. She clung to the edge of the pool and tugged herself around the length of each side, kicking to keep herself afloat. Mary wondered if things like this were sins as well as disobediences. It broke the school rules to sneak into the prefects' bathroom, but did God frown upon it? They never explicitly said that non-prefects couldn't visit the password. The restriction was on prefects giving out the password to others. Lily had been the one to do that.
Mary knew, though, that if she had to justify it, it wasn't the right thing. She meandered guiltily through the water. When she let go of the edge, it was hard to keep her head up. The bubbles crowded her. She batted them away. It didn't help her breathe.
Soon her stomach was so tight she couldn't think, and it cried for hunger as well as with regret. She dried and dressed and gave the empty tub one last, longing look before she crept to the door. What if someone was waiting outside? She had not thought about getting out. Her eyes burned. She would just have to run, and pray, and if she was caught – she had done the wrong thing. She was bad. She deserved to be punished.
Mary flung herself through the door and bolted down the corridor, though for all she could see it was empty. She didn't stop running until she reached the seventh floor, where she lodged herself in a broom cupboard to catch her breath. Her head spun dizzily. Her lungs burned. She felt sick and shaky and she was crying before she knew it. She rifled through her clothes and found she had lost her socks. Maybe that was her punishment. You idiot, she thought. Why do you have to be so stupid? What if someone found one of her socks and realised it belonged to her? And if it was right outside the prefect's bathroom – they'd know! Why did she never think anything through, why was she so – so –
Mary covered her face with her hands and moaned. She was pathetic. She didn't know what she had been thinking. Running around and going behind Lily's back for the sake of a bath. As if that would fix anything. As if Mary could ever fix anything. As if Lily would want to fix things with her.
In the end, she went back to the dormitory, blushing and keeping her head down and begging God not to let anyone notice her pile of clothes and the water darkening the ends of her hair. But the corridors and common room and dormitory remained empty, and when Mary sat on her bed once more, she faced only the deafening silence of the hollow room.
She laid there for an hour, running her fingers over the beads of her rosary and murmuring the words, trying to distract herself from the gnawing pain in her stomach. At an hour and one minute, Alisha burst into the room, so dishevelled she took no notice of Mary. She swore to herself and threw her things across the room as she hunted for something, which turned out to be her purse.
"It's going to take me an hour to get back," Alisha moaned as she left, pulling a chunk of her blonde hair. Mary sat up as the door creaked shut.
Her cohort would be in Hogsmeade now, nursing butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks or sniffing around Zonko's. She thought of Honeydukes and her hunger threatened to become unbearable. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the sickly sweetness of the butterscotch lollies, until she thought she might be ill. They were more spit than food but all the same would add ten pounds to her hips. They weren't good enough to risk it.
Mary went to the window and stared across the grounds. The day remained bright, though soft grey clouds beaded at the horizon, the mountain peaks threatening to pop them like balloons. Closer was the Whomping Willow, swatting snippily at the first-years, and then the Forbidden Forest, a dark thicket that went on forever, until it stopped staccato at the train tracks and the village. From here it was a tiny set in a snow globe, miraculously maintaining its white tops though the wintry weather had given up on the castle. She imagined Lily and Marlene taking their usual booth in the pub, wearing only light spring scarves and smiles, laughing about their revision and last week's party and the silliest stories in the paper. Marlene would stick her head into the music shop and moon over the newest records, and Lily would ponder at Potage's Cauldrons, and both would spin around Gladrags, picking outfits blind and trying bracelets and hairclips and the loudest cloaks. That, more than anywhere, was where Mary wanted to be. The thought of them in there without her made it difficult to breathe. She made for her rosary, but Berlioz laid atop it, and she picked him up like a baby and held him tight to her chest until her tears dried.
Mary had never been to Hogsmeade alone. But today, red-nosed and blotchy-cheeked, she dressed and quivered and climbed into a carriage with three complete strangers and watched Hogwarts grow smaller through the window. She counted herself lucky that the strangers were girls, because boys intimidated her far too much. Though maybe it wasn't luck if she'd seen four boys heading for the remaining carriages and hidden behind a tree for ten minutes so she wouldn't have to risk sharing a seat with one of them. The girls were third-years, and after quizzical glances at the start, ignored her in favour of thoroughly slandering Professor Oddpick.
"There's a reason he's called Odd," said one, who had been repeating that point for more or less the entire journey. Mary pressed herself into the corner, skin bruising.
They were let out at the top of the High Street, and predictably the third-years spilled towards the pub. The street was thick with people, hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, shouldering past and peering in windows. Signs above creaked gently in the wind, and on a corner a long-haired witch sung, accompanied by a chorus of floating violins and an old man with a harpsichord. The door of the Three Broomsticks chimed constantly. Pointed hats rose like the mountains surrounding them, stretching above the crowd. The Minister frowned in black-and-white over the forest green lip of a rubbish bin, surrounded by chocolate wrappers and wrinkled receipts. Flowers sprung up brightly from windowsill planters, and an elderly witch picked one after a furtive glance up and down the lane. She could smell strawberries and baking bread, and a seventh-year left Dogweed and Deathcap with a soil-streaked face and a large pot of dancing daisies, which bent towards Mary as they passed.
She ducked and dodged through groups of people until finally she reached the fuchsia shopfront. Girls stood with their backs to the window, pouring over some cloak or another, and there were more deeper in the store. Her throat closed. By some miracle, Mary forced herself inside.
