April 2nd, 1977: Marlene McKinnon

The deal is this: no one who isn't either a patient or an employee is allowed to enter the psych floor at St. Mungo's, but there are fireplaces available for Flooing. The patients aren't allowed to travel off the floor, and technically nobody can Floo their entire body onto the floor, but you can send just your head over during pre-approved times on evenings and weekends and request to speak with a patient. Floo visits are limited to thirty minutes each. Each visitor can only Floo their head in one time each day, and each patient can only have two Floo visitors each day. Patients also have to specify the names of people who are allowed to Floo them; if someone Flooes in who isn't on the list, they'll be turned away and told that the hospital can neither confirm nor deny that the patient is in St. Mungo's.

Everyone wants to visit, but they don't want to overwhelm Emmeline or clog up the fireplaces for the other patients. They all figure that Peter is the most reasonable person to ask to speak to Emmeline first—he'll want to see her the most, and she'll be the most comfortable around him.

Ever since November, Marlene always thought of Emmeline as being dependent on Peter instead of the other way around. But even though Peter has been spending plenty of time with the other Gryffindor seventh years since Em got sent to St. Mungo's, he looks to Marlene like he's sort of—incomplete, or something, without her there.

Peter gets a mouthful of ash as he pulls out of the Gryffindor common room fireplace thirty minutes later. "She's okay," he says when Marlene waves him over and Peter pulls up a chair near her, Lily, James, and Sirius. "It's not great over there, and they took away her wand, but as long as she doesn't have any active suicidal crises in there, it sounds like she can mostly fly under the radar. It's when people start having delusions or start trying to hurt themselves or somebody else that they start stripping your rights away, and Em's in control of herself enough not to do that. Even if she wants to hurt herself, I don't think she will, given the consequences in there."

Marlene breathes a sigh of relief, and Sirius says awkwardly, "I should go visit her. I…"

"Lily wanted a turn next," says Peter, glancing at her, "and then Em will be maxed out for the night. Tomorrow, though, sure. I told her to put all of us on her Floo list."

Given how Sirius and Em used to be so close, but aren't anymore, Marlene isn't surprised that Sirius seems to be feeling some degree of responsibility for what happened to her. Still, she thinks Sirius is being unnecessarily hard on himself. He didn't make Emmeline slit her wrists, and he didn't treat her with any cruelty that Marlene can tell to drive her to it.

Sirius ends up getting his turn the next day and fills Marlene in after dinner. "She's definitely shaken up. I kind of get the impression that she's in a headspace where—she's wishing she had succeeded in… what she tried to do, but she's scared to try anything while she's in there because she's scared of the repercussions." He shakes his head. "I can't believe I'm having a civil conversation about my friend's suicide attempt. I mean, god… how did this become our lives?"

"Nobody saw it coming. Not even Peter knew anything about what was happening—she did that good a job of covering her tracks. Nobody should feel accountable for this."

"Maybe not, but we should all feel responsible for helping bring Em back from this," Sirius stresses.

Marlene nods. She feels like they keep using euphemisms to talk about what happened, like if they don't say the words it won't be real—or, perhaps, that it will minimize the pain Emmeline must have been in to do such a thing.

xx

It feels unbelievable that life could go on while Em is having a suicide crisis, but it does, as they're bluntly reminded when Alice's Daily Prophet arrives the next day. The headline reads:

BOTH SIDES SUFFER CASUALTIES IN SUNDAY MASSACRE AS CROUCH AUTHORIZES AUROR USE OF UNFORGIVABLE CURSES

Marlene crowds Alice's shoulder for a look, cheeks paling; she doesn't need to do more than breathe in the headline, not yet, to know all she needs.

"Shit," says Sirius. Alice passes her copy across the table to Peter to read; he buries his entire head behind it, pressed an inch away from his nose, only the topmost ruffle of his hair visible over the paper.

"The law only just passed on Friday," says Remus, looking a bit peaky—whether from the news or from the lunar cycle, Marlene can't quite tell. "Looks like Death Eaters heard about it and retaliated by storming the Atrium of the Ministry around nine o'clock, right when everyone was arriving to work. A lot of people got away by Disapparating, but it was crowded, some of the employees hung back to try to help the Aurors who went downstairs to sort it out…"

"Jeez. How many deaths?" asks Alice.

