A/N: Very overdue! All the usual warnings, read with care.
March 24th, 1976
"And as of today," Professor Flitwick continued, swirling his wand above his head and jabbing it into the air. The hands of the ornate clock that hung over the double doors spun wildly. "There are sixty-eight days until your O.W.L examinations begin. And we've got word from the Ministry that your very first exam will be in Charms!" The class groaned. Dorcas made a note of it on her parchment, shoving down the pounding in her chest. "Furthermore, your mock examinations start in just…" He swirled his wand again. "…Twelve days." A louder groan ensued. Dorcas made another note, as if that fact didn't consume her every waking moment, lodging itself between passing thoughts. Cynthia moaned pitifully and rubbed her forehead. Dorcas sat at the end of their trio today, Florence on Cynthia's other side. Dorcas struggled to tell what she was thinking at the best of times, but since their confrontation she'd been inscrutable. Her face was carved from marble, her eyes cool as topaz, and every inch of her turned away from Dorcas, a barrier of ice sliding between them.
Florence looped dates across her scroll in gleaming sapphire ink, and turned her attention once more to Professor Flitwick without so much as a glance at the rest of the class. Professor Flitwick lectured from atop his desk, an enchanted piece of chalk transcribing his words on the blackboard.
"You may be inclined to disregard your mock examinations." Dorcas searched Florence's face for the slightest ripple, any tightening of the jaw. The nib of her quill was still, pinched between her finger, and even as a draught blew through the classroom her hair remained sleek and flawless. "But they are just as important as your O. . They are your best chance to prepare for your exams in June, and will be an indication of what you might expect." Was she even breathing? Dorcas thought fleetingly of the living dead, the vampires who slunk over forest floors in the depths of Transylvania. "Your results will highlight what is best revised and what needs only brief review. We will be offering support to students who do not get the mark on their mock examinations that they wished for, and these results will be of vital importance when you have your career advice session with your Head of House at the beginning of next term…" Dorcas flinched. Finally, Florence moved. Her quill scratched letters into her parchment. A lump caught in Dorcas' throat. She ought not to stare. She ought not to think about the other girl.
She took deep breaths, trying to clear her mind. With each day the box came sooner, easier. Plain dark wood against the grey space of the world. She felt the ridges of the latch that was developing, plain iron to keep the lid down. Not that there were hinges yet. They would come. With time, they would come. The box was all that mattered.
Dorcas drew back for it as the content came, and midway through the lesson they were instructed to form pairs. Florence seized hold of Cynthia's arm, and the blonde shot Dorcas a sympathetic look. She had expected as much. Her eyes roamed for a different partner; one of few she was willing to approach. She gathered up her quill and scroll and wand and crossed the floor to where most of the Gryffindors sat. Mary Macdonald squirmed in her seat as Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon discussed how to configure themselves.
"Excuse me," Dorcas cut in. Evans looked up with a toss of her hair, and there was something of Florence in it.
"Meadowes." The smile was broader, maybe. Less perfect. "Hello."
"Hello." Mary brushed a few stray curls back from her face. Dorcas' fingers flapped.
"Macdonald," she said, and swallowed. "Mary. Do you – we could work together?" Mary blinked. Her cuticles stood on end, faint pink gouges beneath them. The whites of her nails were almost nothing against the pink. A few loose strands of her blonde curls stuck to the grey school jumper that peeked above the collar of her too-big robes.
"Oh," she said, lips forming a perfect circle.
"Well," Dorcas laughed nervously, and tilted her head to indicate Florence and Cynthia. "Being the third of trios and all."
"Mary's not a third," Evans said, something perhaps pronged in her voice, though Dorcas couldn't be sure.
"Well," Dorcas started again, trying to gather herself, "everyone is a third, if they're in a trio. Because a third is – is – well, a third is a third." Lily squinted her eyes, cocking her head to one side. Dorcas' fingers flapped. "Erm -"
"I'll work with you," Mary said, and relief flooded Dorcas. Mary scooped up her things clumsily. "Because – erm – yes. We can't really work as, er, as a three."