Pointed hats hung from every hook or corner available, along with bolts of multicoloured material. A rack full of discount robes acted as a barricade to create an entryway, and girls stood on both sides, pulling out fabrics and humming softly. Above a wall of folded lacy undershirts pouted Fallon Selwyn in a coloured poster, leaning over and adjusting her vest and pants and large velvet hat. She was so beautiful that Mary felt she didn't deserve to look. The angle of her cheekbones, her long flowing hair, perfectly tousled, her painted nails, long lashes, the swell of her chest – Mary averted her eyes, blushing. What she would give to look a bit like Fallon Selwyn.
Mary drifted along the racks, counting the sizes. When she got to hers, she tugged at the clothes. Mostly Gladrags only stocked robes and cloaks and the sort of things magical people wore, though there was a small corner for jeans and t-shirts and jackets. They had a few jumpers around. But she didn't dare go for anything but witches' clothes; there were girls she knew were purebloods in the shop, and Slytherins, too; she wasn't that daft, even if she was an idiot. So she pulled out a flowy set of pink-and-orange robes with bell sleeves. From a glance at the tag she knew she couldn't afford it – her parents scarcely believed in an allowance when she wasn't there to earn it, and refused to send her wizarding money – but she wanted to pretend that she could, if only for a minute. Usually she'd finger it and Lily and Marlene would insist she try it on, and she'd stumble into the changerooms bashful and come out red-faced, and they'd clap her and tell her how great she looked, and that one day she ought to come back and buy it.
Nobody lied like that to her today. She returned it to the rack.
She hovered nevertheless, feigning interest in the clothes, though the worry building inside her drowned any chance of joy. She didn't even know whyshe felt that way. But with everything she looked at, she thought, that would look terrible on me. Mary gazed longingly to the rack of the smallest size, where Flo Diggory stood, laughing easily with her blonde friend., Then Mary started; behind them stood Dorcas, smiling thinly and looking at the ground when not directly addressed. Mary frowned. Dorcas looked as uncomfortable as Mary felt.
Mary somehow forged forward, panicked but also determined in a way she didn't know possible, and she tapped Dorcas on the shoulder. Dorcas' head shot up and she stepped backwards. A wave of immediate regret washed over Mary.
"I'm sorry," she squeaked. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"I'm sorry," Dorcas said immediately. Flo Diggory looked over her shoulder and Mary nearly died.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, voice sweet as sugar, fixing Mary with her blue gaze. She was as pretty as Fallon Selwyn, and left Mary similarly stupid.
"Yes," she managed, very high-pitched. "I was just saying 'hello' to Dorcas."
"Oh. How nice." Florence returned to her examinations. The blonde – Cynthia Lewis, Mary remembered, the one who had thought she was simple - waved before mimicking Flo. Mary returned her wave once her back was turned. Stupid.
Dorcas and Mary stood awkwardly together. Dorcas scratched her arm. Mary shrunk.
"It's a nice day," she said. Dorcas nodded.
"Yes." Mary might have been upset if anyone else had given a one-word answer, but she knew Dorcas and didn't mind so much. Dorcas didn't expect her to fill up the silence; she was happy if Mary said as little as she did. It was kind of nice.
"Do you come here often?" Mary asked. Dorcas grinned, unexpectedly. Her teeth were crooked, not like Fallon's or Flo's, but it was a bit endearing.
"No," Dorcas said bluntly. "The only thing they make for me are the fabrics. And the hats. I have enough hats."
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Lewis said automatically, swishing her hair back and forth. Mary knew what Dorcas meant. It felt rubbish to try things on that didn't fit, and worse when everyone else pretended they did. Like she was a child who couldn't see the truth with her own eyes.
"I thought Scribbulus would be your shop here," Mary said. "Or Tomes and Scrolls." She could imagine Dorcas pouring over quills or inkpots or vintage books.
"We take turns," Dorcas said. Mary knew what that was like.
"If you're happy," she said, but she knew it made no difference. When she and Lily and Marlene came to the village, she did whatever they liked; it was easier. Saying she wanted to do something else was scary.
"Tutoring tomorrow," Dorcas said. Mary nodded.
"I'll see you."
With nowhere else to go, Mary slipped around a corner and into the 'accessories' section, full of costume jewellery and hats and stockings and bags and socks in outrageous colours. She froze. Lily and Marlene tried on necklaces, Marlene looping several around her neck and laughing toothily, while Lily's nose scrunched and she added a bracelet to her arm. Mary's heart plummeted. They looked beyond happy, radiant. Without her. Did they miss her at all? They collapsed into each other, giggling, and Mary's eyes prickled with tears. They looked like best friends. They were best friends, and now free of their third wheel.
Mary turned sharply and scurried through the people and around displays, squeezing her fists so she didn't cry. She burst out onto the street and blindly made for the carriages, breathing hard. Peter Pettigrew and Lupin and Potter staggered past, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes, and she broke into a run. She didn't want to look into Pettigrew's face and think about how she had rejected him; she had been so wicked, she had refused to go with him to the dance, and for what? Just to be cruel, just to be horrible. It had felt right at the time, but now she was convinced it had been unthinkably selfish. She darted wide around the Gamekeeper and two red-headed men, and ended up in the mouth of an alleyway.
"Shit. Aren't I fortunate?"
The words chilled Mary to the bone. She patted herself frantically for her wand, and the older boy laughed. He stood at the end of the alley, stamping out a cigar. No, she thought. No, no, no.
The first time they had met, she had not known him. He had just been an older Slytherin, more adult than child. Now his shadow haunted her dreams and dogged her steps. And when she had woken up in the hospital wing, body bruised and strength sapped, she had guessed his name. It had come to her in one of the dark tunnels of unconsciousness. She had not been certain, though. Now she was. She stepped backwards, bottom lip wobbling, and mustered the courage she had found before, when she spoke to Dorcas, and when she snuck into the prefects' bathroom.