"They're saying dozens. More of us than them, but there were more of us on site to take out before anyone knew what was going on," Marlene answers. "Everyone was throwing Killing Curses, Aurors included. Dammit, I have to owl Doc, I have to…" She wrings her hands, pushes back her hair, pulls away strands and strands, shrugs off Lily's hand on her back.

"Everyone knows someone who works in the Ministry," says Peter. "The skies will be crowded, the school owls might all be taken by now—don't worry if you don't hear from him for a few days, yeah? He'll be all right. You'll be all right, Marlene, you will…"

Lily flings the paper away from herself, closes her eyes, stretches her neck as her head falls backward. "They don't have an official count or list out yet—there were too many. And some of the Death Eaters showed up in plainclothes, so they can't tell for sure which ones were Ministry workers who turned out to be working with Voldemort. But they don't think anyone there was in his inner circle—he must have known it would be a suicide mission, he wouldn't send out his most valuable assets."

"I think I'm going to be sick," mutters Mary.

Lily's rifling to the back of the paper now, skimming her finger down the editorials. "Look here, page 27—there's a quote from Dumbledore criticizing Crouch's ruling. Apparently, he's letting the Wizengamot make verdicts without trials now; they've already sent three people to Azkaban; the families are speaking out. They were all masked and they've got plenty of witnesses, but it's only a matter of time before…"

"Before they start apprehending the wrong people," says Peter.

Marlene interjects, "But using the Unforgivables… it makes sense, doesn't it? At least the Killing Curse does—if it means saving the lives of innocent people, of Muggles…"

"Some of them were using Cruciatus," says Remus, shaking his head. "There's no excuse for torture like that. No one should have the right to…"

"Shouldn't they?" demands Sirius. "You haven't met my cousin, you don't know what they're capable of, you haven't seen what they deserve!"

"And the Aurors won't let students help, and Dumbledore won't let us join him," Lily says. "Dammit, this is why I need to go into law enforcement…"

"We need to learn to take care of ourselves," Marlene says quietly. They all go still, watch her. "What if the same thing happens to us after we graduate and get jobs? What then?"

Slowly, all eyes flick to Dorcas Meadowes's seat at the Slytherin table.

xx

If you'd told Marlene a year ago that Sirius and Lily were going to someday rent a flat together to share on breaks from Hogwarts, she'd have laughed you right off the stage—but it makes sense now, when you think about it. Lily's parents are dead, and Sirius's have excommunicated him; Marlene knows they both always felt a bit guilty mooching off of Doc and off of James's parents, respectively. Besides, Lily's come a long way this past year in befriending not just Marlene, but the rest of the Gryffindors. Now, it's hard for Marlene to even imagine what it would feel like if Lily were to disappear from her immediate circle.

Sirius and Lily's new flat—courtesy of Sirius's inheritance from his uncle Alphard, may he rest in peace—is crammed in the back of one of those rent-a-room houses in Muggle London, across from the boiler room, where no neighbors will think to come inside. Good thing, too, because the place is chock full of dancing teapots and (none to Lily's satisfaction) lingerie-clad models arching their backs within their portrait frames. Marlene's spending most of Easter break at Doc's flat with Mary, who's staying over, but they've taken a detour today to meet up with the rest of the Gryffindors—and with Dorcas.

Emmeline, of course, is conspicuously absent. They've already agreed not to talk about this in front of Dorcas—word hasn't gotten around school yet why Em's been missing from the castle, and the Gryffindors have got no desire to contribute to circulating any rumors—but Marlene feels like Emmeline's absence is hanging over them all like an Acromantula, tangling them into the confines of its web and ready to bite. They've already set up a rotation for who's going to visit her over Easter break: it's Marlene's turn on Tuesday night, right after Alice's.

As Marlene swings the door shut behind herself and Mary, Lily's already unrolling parchment scrolls from her bag and laying them out amidst newspaper clippings on the kitchen table, shoving moving boxes out of her way with the ball of her foot. "Quite a bit of intel you've got there," remarks James.

"Brinn gave me lots to work with for when we went to France last winter. I've been collecting articles out of the Prophet ever since, and I started on Witch Weekly last month."

"Witch Weekly?" says Sirius. "You must be spending too much time with Marlene. Oh, dear, James, I think she's been indoctrinated."

She shoots him a look, then goes back to flattening the rolls with a hunched back. "It's more useful than you'd think, following high society."