Lily shook her head like she was shaking off water. "Yeah, alright. Are you alright with that, Mary? Or I could work with you, Meadowes, I don't mind -"
"I'll be alright," Mary said. Every moment that passed with the four of them in proximity grew more awkward. Dorcas coughed.
"Maybe we could sit -"
They found a place that had been abandoned as the class partnered in the middle of the rows, left sparse while people either crowded the front of the room or the back corners. Mary wasn't as good at Charms as she was at Divination, but when Dorcas performed the spells correctly her eyes widened in a way that was oddly endearing.
"You could do it too," she said. "How often do you practice?" Mary flushed.
"It doesn't matter," she replied. "I haven't got it in me. I'm just not like that." Dorcas frowned.
"What are you good at?" Mary's cheeks pinked. Belatedly, Dorcas realised it might have been a rude thing to ask. But how was she supposed to put it? Mary struggled in Divination, struggled in Charms, and as far as she knew had no great achievements in any of their other subjects.
"Nothing, really."
"You can't be terrible at everything." People weren't made that way. Yes, they were just atoms stuck together, but in an evolutionary sense, they were supposed to have some talents beyond breathing. If all her genes were capable of was breathing, her parents would have never got to the stage of reproduction.
"I am, though." Mary set her wand down and rested her chin in her hands. As the rest of the class's books and quills and bags disappeared from plain sight with each new charm cast, Mary remained, blowing at her fringe with red-rimmed eyes, sleeves pooling around her elbows. She slid down until her head perched atop her folded arms. "I probably won't even get any O. . I'll have to go and work in a shop."
Dorcas shifted; when she had chosen Mary for a partner, she had not expected her to mope. But, to her astonishment, she didn't wish to madly flee. She inched her seat a little closer to Mary.
"Do you try?" she asked. "Do you really try at any of it?"
"It doesn't matter if I do," Mary said, gazing out at the classroom. "Lily tries and she gets it the first or second go. And Marlene doesn't care if she gets it or not, but she normally does. It doesn't matter how many times I try, I always mess it up somehow." Her face crumpled for a moment, and she pointed subtly. "Dale Roshfinger never tries at anything, and look." Dale Roshfinger laughed as he made Sirius Black's left eyebrow fade until it was barely distinguishable from his skin. Black stared at a point over the other boy's shoulder and didn't appear to notice that anything was amiss. Dale promptly performed the counter-spell and the eyebrow returned to its usual visibility.
"So you don't try?"
Mary's face crumpled. "It isn't that simple."
"What do you want to be good at?"
"Something. Anything." Mary rubbed her forehead. "Sorry. I don't feel very well."
By the lesson's end, Mary had managed to pale the fork they were working on, while Dorcas had the knack of making it disappear and reappear. Mary wobbled when she stood, and Dorcas was torn between offering her arm and not; she didn't want to be presumptuous. In the end, Mary made it back to Evans and McKinnon, and Dorcas slung her bag over her shoulder and made for the door, trailing behind the bulk of the crowd. They followed the Gryffindors down a few flights of the moving staircases, but they departed down the first-floor corridor and the Ravenclaws kept on until they reached the Entrance Hall. Dorcas walked alone. Ahead, Cynthia giggled and plucked at the front of Branton's clothes, while Florence walked in step with Perseus Padgett, who was going the wrong way for History of Magic. He was taller than her, but not by much; just enough for her to tilt her chin up. Her glossy dark hair tumbled from a large, velvet black bow that secured her hair high on the back of her skull. She smiled at him, and an invisible knife stabbed Dorcas in the heart. They stopped at the top of the stairwell that led down to the dungeons. The others filtered past them; Dorcas' feet stuck to the floor as if enchanted. She ought to force herself past them and onto the steps, but instead she was trapped in the middle of the Entrance Hall, crowds parting around her.