"Mulciber," she called him, and something in his face responded to his name.
"Mudblood," he replied. She flinched. "You've a penchant for being places you shouldn't all on your own. Did your mother never warn you, or do muggle bitches truly leave their whelps for the wolves?" Her whole body shook, but she managed to grasp her wand. She desperately ran through everything she'd ever learned in Defence; disarming was best, they said, and then running, but if you could put up a Shield Charm in case before you disarmed –
"Expelliarmus." Her wand slipped from her hand and landed neatly in his. He smiled. "You don't have to make this difficult. If half of you were clever enough to understand that, you'd all be better off. Nobody wants to hurt you. We give you options, but you never take them." He advanced on her, stowing her wand in his pocket. Mary's knees bent. She staggered into the wall, trying to keep herself off, trying not to cry. She knew if she screamed, there were people who could rush to her, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. Mulciber's shoulders sagged. Mary felt like she was back in that corridor again, Dorcas disappeared up a flight of stairs, all on her own. She wobbled. He had said something about Lily – she couldn't remember. Was it Lily he wanted this time? Or would any muggle-born do? She whimpered. You stupid. She managed to pray. Please God help me. Please help me. Please, please, please, please help me. Mulciber rubbed his face.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said, voice liquid. She stared at his hands, trying to anchor herself, but she felt as if she was drifting outside of her body. He seemed very far away, and the wall was nothing behind her. She sank to the ground. Mulciber sighed. "I said, I don't want to hurt you. All I want, all any of us want, is for you to realise that your place isn't here. Don't you understand? Wouldn't you rather be at home with your grubby trousers and still photographs and funny little carriages? Why did you have to steal a wand for yourself? Why do you push us into hiding and then clamour to join us?"
Mary squeaked in fear, but through it somehow formed words. "I never stole anything," she said, feeling sick. "Stealing is wrong."
Mulciber crouched down, pointing his wand lazily at her. "On that we agree," he said, and laughed. "We aren't so different that we can't negotiate." Mary pressed her palms into the rough gravel, trying to bring herself back. But she was peering through a tunnel into his face. "Get your OWLs if you like. You've come this far. But you can leave after that with no questions asked. Go back to your world and tap on the buttons and get married and mind your own business. Give your wand to a second-hand shop and help some poor family save a little money. Don't presume to keep thieving – time, work, resources. Go back to your little muggle lives and pretend this was all a bad dream. That's all we want for you. Get together with your little mudblood friends – Evans and so forth – and go back together. Is that so bad? Or do you believe that the muggles truly are inferior to wizardkind?" Mary whimpered again.
"I never stole anything," she managed again, weaker. "I promise, I wouldn't, not ever." Mulciber moved his wand closer, so it graved her chest. Mary gasped. He reached out and brushed his fingers across her cheek. She saw it as if from above. She never felt him.
"You're pretty, for a mudblood," he sighed. "Go on. Go home. I'm not saying it to frighten you. The time is coming where we're going to have to make a stand, and if you're only half as stupid as you look, you'll be tucked away in the countryside fat with some plumaber's child and nobody will ever think to seek you out. If enough if you do the right thing, maybe there'll be peace. Don't you want that?" He pinched her cheek, hard enough that she fell back into her body. He was so closer to her that hot tears bubbled onto her cheeks. Not only because he was a Slytherin, but because he was a boy, and so much bigger than her. He let go of her and then patted her cheek so hard it stung like a slap.
Mulciber stood and strode away, pausing at the other end of the alleyway to toss her wand. It landed in her lap with a smack. Mary's fingers trembled over it, terrified that to touch it would result in a hex. Mulciber shook his head.
"Think about it, if you can," he said. "We're raised to be gentlemen, you know. Nobody wants to hurt a female."
But he had hurt her before. In January. Scars from it branded her legs.
"You're lying," she said, wiping her wet face. Mulciber opened his mouth.
"Mary?" And Lily, like an avenging angel, swooped down upon her with her wand in hand. Mary practically threw herself into her arms, bursting into a fresh round of tears. "Shh, you're alright." She stroked Mary's hair. Mary lost herself in Lily's shoulder, clinging to her, only glad to have someone who knew what they were doing, who could protect her.
"Evans," said Mulciber. "I was hoping to see you." Lily snorted, jolting Mary.
"What for? Are you Sev's errand boy?"
"'Sev'? How sweet. Are you seeing each other, then?"
"Hardly. What did you do to Mary?" Lily hauled her to her feet and stood with an arm around her, training her wand on Mulciber. Mary belatedly joined her. It was a poor show of force, but he couldn't disarm them both at the same time.
"I talked to her, Evans, is that a crime? I heard you were all for inter-house relations." Lily's gaze flickered to her. Mary swallowed.
"He didn't hex me or anything," she mumbled. Lily pressed her lips together.
"Did he swear at you?" Mary hesitated and shook her head. Was mudblood a swear?
"It's as if you don't trust Slytherins, Evans," said Mulciber coolly. "Wand out and all. It's disappointing to think you'd give into house biases so easily. Sad, from a prefect. I'll be seeing you." He turned with a swish of his robes and stalked out of the alleyway. Mary and Lily lowered their wands.
It was then that Mary completely realised that Lily was half-hugging her, despite their being in a fight. They broke apart.
"He really didn't hurt you?" Lily demanded, waving her wand over Mary. Mary shook her head.