It wasn't long after the Unforgivable battle at the Ministry that took Dorcas up on her proposition and revealed the girls' involvement, and they've come to some preliminary understandings—scale up the Order pranks to set the stage for future recruitment, but not unravel their plans yet to those interested, not until they've done enough scoping to have a concrete plan to lay out to others. Until then, they've been tracking potential candidates: Frank Longbottom, Elisabeth Clearwater, Fabian and Gideon Prewett.

Alice tries to ask her boyfriend, Dirk Cresswell, but she says he outright rejects the idea of getting involved in any kind of illegal resistance. Mary doesn't even bother to ask her own boyfriend, Reginald Cattermole.

Marlene drapes her arms around Lily from behind in greeting. "Oh, lord, this is adorable, so much character. Loving the slanted floors—and they're wood, too, that's nice—and that door. It's so crooked. It's so perfect."

"Thanks," says Sirius brightly. "Hullo, Marlene—Mary. Doc treating you all right?"

"Uh-huh," Mary answers, flashing a glance toward Lily's general direction.

Dorcas and Alice are the last to arrive after Remus and Peter both trickle in. "Good to see you two, too," Marlene says, shaking Dorcas's hand and returning Alice's proffered hug. "How've you both been?"

"Good, you know, excited. Sort of tense about—yes," says Alice. "Dorcas owled me, we went out shopping—"

"I'm commandeering your kitchen for a pot roast," Dorcas informs them. "Potter, Black."

"Meadowes," returns Sirius.

Lily says, "Here, I'll show you in, I've got some papers all strewn out, I'm sorry, I was preparing…"

"Oh, no, you're fine," Dorcas tells her, striding inside with her and Alice's bags. "Just thought it would be nice, you know, because…"

"Right, yeah," says James. "That's good of you, Meadowes, thanks."

She goes all-Muggle while preparing it and lets it stew on the stove as they get started. "Thanks for this. You know, bringing me in. I know we're not close, and I did spring it on you, cornering you when you were close to getting caught in trouble like that."

"It's not like we had much to go on ourselves before you came in, though," says Peter, smiling. "It's good having you here to help."

"Thanks, Pettigrew. I mean, you weren't totally stranded. Is Vance on her way?"

There's a long and uncomfortable pause. "She wasn't feeling well," Alice finally says delicately. Marlene represses a snort, then immediately feels like an insensitive berk, picturing how frustrated and trapped Em looked when Marlene last Flooed into St. Mungo's to see her.

Dorcas seems to accept this without comment. "Lily, you said you had some ideas worked out?"

"Yes," says Lily, and she holds up a copy of—"Witch Weekly. I know it sounds far out, but if we're trying to get into society for information, it's actually a great start if you read closely. See, look here, two weeks ago they did an interview with some Selwyn woman, and her family's hosting a gala this week that's apparently supposed to be—well. And she name-dropped some of the guests, so I was scanning the Prophet archives in the library for any mention of their husbands—which is, I know, but they didn't seem like the type of women who would… and anyway, well, some of them had spoken out before against some recent Muggle rights laws. You know, the new protections for wizard-Muggle marriages, things like that."

"So you thought we should get in on it and bomb the place straightaway," says Sirius. "Foresight, Lily."

"God, no! No. No, I thought we could maybe find a way in, feel out the people there? Get on the guest list, check it out in advance to see if it's anyone who knows anyone we know? Something, I don't know, I know it sounds sketchy…"

"It's a good thought, Lily," James tells her, but Lily pointedly looks to Dorcas.

"You wouldn't happen to have any connections, would you?"

Dorcas screws up her face in thought. "My aunt's in with the Selwyns, I think, and she's always riding me about ditching Fabian and spending more time in the family tradition. I could play on that and talk to her."

"Um," says Marlene. Eyes flick to her. "Are you talking about Agatha Selwyn, Lily? Because I'm pretty sure my mum's friends with her."

"Uh… yeah, yes, Agatha Selwyn," says Lily, checking the magazine.

"Great. That makes two of us who can probably get in, and—honestly, I could probably bring you with me, too, James. Our families know we're housemates, and your parents—dabble in these things."

Dorcas cuts in, "Actually, you know what, Potter, my aunt would lap it up if I took you as my date."

"Oh, hell," James blurts, and for the first time possibly ever, for a moment there, Dorcas doesn't look assertive anymore.