Dorcas tried to clear her mind, to think of that box, to use her Occlumency to shove down the torrent of emotions swirling violently in her chest. Florence slipped her hands into Padgett's, fingers intertwining, and moved forward so that their chests were flush against one another. Dorcas recognised that look in her eyes. Once, it had been directed at her.
Padgett looked out briefly, eyes skimming the crowd, and then he cupped a hand over his nose and lips to shield them from the hall. Florence stood on her toes and leaned forward.
Dorcas could only stare.
Her bag slipped over her shoulder and fell to the ground.
Florence's arms snaked around his neck, and his now-free hand held her hip. When he lowered his left hand, it revealed their lips but an inch apart. Florence fell back on her heels. Padgett whispered something to her and then left, passing within two feet of Dorcas as he hurried towards the Marble Staircase. Florence smirked after him. Her eyes met Dorcas'. Dorcas' throat constricted. Florence's smile died. She blinked several times and turned on her heel, flying down the stairs. It was a moment before Dorcas could bend her knees, and she scrabbled at her quills and smashed bottles of ink, muttering cleaning charms. Her hands were stained with blue by the time she hurried into the dark classroom, seconds before it was due to begin.
"Miss Meadowes, please take a seat," Professor Slughorn said. Florence had a bench in the front row, already full with Cynthia, Branton, and Glen. Cynthia grimaced at her. Dorcas swallowed and awkwardly headed to the back of the room. Professor Slughorn started talking before she found a stool. Kenna Macdougal's curly auburn hair was held back by a knitted pink headband, but Rose Striding glowed. Dorcas wondered how she hadn't been ordered to wipe off her lime eyeshadow yet. Gawain Abberley waved awkwardly as Dorcas nudged in between him and Kenna.
Potions was her worst subject, and Dorcas immediately accepted their bad mark when Abberley chopped a sopophorus bean and sent one half flying across the room. She tried to take up instruction-reading, but Rose had a silky voice and a coy smile and Kenna listened to her without question.
"Flick the bean," Rose said, and lingered, "into the cauldron after allowing it to simmer for two minutes."
Abberley spluttered. Kenna shoved Rose. "It does not say that."
"Look for yourself." Dorcas didn't know what they were talking about and didn't deign to ask. She measured out phials of bulbadox juice. What would happen if it was a sliver above the line? She poured some out, but then it lapped too low. She tried again to fill it precisely, to no avail. The insides of her elbows ached with frustration, but she couldn't flap her arms here, hemmed in on either side. In the end Kenna snatched it up and poured it in without so much as double-checking it, and when Professor Slughorn pursed his lips at the end of the lesson at their off-white concoction, she wondered if it had been her fault. If this was how Mary felt, all the time.
Dorcas fled the classroom at the moment of the bell, ignoring Cynthia's shout. Students milled towards the Great Hall for lunch, but Dorcas' feet pounded the flagstones and she hurried down a corridor. First-years spilled from every corner. Some spotted her badge and jumped out of the way, but others tried to ask her questions. She kept on until she came to the Study Hall, but through the window she spied older students monopolising the tables, books and parchment sprawled as they kicked their legs up on the benches and laughed. Her mouth dropped open. Never mind. She turned sharply and sped through the throngs, past friends and couples and would-be courters, siblings and cousins and tutors and proteges, and by the time she passed the Quad her eyes stung and she was running.
Fortunately, few bothered with the North Tower stairwell, and the only others on the spiral staircase were several curves above, a small group of sixth-years with eccentric hairstyles and round objects in wrappings of spangled crimson cloth. Crystal balls, Dorcas thought. They disappeared up the trapdoor and Dorcas, breathing hard from the stairs and from the tears, wiped her face and took the door on the next landing. From there it wasn't far to Ravenclaw Tower, where she came face-to-face with the doorknocker.
"I am the enemy of all and the comfort of many. I am fought for and against, driven out and driven in, nearer and further with every wizard fallen."