"No," she said in a small voice, "he was just a bit mean." Lily nodded, checked the alleyway, and slipped her wand into her pocket. Mary did the same. They stood in silence a moment.
"I saw you in the shop," Lily said, folding her arms across her chest. Mary swallowed. "That's why I came after you. But I had to look. I didn't think you'd be down here."
"I was dodging people," Mary mumbled.
"You've been dodging me," Lily said. Mary looked down. Lily sighed. "You just went off at me. I'm worried about you. I'm not stupid, I can see what you're doing, and I'm not going to sit by and watch you treat yourself that way. It's unhealthy!"
"You don't get it," Mary said to her shoes. "I'm trying to make myself healthy."
"Mary, that's -"
"I don't need you to be questioning me about it or telling me what I should or shouldn't do, I'm not stupid!" Mary said, and she felt like she might cry again. You stupid, stupid crybaby. She hated herself for it. Why was she such a tap?
"I don't think you're stupid!"
"But you treat me like a child," Mary said, and she thought of Dorcas with Diggory and Lewis. "I know what I am and I know what I'm doing and it's not fair for you to be cross with me because of what I do to myself, because it's not up to you. It's up to me!" Lily scoffed.
"I can be cross with you for mistreating yourself," she said hotly.
"Fine, then be cross!"
"Fine!"
Lily turned away, and Mary hugged herself, just wanting to disappear. She was never coming to Hogsmeade on her own ever again.
Then Lily turned back, face blotchy and set.
"It scares me," she said, tucking her hands under her armpits. Mary's stomach flipped.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"No." Lily stepped forward. "I'm sorry you feel like you have to do that to yourself. I'm sorry I've been – it just scares me." Mary hunched her shoulders.
"You haven't been anything," she whispered. "It's my fault."
"It's not your fault," Lily said firmly. "I just – I felt like you'd realise and you'd stop it and then it'd be fine and we'd go back to normal. That was stupid. And I was angry because I felt like it wasn't fair of you to be angry with me for trying to help."
"I didn't feel like it was fair for you to try to interfere with a decision I'm making for myself," Mary said, looking up through her curls.
"You're not stupid," Lily said. "And you're right. It's not up to me what you do, I can't decide what you do. But I can ask something." Mary looked at her wearily. Lily pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Talk to me. If you're feeling – if you're feeling bad about yourself, talk to me, alright? I don't think you're stupid and I never will. And what you feel isn't stupid. You can talk about it." Lily held out her hand. Mary inhaled, blinking. She missed Lily. She didn't know what to do with herself without her and Marlene.
"You really don't think I'm stupid?" Mary asked hesitantly. If you're only half as stupid as you look, Mulciber had said, and that was the truest thing he had said. She looked stupid. She felt stupid, all the time.
"I know you're not," Lily said kindly, green eyes smiling. "You pick the best outfits at Gladrags. You're the best at braids. You listen, and you always know the right thing to say, even if you don't think so. Mary, you do Divination, you can tell the future. You could never be stupid."
Mary took her hand. "I'm sorry," she said again, curling her fingers against Lily's palm.
"No," Lily said. "Now come on. Marlene's about to buy the ugliest hat you ever saw and I can't talk her out of it. I need you."
And they stepped into the light.
March 14th, 1976
Letters did not usually arrive at dinner.
When the brown owl landed in front of him, Sirius stood to leave. The second-years on either side of him looked up, but said nothing. The owl danced, a letter on its leg, edging around the bowl of pudding. The cleverer of the second-years moved his hand nearer to Sirius' drink. Sirius snorted hollowly, swiped his goblet, and downed it in one. He held the empty cup out to the boy, and took untied the letter with his left hand.
"Leave off," he told the owl, who had round, frightened eyes. "I'll use Thutmose. Get away."
He had been owled that morning, too. The Ministry sent him a lengthy letter in glittering ink, signed and sealed. He faced several charges: arson, unlawful procurement and use of official Ministry documents, unlicensed spell use, and conducting an illegal marriage. The latter two were only worth fines. They would even be wiped when he was seventeen, unless he did it again. Sirius couldn't see why he would have reason to, but at this rate, maybe his life would lead to becoming a celebrant for the star-crossed lovesick idiots of the rottenest families on the vine. More important, they stressed, were the first charges, which could lead to time in Azkaban at the discretion of a judge. Azkaban. As if he didn't visit the dementors every summer, just for the hell of it. He had crumpled the parchment. As if they would put a Black in Azkaban. Not with Father's friends placed where they were. Sirius might be a fuck-up of a disappointment, but he remained heir for now. The same blood that damned him saved him from the iron kiss.
James and Remus and Peter were on their way to Hogsmeade before Professor McGonagall arrived in the Gryffindor common room, reproachful. Sirius had been draped over the sofa in the corner, smoking blatantly. If they were going to expel him, it wouldn't be for a cigarette. He had expected to be called in the night before, given he'd written his legal name down as a witness, but he supposed their damned bureaucracy got in the way of efficiency. He doubted they could catch a real criminal if they murdered twelve muggles in front of dozens of witnesses. Professor McGonagall stood over him, face pinched, and he stubbed it out on the table beside him. She vanished it with a silent zigzag of her wand. In hindsight, his punishment for smoking had been the walk. There were too many steps and Sirius had woken himself up with a mouthful or five of scotch and his brain had decided to take up tapdancing in boots against the sides of his skull and every step was agony on the arches of his feet and his throat and his eyes and his lungs. McGonagall kept a brisk pace.
Dumbledore's office was the same as ever, as when Sirius had been informed they knew of his 'delicate situation' and had elected not to tell his parents he had helped destroy school property. For all of their concern, they had sent him home a month later to spend the holidays with the people they ruled a danger. So long as it didn't happen on school grounds, Sirius thought, it didn't matter.