Marlene raises her eyebrows. "When we were little," James says precariously, "our parents considered setting us up in a betrothal. It's not done as much anymore—Sirius's family is big on it still, I know—so it didn't pan out, but it was my parents who backed out, not Meadowes's."

"That's brilliant, Dorcas," says Remus. "Would anyone buy it, though, you think? Everyone knows you're with Fabian, and James…" He looks from James to Lily but doesn't say anything further.

"Not adults, necessarily," Alice says. "And you know, you could actually make that work. Dorcas, how close are you and your aunt?"

"Fairly, when she's not hounding me about the family."

"Perfect. So you can owl her to maybe meet up for Easter, say something condescending about the party—say one of your mates is subscribed to Witch Weekly and was talking about it? Get her on the defensive, and make out like you're reluctant to go, ask if you can bring James and Marlene for moral support, casually mention that you've been talking lately to get her hopes up, insist that it's platonic to make her hope that it's not platonic."

"Al, you're a genius," says Peter. "Lily, how soon is the party?"

"Er—Friday night next week, so we'd have some time to get you all in."

"Wouldn't be fishy that it's on a school night, either," Marlene adds.

Mary says, "So you go in and—what? Talk around about politics? You don't want to incite anything, but you didn't want to agree with pureblood politics, it'd be too suspicious and it goes against what we're trying to do anyway. Only the people you want to get close to are the ones who might be in with You-Know-Who—you'll have to be careful."

"No. No, we can figure out who knows of them but disagrees with them," suggests Alice. "It would take some careful social maneuvering, though."

Peter adds, "Dorcas, I'm sure you've got plenty of practice at that, haven't you? Growing up in your family?"

"They're thick into it, yeah," she tells them. "All right, so I'll owl her about Saturday or Sunday and let you all know, but we should be a go. That's really good thinking, Alice, Lily."

"It just made sense," says Alice, shrugging.

They keep on for a while but don't come up with anything so concrete. Now: the waiting. Marlene feels like it's taking over their lives, the war, like they petty drama-distractions can't hold up any longer against the shadow of the disappearances, the deaths.

The day of the ball, Dorcas's robes are silver, like her eyes but less blue, or like her hair but less blonde, and the whole effect goes quite pleasantly with her pencil nose and the sharp angles of her jaw. Marlene wears pink and a subtle narrowing of her eyes.

Dorcas and James step out onto the dance floor, leaving Marlene to work the room on her own. Shortly thereafter, she finds himself tied up with Georgia Greengrass in all her champagne-chugging elegance. Her heels clack together as she supports herself against the wall. "Surprised to find you at a function like this, Marlene. Didn't your parents drop out of these when you were an itty bitty?—like this big—?"

"Oh, no, they didn't set me up. I'm here with Dorcas Meadowes—her aunt talked to Mrs. Selwyn and had her invited last week. Always holding out for her niece to integrate herself into these things, you know."

"Integrate. You're a polite one. Dorcas and James were betrothed for a while there, weren't they? Who was it who pulled out, his parents? God forbid the Meadoweses back out, right?"

Oh, is she making this easy. "Yeah, the Potters have been getting away from it the last few years. The war, you know."

"The war," says Georgia, swigging. "I don't understand why everyone associates us with that. We're not all the Lestranges, you know. Some of us just want some respectable laws in place, you know, defending our rights against those—those…"

She seems to find herself incapable of expressing her distaste and so downs the rest of her glass instead, snatching up a new one from a passing waiter and smacking the old onto his platter a bit too forcefully. The waiter scowls but entirely evades Georgia's attention as he tiptoes around her to safety.

"One of my mates' cousins married a Lestrange a while back," Marlene slips in.

"No good, those ones. Keep away from that mate of yours, honey. Charleses, Averys, you know. No one here, thank god, the Selwyns have fine taste, just fine. Exquisite, even."

"Charleses, huh?"

"That Reggie Charles. Look out, girl." Too easy.

James and Dorcas, too, have compiled their own lists of surnames by the time Marlene checks in with them: Terrius, Mulciber, Cunningham, Nott—more than enough to do some digging around to identify how deep their political alliances really run. Bedraggled, they latch onto Dorcas's arms to Apparate out around one.

xx

They're hurtling along the Hogwarts Express back from Easter holiday, and Marlene wishes she were huddled with her eight Gryffindors (well, seven, without Emmeline) and Dorcas in a compartment now, because their laps are full too and that's so much less lonely—but that's not the plan, and if they have a shot in hell at pulling this off, Marlene's going to have to suck it up and stick to the plan, something she's never been particularly adept at doing.