The last thing Dorcas felt like doing was answering a riddle. She combed through the words in her mind. Enemy, comfort, for and against, nearer and further… Something militaristic, perhaps. But what? What did nobody wish to encounter, but some wanted…? Her brow furrowed. For others? Love? But not all feared it. Destruction? That might be a comfort, if it was the destruction of something you weren't fond of… For a moment, she imagined Padgett being tossed into a volcano. As though that would change anything. It didn't matter, she thought, biting her lip, who replaced her in Florence's affections. What mattered was that Florence didn't want her anymore. And probably never would again. Dorcas had had one chance, and she hadn't appreciated what she had. If she hadn't been so desperate for more…
"Defeat," Dorcas said. The door opened.
She never remembered how she made it through the common room, or up the stairs, or into her dormitory, or how her things got back to their spot. She woke from her daze with tears drying on her cheeks and Cynthia kneeling at her bedside, asking something. Dorcas blinked herself away from the box and the thick scent of gardenias, head pounding.
"Cassie?" Cynthia repeated, pale. "Dorcas?"
Dorcas sniffed hard and got another shock at the fullness of head. "Cynthia."
"I didn't mean to upset you," Cynthia said hurriedly. "I didn't realise – I thought you were just having a rest?"
"Upset me?" Dorcas pressed her hands against her eyes and slowly propped herself up. Cynthia had nothing to do with it.
"About - him," Cynthia clarified, her voice going very high-pitched. "I was just excited – and – I'm sorry." Dorcas stiffened. Had she been so obvious? Cynthia wrung her hands. Her stomach was empty, and no words came forth. She wanted to say something – to tell Cynthia it was okay – but her voice mutinied. Cynthia made soothing sounds and rubbed her back. The touch prickled, but Dorcas felt worse when she jerked away.
"I'm so sorry," Cynthia said, snatching her hand back. "Oh – I've made a mess of it, haven't I?"
"It isn't you," Dorcas managed to croak, head thumping. "It's – do you know when you really, really – someone – and – you see them with someone else?" The words fell out before she could regret them. And then the dam burst. Her nose clogged and tears leaked from her eyes and mouth, and Cynthia threw her arms around her. Dorcas hiccoughed furiously. Florence and Perseus, wrapped around each other, kissing, fingers intertwined, the way she smiled at him… Florence had once been kissing her, in this bed, her eyes sparkling, and now she just didn't want Dorcas anymore. And there was nothing she could do.
"Cassie," Cynthia said, stroking her hair. "Oh, Cassie – I didn't know, I didn't realise."
"I know," Dorcas managed, snot bubbling. "I wasn't meant to tell anyone."
"That's rubbish. You can tell me anything." Cynthia climbed onto the bed, her eyes big. "You know that, don't you? You can tell me anything. And I promise I won't tell him. I won't tell Florence, I won't tell anyone."
"I'm so stupid," Dorcas sobbed. Her hands flapped wildly, but Cynthia didn't say anything about it. She hugged Dorcas tighter, until the pressure helped to calm her. "I thought we – I really thought -"
"It's alright," Cynthia said softly. Dorcas squeezed her eyes shut until she saw starbursts and buried her head in Cynthia's shoulder. She smelled like caramel. "It's going to be alright. I promise. It's going to be alright."
March 25th, 1976
The fifth floor of Hogwarts remained to be recorded, and so Sirius climbed the stairs when the bell rang for lunch, still worn and ink-stained from History of Magic. James, Remus, and Peter stayed on the opposite side of the Grand Staircase, the latter two with their backs to him. James kept sneaking glances, meeting his eyes and shooting him weak smiles that burned like acid. Sirius slipped down a corridor and out of his sight, sighing as his back met the wall. He tilted his chin up and stared at the ceiling. His fingers crept into his bookbag and closed around the smooth cloth folded within. James' Cloak. He hadn't asked for it yet, and Sirius wasn't going to offer it back early.