Dumbledore offered him a boiled sweet. Sirius refused it.
"We have contacted your mother," Dumbledore said gently, looking over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. Sirius sunk lower in his seat, spine grating against the back of the chair. He picked at the hem of his sleeve.
"Get the Aurors in as well as the MLEs," he said. "I don't plan on getting killed quietly. I'd hate for a finger or two to end up in your drink."
McGonagall interrogated him. Dumbledore interrogated him. Sirius never said his brother's name. He had done it to piss off his mother, he said; he had done it because he thought it was idiotic that someone's parents would throw a tantrum over who they were going out with at fourteen. He had been in the passageway when Rosier and Crabbe came across him, and he had convinced them to let him help. Hell, the girl had nearly backed out and he'd insisted they go through with it. It was his fault. It was practically his idea. Yes, he had ruined their lives to get back at 'society'. Yes, it had been ill-thought out. Yes, he was remorseful.
McGonagall fielded the MLEs, and Dumbledore insisted that as Sirius was a child, and a student, and had not done serious bodily harm, he was better first questioned by the school and given guidance before being forced to face the authorities. Phineas Nigellus (that fucker) scurried back and forth between the headmaster's office and 12 Grimmauld Place. A house-elf brought Sirius water when he began to feel sick without the alcohol. Dumbledore did a lot of staring and frowning. His eyes unnerved Sirius. They were so blue they looked painted, and cut sharp through every word he mumbled.
At midday, Dumbledore stood and went to Phineas' portrait. The two men spoke in hushed tones. Sirius' sleeve was beginning to fray. Dumbledore returned to his desk and cleared his throat gently.
"We know Regulus was there," he said. Sirius stilled. "Unless you forged his signature, that is. But the Ministry officials claim they saw four teenagers, three boys and a girl. Unless they were mistaken?"
Sirius' throat closed.
He could say that Regulus was not there; he could say that the Ministry officials must have been mistaken, and that they ought to ask Regulus himself, for he would tell them he had been revising in his dormitory the entire time. He knew that was what Regulus would say. But without a witness save for the celebrant, Rosier and Crabbe's marriage would be invalid. It all would have been for naught. And Sirius, oddly enough, was proud of his little brother. He had half-expected Regulus to throw a tantrum and turn them in, to linger in the courtyard and confess and claim he had been bullied into it. It hadn't been until Regulus' dark head peeked over the top of the stone wall that Sirius had realised he was trying to follow. And his heart had swelled so full of love he thought it would burst out of his chest. It was stupid and humiliating and undeniable. Regulus was coming with them. Regulus was choosing his friends' wellbeing over what Mother might say. He had been brave. To deny his presence was to deny his efforts.
But Sirius had promised to take care of it. And he knew his brother. He knew how different courageousness seemed in the cold light of morning, and how proud rebellion turned to bitter ash with Walburga Black standing before you.
"He was there," Sirius said hoarsely. Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "He didn't know what was happening until the last moment. He signed, but only with the Ministry pounding down the door and me shouting at him and that Crabbe girl crying her eyes out. If he hadn't – we would have left him there. For the Ministry to take. Or maybe Rosier and Crabbe wouldn't have, but I would."
Dumbledore sat, brushing his hand over a glowing stone, and steepled his fingers. "I'm disappointed in you," he said tentatively. Sirius sat taller.
"Regulus wanted nothing to do with it," he said. "He didn't know we were leaving school grounds until we were in Hogsmeade. We took a passageway. When we got to the Registry he was confused and he wanted to leave as soon as he realised what was happening. But I lit the door on fire and told him to sign as a witness."
Dumbledore's face gaze away nothing, but Sirius shivered as a strange sensation washed over him. "Did you physically harm your brother, when you told him to sign as witness?"
"No."
"Did you threaten him with physical harm?"
"No, but -"
"The threat was implicit?"
Sirius would have killed for a cigarette. He satisfied himself with digging his thumbnail into his lower lip. "He doesn't like to displease," he said eventually. "I didn't threaten him with harm, but his soul I damaged by a vague notion of disappointment from a family member." He had the unnerving feeling that the Headmaster knew what he was thinking.
"Your brother was in such a state that the culpability for his actions may be diminished, however he was not under duress so great as to invalidate his witnessing?" Dumbledore asked, eyebrows raising dubiously. Sirius folded his arms.
"Yes."
The MLEs were singularly unhelpful. Under Dumbledore's eye, their questioning was tepid at best, though one moustached wizard made particularly pointed comments about Sirius soon (in several months) coming of age and his family's 'notorious' history of wedding children who could not performing so much as a Summoning Charm.
"I'm certain Rosier and Crabbe's Summoning Charms are more than perfunctory," Sirius informed him. The muscles in his face twitched.
They left for a time to question Rosier and Crabbe, and to greet their parents, whom had been summoned to the school. Sirius waited in a corner of Dumbledore's office, staring up at the portraits. Phineas scowled and marched out of the frame. Dumbledore left to oversee the interrogations, so McGonagall lingered in the office in his place, sitting at his chair and rubbing her temples.
"Mr Black," she said eventually. Sirius turned. The faint lines in her face deepened. A darkness marred her undereyes, and she was pale and thinner than he remembered. She sighed, lips tight, but not in their usual disapproval.
"If you should need something," she said eventually, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, "you need only ask. We do not make a habit of punishing students who are merely in need." Her gaze penetrated deeper than Dumbledore's. Sirius slowly cupped a hand over his nose and mouth. He couldn't smell whiskey on his breath, but perhaps he'd forgotten what he smelled like when he wasn't drinking. He lowered his hand.