No, they've got to split up, they've got to branch out, because Marlene's got to recruit—which honestly feels sort of hilarious, as if there's some kind of go-to criteria to use when deciding whom you can trust to join up with your covert terrorist group. Because there's no flowchart to decide these things, especially when the gang hasn't even been able to gauge whether most students are with or against the purists—but she's got to recruit, hasn't she? And the ten of them can't go about doing that if they're grouped up in a corner scaring off newbies and making it more than obvious that they're the ones behind the pranks.

So here they are, Marlene and Mary and Lily, all bunched up in the corner of their compartment to leave room for anybody who looks like a safe bet—the train gathers speed—and suddenly Millie LeProut's moldy-bread scent precedes her as she creaks open the door and sidles inside to join them.

"Oh, hi, Marlene," says Millie breathlessly, slowly sliding the door back and not turning around again until they hear the gentle click of it closing. "Is it—I mean, everywhere else is filling up, so would it be okay if I were to—?"

"Oh! Yeah, go right ahead—Millie, this is Mary—Lily—" Mary waves her hand once with a raised eyebrow; Lily shrugs and purses her lips into a half-smile "—and this is Millie, did you know she's the Quidditch commentator this season?"

"No, I didn't place it," says Mary, but Lily braces herself into a wider smile and tells Millie, "You've been doing a really good job at it, you know. It's nice meeting you face to face."

"Thanks. Lily—then you're Lily Evans, right? So you must know what James Potter is up to—"

Marlene interjects, to save face for Millie. She's not sure why she's saving face for Millie, unless it's just Lily rubbing off on her. "We're a little infamous, you know, dating right little Quidditch heroes and pranksters as we are."

"I am not dating James Potter."

"Yeah, just snogging him occasionally."

"Mary!"

"Yeah, yeah," says Mary dismissively, "and yeah, we're close enough to him and his housemates."

Stiffening her shoulders, Millie says, "So why are—so when are you all going to stop—I know it's them doing the Phoenix stuff, I know it is!"

Because she can tell from Mary's paling face, and because she's doing her damndest to stick to the plan, Marlene cuts in, "So what if they were? It's messy what they're up to—why would anybody want to get themselves mixed up in—"

"Well, Sirius avoids me every time I see him," says Millie, and Marlene feels a pang of something she can't place somewhere in her lower abdomen, "and I can't talk to them, and I'm talking to you, and I want to help."

Smiling, Marlene answers, "That doesn't mean there's anything to 'help' with."

"I'm a Ravenclaw. We pay attention. I know I'm not good for much spellwork—I know that—it was my dad, all right? Last year. I pay attention. I want to help." She says it in a drawn-out quiver with her head held high, and Marlene glances at Lily for a long moment, then Mary.

Guardedly, Lily starts, "We don't know them well enough to tell, Millie… but…"

"Well, anyway, they would want to help, too, wouldn't they? He's a Black. Wouldn't you want to find who to help, too? And Lily—you're—wouldn't you?"

Mary's lips are as thin as McGonagall's get every time Sirius and James join forces with Peeves in the corridors. "My parents were Muggles," Lily says softly. "Let's all keep an eye out for you, all right?"

"But don't—"

"I'm sorry about your dad. We'll keep an eye out. Do you want to sit down? The trolley should be coming around soon…"

xx

They got lucky with the ball, but Marlene knows they can't just count on being able to con our way into functions and get names off a bunch of sloppy housewives—and then what? They don't know what these people are planning or when they're meeting or even which ones of them are actually in Voldemort's circle.

She thinks she might go crazy if she keeps tormenting herself with it, so she busies herself with other things, unsuccessfully, instead. Not classes—her marks are a mess this year, to no surprise, and she doesn't think it would be worth it to try to catch up before finals season. She has Lily, though, and Sirius, and a list of pureblood surnames on parchment, and those at least are concrete things Marlene can hold onto.

Like now, for instance, when she buries her beet-red face in the crook of Sirius's neck as Professor McGonagall snaps the broom cupboard door shut and waits for them to get dressed and follow her into the corridor. "Dunno about you, but I'm getting really damn sick of people walking in on us banging," Marlene mutters into his collarbone.