"I know," he said. Her mouth grew smaller.
"Good."
Shortly after, Dumbledore returned, cobalt robes billowing. He conjured an extra seat for McGonagall, and she and Sirius sat side-by-side.
"The marriage holds," he began gravely. Sirius inhaled. "Their parents may petition for an annulment, but due to some oversight in lawmaking, the ceremony is considered valid. I am assured that the Ministry will work tirelessly to fix this, lest others take inspiration. It would be most unfortunate if you set a trend, Mr Black." A dozen remarks came to Sirius' tongue, but he could not find the heart to voice any of them. What of Regulus? He pulled at his lips.
"I don't plan on making a career of it," he said quietly. McGonagall raised her eyebrows. He avoided Dumbledore's gaze.
"Your mother has insisted she and your father be present for Regulus' questioning, along with a lawyer. As you may be aware, your father happens to be in France, and was intent on demanding the Ministry pay for an emergency portkey to ensure that he could exercise his parental rights in supporting his son," Dumbledore explained. Sirius inhaled sharply, the air like swords to the chest. He had not known his father was abroad; as if they would deign to write to him to tell him. And more than that, they were pulling out every legal stop for Regulus, but his mother had not so much as passed on some barbed remark about him hopefully not 'too greatly' having besmirched the name of Black. He was the heir, for fuck's sake, and though he'd rather eat a chimaera than have his mother whimper and growl over him, he felt hollow. They hadn't bothered with a lawyer. Not even a cheap one. For the heir.
Unless.
He bit his tongue so hard he drew blood. His bones were so dead that he relished the spurts of life spilling across his tastebuds.
"The Ministry has given him an unofficial caution in the hopes he seeks better companionship and learns to stand up for himself." The grain of the wood in the desk changed a third across from the left. If you concentrated very hard, there was a faint orange shimmer to it. A reinforcement spell of some kind. Father had a similar desk, but the grain did not change. He could not fathom why Dumbledore's did. Why put a reinforcement spell on something already fucked? It was a waste of magic.
"Mr Black?" Sirius stripped flesh from his inner lip, grounding himself. Dumbledore cleared his throat. "The Ministry has informed me that they intend to fine you for three of your charges. Your mother has already been informed. It will be taken from your trust. As you are over thirteen, you will need to sign a cheque to give them, and confirm your understanding that failure to make the payment necessary may result in up to a fortnight in Azkaban, to be served over the summer, which I and your mother have negotiated on your behalf." Sirius pushed his hair out of his face.
"Shouldn't this be decided in a court room?" he asked, voice gravelly. Dumbledore bowed his head.
"It can be, if you would prefer that." He leaned forward slightly, and Sirius leaned back, skin prickling. "It was thought amenable to all parties that the matter might be settled out of court. In these times we face, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's prosecutors are mercilessly busy. There are greater crimes than teenage recklessness, and I expect the greatest victim of this crime is perhaps Mr Rosier." A victimless crime, then, for the Rosier adults did not qualify for personhood.
Sirius' fingers worked at the back of his earring. "What about the other charge?" he asked flatly. Dumbledore sighed and adjusted his glasses. Sirius did not care for his ponderings or his pities; his knee bounced furiously and a nicotine craving pulled taught in his muscles.
"Arson," Dumbledore said slowly. "Yes. Your mother asked for clemency, and Professor McGonagall and I vouched for your good behaviour and character." Lied, he meant. Sirius had more detention slips filed away than homework pieces. "The Ministry suggests, if you admit your guilt -"
"I have," Sirius said.
"Yes. They have suggested a suspended sentence of four months – that is, until the fourteenth of July. This will include a curfew, which you will be pleased to know will be in line with that of your peers while at school, and will be nine o'clock in the evening while at home. While you are here, you will be required to confirm your presence with a Gryffindor prefect at curfew each night, who will then inform Professor McGonagall. You will also be prohibited from visiting Hogsmeade until the fourteenth of July. Any breach of these conditions will result in a court date, and it is most likely that you will be required to serve the rest of your sentence in Azkaban."
His mother had asked for clemency. She had not brought out the lawyers or the tears or Father. Just a question. And if it hadn't worked, and Sirius had faced leaving school without a single qualification to have his soul nibbled on by dementors – well. There was a reason one always strived to have two sons.
But the gambit had worked. She had both boys indebted to her, still on the path to their OWLs , and better yet, if Sirius absconded or displeased her for the first half of the summer, she need only floo the Ministry. It was less than a minute, from 12 Grimmauld Place to the Atrium, and though neither Mother nor Father worked there, they knew enough people to secure a direct line, mind that they didn't abuse it. His, and Regulus', act of defiance had simply become a loom with which she could spin her web. And she had them ensnared. Regulus would not dare to have a mark on his record. Sirius would not dare, she believed, to trade in his friends and his life at Hogwarts – for whatever Dumbledore might wish, the school board would never permit a criminal hardened by Azkaban to return to the school, especially when he was past the age of compulsory education. And so Walburga Black had him trapped.
"It may give you an opportunity to focus on your studies," McGonagall said quietly. It may give me an opportunity to die. He couldn't go back to that house and have her hands all over him, her face before every door, her threats backed not just by Father and family and tradition but by the force of the law and the loss of – everything. She would take everything from him. Repulsion burned his gullet – how had he been furious that she had fought for Regulus but not for him only a few minutes ago? He wished she had left him to rot.