"New high score," says Sirius, and she swats at him halfheartedly with one hand while unsuccessfully trying to pull up her panties with the other.

He's putting on a good show of it, but she can tell that he's worried about Emmeline. He shags differently when he's worried—makes her feel a little like the way it felt before Christmas, when everything got so much better between them.

McGonagall's forehead looks lined and ancient to Marlene once she staggers out of the closet and looks at the professor properly in the light. Is that new, or has she just never had reason until now to pay attention?

"Come with me," McGonagall tells them, heading down the corridor so briskly that Marlene nearly has to jog to keep pace with her.

"But that's the way to Dumbledore's office, not yours," Sirius says when they reach the nearest staircase and McGonagall starts climbing up, not down.

"Professor Dumbledore's office," she says, her lips hardening.

"But we're seventeen!"

"Mister Black," says McGonagall, and Sirius drops it.

Marlene hasn't been to Dumbledore's office—or, for that matter, spoken to Dumbledore at all—since the beginning of the year, when she'd just been rejected from her Auror internship and he'd invited her to join the war effort after her graduation. There's a hideous symmetry to the thought that she's started a war effort of her own between this visit and the last one that makes her stomach itch and her face heat up.

Barely registering the password ("Sugar Quill") that McGonagall puts forth when they reach the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's tower, Marlene takes a second to shake her head and snap herself back from her thoughts—it doesn't work—before following McGonagall up the stairs and coming to a halt outside Dumbledore's office door, Sirius close behind her. He sneaks in a light kiss to the top of her head when McGonagall isn't looking, but it makes Marlene feel more testy than reassured.

"Yes, Minerva?" says Dumbledore when McGonagall steps into his office, Marlene and Sirius dawdling in the doorway. He too sounds tired.

"In a broom cupboard on the second floor," McGonagall offers by way of explanation, jerking her head slightly in their direction.

"Indeed. That will be all, Minerva, thank you."

She nods curtly to Dumbledore, and the look she casts at Marlene as she edges past them through the doorway isn't one of anger but of—fear, maybe, or concern.

"Do come in," he says to Marlene as she stands stricken in the doorway. Tensing her shoulders, she eases into the office and takes a seat in the remaining chintz armchair across the desk from Dumbledore (Sirius has already strewn himself across one of them with a careless slouch).

Dumbledore continues, "Mister Black, always a pleasure," and Sirius grins—it's not uncommon for McGonagall to haul him and James off to the headmaster for a particularly disruptive prank, which seems to happen at least every few weeks. "Miss McKinnon, sherbet lemon?"

"No," she says, folding her hands in her lap.

"Very well," says Dumbledore, and he helps himself to one instead. There's a moment in which they stare at each other across the desk, Dumbledore's eyes twinkling even though they're creased with fatigue, and then he leans back in his armchair and says, "Miss McKinnon, when we spoke at the beginning of this school year, I asked you to keep a secret for me. Have you upheld that promise?"

"No," Marlene repeats, quieter this time.

"No, I imagined you had not as soon as I saw the firecrackers in the Great Hall. I must admit, I was impressed; that particular piece of magic outshone even what I have come to expect from you and your friends—"

Hotly, Sirius interjects, "For all you know, that wasn't us—"

"Mister Black," says Dumbledore, raising his hands slightly, "it is more difficult in these times than ever to discern whether another wizard's intentions are with the dark or the light. Let us not play games with one another."

Sirius falls quiet, and Marlene asks before even thinking about it, "We're not here to talk about what Professor McGonagall saw us doing, are we?"

"No, Miss McKinnon, we are not." He surveys them both for a moment, then adds, "I had hoped that you and your classmates had intended to keep your endeavors in outreach strictly educational for the rest of the student body, but I fear I underestimated your conviction to make a difference on the front lines."

"But Professor—"

"I have a contact," Dumbledore continues as though Sirius hadn't spoken, "who, as a long overdue favor, was kind enough to pass along the names of any students of mine in attendance at last week's gala. Forgive me if I do not for a second believe that Mister Potter and Miss Meadowes have truly decided to resume their childhood betrothal." Marlene intently studies the beads of sweat slowly forming on her clasped hands. "These are admirable intentions motivating your actions, no doubt, but I had hoped that I had sufficiently impressed upon you the dangers of diving into battle underage."

"We haven't dived into battle, though," Marlene says.

"Yet," says Dumbledore. Beside her, Sirius stiffens a little in his seat. "Miss McKinnon—Mister Black—is there anything, anything at all, that either of you would like to tell me?"

She doesn't trust herself to stay quiet if she looks at either of them, so Marlene keeps her eyes peeled to her lap and bites her lip over and over.

Too many seconds pass by before, finally, Dumbledore abates. "Please know that you are welcome—all of you—to come to me at any time."

"Right," says Sirius. "That's all, then?"

"Yes, I suppose that's all," Dumbledore confirms, and as she propels herself to her feet, Marlene wonders when exactly everything got so hard to see.

xx

They've barely walked ten paces away from the gargoyle guarding the stairs to Dumbledore's office when Sirius flings open the door to the nearest boys' restroom and beckons Marlene to follow him inside. "Honestly, Sirius, McGonagall just—"

"Not to shag," he says. There's no one at the urinals, but ducking his head to check for feet, he spots a pair in one of the far stalls and barks, "You in the corner! Hurry it up!"

"Sirius, really," sighs Marlene.

He slouches against the stone wall, and when Marlene lays her head on top of his, he doesn't adjust around her. "I don't have all day to wait around for you, mate," Sirius calls out.

"For god's sake," responds a familiar voice from the stall, and moments later, there's a flushing sound and Benjy Fenwick emerges. "You couldn't just take her to your dormitory, Sirius?"

"Screw off, Fenwick."

"Sirius," Marlene chides.

Benjy rolls his eyes, smiling, and kicks a few squares of toilet paper off his heel as he turns on the faucet. "Bloke can't even go to the loo around here without getting—"

"Fine. You want in? Fine," says Sirius. Marlene starts telling him to not, but he cuts across her to add, "It's us, Ben. It's us who's been doing the pranks—"

"—Good on you!—"

"—Only it's more than pranks, and apparently Dumbledore knows it, and I dunno how I'm supposed to get anything done around here if Minnie's going to be breathing down our necks every time we try to…"

Benjy fumbles around in the sink for the bar of soap he's just dropped, then shuts off the water without bothering to rinse his hands clean of it. "What's more than pranks supposed to mean?"

Sirius and Marlene exchange a look, and Marlene begins, "Well, it started as just an education thing, you know—"

"Yeah, I got that part—"

"But things were getting… worse out there, and we needed to do more. We're still trying to figure out what more, but at least we're trying."

Benjy's eyes dart from Marlene to Sirius back to Marlene again, and he wipes soap scum all over the sides of his robes. Marlene doesn't like the way their voices are echoing against the walls. "Who's 'we?'"

"The nine of us—the nine Gryffindor sixth years—and Dorcas Meadowes," Marlene says tiredly. "There are a few others in on it, too, but no one else knows much yet. It's hard—you think you know people, and then…"

"Right, yeah. I'll—well, I'll help, of course I'll help. Liz would, too, I bet, and maybe Eddie."

"You work on that, then," grunts Sirius, and Benjy gives them a sharp nod on his way out.

He finally looks at Marlene properly as the door swings shut behind Benjy, and her eyes are narrow and wrinkled around the edges. "That was risky."

"He was on our list!"

"That was reckless; you know it was reckless. It's like you just said; Dumbledore's onto us now…"

"All the more reason to push harder and prove we're not just school kids," Sirius insists. "But that's not what I wanted to get you alone for."

"No?"

"No. I wanted," he says, lightly skimming her cheekbone with the back of his hand, "to check in with you about—whatever that was back there with Dumbledore. You seem pretty affected."

"I am pretty affected by it," replies Marlene, turning her head down, her shoulders hunched. "You don't… it's complicated."

When Sirius puts his thumb under her chin to tilt it up, she nudges out of his reach. He studies her—broad forehead, thin lashes, brown complexion—and he tells her, "You affect me," and the momentary upturn of the corners of her lips looks real to him.

These days, they never talk about how things stand between them. She can still feel it sometimes: the self-righteous condescension and the he always left her buried deep someplace that she's got no idea how to broach—to dredge up hardness where there's no space for it anymore, you know, with the war. Marlene is a thicket of accusations, and she's never taken accountability for her own autonomy, not with Sirius or with Mary or with getting tossed out of her Auror internship. And yet she's got soft pockets that peek out sometimes, mostly when she's made to feel shame, and Sirius has never known how to step back and let anybody so haughty run round with bruises so blotchy.