"If it is any comfort, your peers needn't know," Dumbledore continued. "The Rosiers and Crabbes have expressed a desire for the matter of the marriage to be kept quiet until the summer, and all of your names will be suppressed by the Ministry due to your youth. The only people who will be informed will be the staff and the Head Boy and Head Girl, in case a matter should arise where the prefects report to them and not to us." It comforted him little.
The MLEs returned to give him the paperwork to sign, just above his mother's slanted signature. The only evidence that she really had been there. He had no doubt Dumbledore would have permitted her to floo home from the fireplace in his office, stone beset with fine jewels and an assortment of instruments on the mantle, but she had chosen to return to Hogsmeade instead of seeing him. Walburga Black was a woman who relished in convenience; and yet she had gone the long way to avoid him.
He drifted out of the office eventually, after a vague dismissal, and did not return to Gryffindor Tower. It was nowhere near curfew. He considered the stairs that led downwards, to where his brother would surely be brooding, but he ignored them too. Instead, he went to the likeliest place that would have alcohol, and paced back and forth until the door revealed itself too him.
The Party Room was in a state of disregard. The Gryffindor party the previous weekend had been held in their common room, and there had apparently been a lull in exciting birthdays for the better part of a month. A banner hung lifelessly from the wall, and old bottles cluttered the floor, uninviting brown dregs pooling against the fading labels. He picked over bottles until he found a cache of Elfwine Kisses; unopened. He knew the sugary taste only from the inside of a girl's mouth. He spun the lid off and drank. It was more candy floss than liquor. He sunk into a battered beanbag and regarded the dark room. He'd never seen it so empty.
Drinking game, he decided: sip every time something shit happens to Sirius Black. Finish your drink when you want to kill yourself. That sounded pathetic. What was he, a thirteen-year-old girl? For fuck's sake. He finished the Kiss and opened the next bottle. James hates you for missing his match. Sip. Peter hates you and he doesn't even have someone to replace you with. Peter. Brainless git. Did guilt for the thought warrant a second sip? Sirius took two to be safe. You're sitting alone in the Party Room because everybody fucking hates you. Sip. Remus –
The thought crackled at the raw endings of his nerves. He finished that bottle, too.
Time and space ceased to exist within the confines of the room, which seemed to shrink the more Sirius drank. Tables disappeared with doors and confetti and forgotten shoes vanished into nonexistence. His limbs sunk into the beanbag and floated weightlessly. His head lolled back as his body folded. Make it end, he pleaded. Fucking end it. Please. Please. He fell into something resembling sleep, though he could still feel the hard little curves of the tiny balls within the beanbag pressing into his bones. He was a child at a check-up with a healer, but the healer was Dumbledore. He waved his wand over Sirius' arms and legs and face and chest and frowned, shifting his glasses as he scribbled down notes. Mother sat in the corner, scowling. Her slippered foot tapped the hardwood floor.
Was it memory or make-believe? Her face was so clear. Jaw sharp, grey eyes piercing, upper lip curled. The healer probed his chest and hummed. It was the tune of some muggle song spinning on the record player in the corner of the dormitory, Remus bent over it, lifting the needle so it stuttered like a failing heartbeat. Nausea wracked his body. Remus' hair was growing out, brown and gold, pricking his forehead. Dumbledore jabbed his stomach. Mother checked her watch. Peter laughed, and James swore, and they had Sirius' broom and were laughing. James stroked it up and down and pulled at it until it cracked, a dark fissure striking through the wood. Remus took the smallest part in his hands and eased it out of the splinters, leaving a jagged cliffside behind. He pressed his lips to the wood. Sirius could almost breathe. Then Remus became Mother, throwing the chunk upon the ground and demanding the healer hurry, and Regulus' eyes watched through the gap in the door. Invading. Remus sat on the bed on their dormitory. James paced, fists balled. Peter laughed again.
He jolted awake to smashing glass, and pink liquid frothed at his feet. His back and shoulders ached. He swiped his cheek and his fingers came away warm and clammy. He staggered upwards. One bottle remained and he left it. Peace offering, if they ever came back for their supply. The world didn't start spinning until he was in the corridor, torches alight and burning out his irises. The windows at the end of the hallway were dark with night, but students passed beneath it. Not curfew, then. But close. Saliva welled behind his bottom teeth, in the duplicitous thirst that preceded emptied guts. He wiped his mouth.
Mind hollow, he picked his way towards the Fat Lady's corridor, avoiding others where he could and brushing his shoulder against the stone wall as he walked. People kept well away. Sirius watched them with shadowed eyes. Faceless suits of armour watched him in turn. Winds rattled the windowpanes. Rain splattered the glass like sprays of blood. Draughts hacked the torches to embers. A cat hissed. Sirius' body burned. Regulus. Mother. James. Peter. Remus. Regulus. Mother. James. All gone. The Grey Lady appeared down a dark passageway, and stared at him, accusing, knowing. He wiped sweaty hands on his robes. He needed to make it back before curfew.
He took a shortcut. The trees in the tapestry had no eyes, but their glares pricked his skin as he pushed them aside. The passageway was black. He put one hand to the wall and walked. He heard only silence. Silence and the stretching, empty darkness. He felt only the rough on his palm and the clench in his jaw. One foot after another.
Crunch.
Sirius had not stood on anything.
He stopped dead, heart pounding, blinded and alone. His pulse beat dangerously loud. Nobody knew about this passage save for James and Peter and Remus, who always lit their wands. He pressed his back to the wall. Air rasped through his teeth.
Footsteps.
"Are you scared?"
Blue lit the unearthly face of Severus Snape.
His wand, glowing with light, pressed into the soft underbelly of Sirius' chin. Snape smiled with the teeth of a bat.
"Go on," Sirius said softly. Severus fingered his wand.
"Black." His black eyes shone. "Skulking…about the castle." Sirius laughed through his nose, tilting his head to reveal the length of his neck.
"Do it, you coward," he whispered. "Go on."
"Don't think that I won't."
"Prove it." Sirius did not care what Snape did, or what happened to him. But the coward cast no spell. He only smiled wider, victorious. Sirius cared nothing for his game. "Go on. I want to know why they keep you on. It's not for your filthy blood, is it?" Snape's smile fell. "Go on, Snivellus. I know you want to. Try it." He grabbed Snape's wand and Snape shouted, hitting him across the face and pulling back. Blood swelled in Sirius' split lip. He laughed. His teeth throbbed. "You think I've never been hit? Fucking coward." Severus stared at his reddened hair, gasping, holding it away from him. A laugh rumbled in Sirius' stomach and burst from his throat. The iron in his mouth was as sweet as Elfwine. "How often does he hit you?" He hit his heel into the wall, begging for it to hurt, to smart, for something. "You look so much like your father. Is Snape a muggle name?"
Snivellus didn't even raise his wand. Sirius' laughs turned to gargles. "Hit me," he breathed, tears blistering his eyes. "Hit me, you fucking waste of magic."
The light extinguished. Sirius lurched forward into thin air, and the footsteps echoed, making it impossible to know which way he had gone. "Running away?" Sirius shouted into the abyss, fumbling for his wand. "Lumos." White light doused the passageway and Sirius shone it up and down. To his left, Severus swirled, wand pointed, breathing hard.
"Snape," Sirius called. "Where are you going?"
He had his attention. Snape brought his wand closer to his chest. "I wasn't aware you so valued my company, Black," he snarled, but his voice quivered. "Do you intend on throwing another – juvenile – taunt at me?" Sirius laughed, wiping his mouth, and closed the gap between them in long strides. Snape stepped back. Coward.
"If I was going to insult you, I wouldn't bother to call out your name and then dawdle for half an hour while trying to think of something to say. No. I want to give you a gift." And it was worth that, for the mad confusion in his eyes, and that pathetic, grasping dash of hope. That was what underpinned him, Sirius realised suddenly. The wanting. For all he ponced about with that gang of Slytherin boys, Snape wasn't a name of any note and any known wizard other than the scrawny sixteen-year-old before him, and it was only because they all turned their heads that he got to sit amongst them and pretend. Whatever Sirius' family was, however much Sirius loathed the lot of it – high society, the galas, the sycophants – he was born to what Snape wanted desperately but could never, ever know or have. And that tasted of victory. A bitter victory, a secret one, that he could never admit to James or Remus or Peter, but victory all the same.
His stomach lurched suddenly, threatening to break through his throat, and he stumbled to the side, slamming his hand against the stones. Snape sniffed. Sirius looked up groggily, dark hair falling around his face. That fucker. His guts rolled, protesting his continued consciousness. It had to end.
"You're right," he gritted out, and Snape's expression dropped. That got him. He was a children's piano and Sirius had years of a pureblood heir's education.
"I know," Snape said uncertainly. He was arrogant, but not haughty. A pitiful thing, to attempt one and have to settle for the other. Sirius only looked at him, and his mouth opened, spilling. "I know Lupin's secret," he said, breathing fast and hard. Like it was exhilarating. "I don't know how nobody else has noticed. He disappears every full moon, and he's weak and sick and scarred. This cohort is full of idiots." Sirius kept his face neutral.
"When did you figure it out?"
"I've had my suspicions since third year," Snape confessed, eyes maniacal, "but I knew this year for certain. I saw him at the Whomping Willow. I don't know how he got under there, but he did. There's something there. A portkey, or – I know that's where he sneaks off to." Sirius managed to straighten.
"Since third year," Sirius rued. "I figured it out in second." Snape's face flashed with rage. Sirius ignored it. "You don't know how to get under the Willow?" A plan formulated in the recesses of his aching mind. Snape looked nearly possessed. That was it. That was all there was. Sirius would give Snape what he wanted. Sirius would give Snape what he wanted and not his mother. He would confess, of course. Repentant, but not enough for Mother's crocodile tears to save him. And she would lose. He would never return to that fucking house again and she would lose and he would win. For once.
Snape would win, too. At least for a moment.
"I know," Snape said unconvincingly. Sirius straightened, tucking his wand lazily into the pocket of his robes, and spread his hands to show he was unarmed. The smothered life cast them into half-shadow. Hit me. Hex me. Do something, you piece of shit.
"Nah, you don't," Sirius said, stepping closer again. Severus held his wand between them, preventing contact. But Sirius was taller. He leaned over until his lips were at Severus' ear. "There's a knot. At the base of the tree, if you look you can't miss it. Throw a stone, if you have the aim. Though I suppose for you…Levitate one. An hour's walk. Get your proof. Show the school." Sirius drew himself back to height. Severus watched him through narrowed eyes.
"Why would you tell me that?" he asked, trying to sneer. "It's a trap." Sirius shrugged.
"Dunno," he said. "Bored, I guess. But if it's a trap, don't go. I don't care. What the fuck does 'Snape' mean to me?" He put his hands in his pockets. Snape stared, face working. "Night, Sniv." He continued towards Gryffindor Tower for a few yards, then turned back. Snape stood still, watching, eyebrows knit. Sirius drew his wand out and held it to his bloodied mouth.
"Nox."
A/N: Thank you so much to all my readers for your continued support! And yes, *it* is approaching...very soon.