Sirius waited as the last classes spilled through the corridor and passed him by, talking of lunch and rolling their eyes as teachers called after them, shouting about homework. Once the corridor emptied, he pulled out a slip of parchment. If there was an upside to all of this, it was that his mind ran too fast to consider the funny lines he was drawing. He strolled along, pulling his hand across the page carelessly.
James was right. Sirius' chest hollowed with that silent admission. The more he avoided them – Remus – the worse it would be when they did stumble upon him, when his guard finally faltered and he was partnered with one of them in a lesson, or trapped on the same moving staircase. And the Cloak wouldn't be his forever. But what the fuck could he do? Waltz into the dormitory after dinner, say 'goodnight' and climb into bed? Stroll up to Peter and ask if he wanted a fucking fizzing whizbee? He couldn't do it. His lungs tightened. He couldn't do it. He was a weak fucking coward and he couldn't fucking stand there and make small talk with the people that had been his best mates. He would rather be in complete darkness than taunted with snatches of the sun.
Hope was the killer. He wouldn't delude himself into having it. If he and Remus could offer niceties over breakfast he would never get rid of it. He had to cut it out like a beating heart and dash it against the stones.
He was better on his own, regardless.
Nevertheless, he was still working on – well, nothing, he thought pointedly, ignoring the movements of his hand. He owed it to them. If they had the map finished, they would be able to avoid him. Not that James appeared to want to. He stalked down the corridor. He could steal the map and use it to ensure they never came into contact, but they'd only hate him more. He'd deserve that, though. Perhaps it would be enough to change James' mind. To cut the ties for once and for all.
He stopped beneath a portrait that looked strikingly like Blackfield, where Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella lived. That map… Until Andromeda had absconded, Uncle Cygnus had watched her every movement from the comfort of his study, thanks to the enchantment upon it that linked the painted faces of his three daughters to their actual movements. Sirius had thought of it weeks ago, but there had been more pressing issues – that of adding time to the map, an entire additional dimension. If they could surmount that, what was it to add a simple charm? If he could finish these floors and link it to himself…
He could disappear from their lives, once and for all. If they would let him.
He threw James' cloak over himself on the way to the library, and was thankful for it when he passed Regulus. Gibbon was rambling about something, and Regulus swallowed. Shadows smudged the hollows beneath his eyes, but otherwise he was dressed impeccably, just as Mother would have liked.
"I don't know what they expected," Gibbon went on. "As if Professor Slughorn would really let them…"
"I can't imagine," Regulus said. He rolled his neck to one side, and in doing so his eyes fixed on Sirius. His pulse jumped. The cloak. He bit down to keep from sighing with relief. Regulus stared through him at the stone wall.
"They must know everyone's laughing at them…"
"I would think so."
Shortly after that, Sirius found himself at the doors to the library. He wrenched one open and went inside. The castle was infested with ghosts, for Merlin's sake; if some socially-deprived second-year saw a door open and shut of its own accord, they weren't going to jump to the conclusion of an Invisibility Cloak. It wasn't as though they were awfully common.
Remus would have known where to go better than Sirius did; sometimes Sirius thought he had memorised what lie down every aisle of books. Sirius wandered until he found a set of dusty tomes that looked likely, and checked that he was alone before grabbing them and hiding them beneath the cloak. He found a two-seater table towards the back of the room and took a seat there, finally revealing himself to the world. He started to rifle through the pages. The difficulty was that he didn't know what the enchantment was called, only its use – and every spellbook was ordered by sell name, or very rarely by incantation. He lacked even a particular phrase he could wrangle a Text-Searching Spell for.
Lunchtime brought nothing. In Potions he was, for once, thankful they were doing theoretical work. The Slytherins hated him to a man, and sitting with James and Remus and Peter was too painful to even contemplate. He'd been working with Dale, Amy, and Alisha, and mostly it gave him a headache. Today he looped words across the parchment, mind turning over all that he had read. Defence was worse. Dale followed him all the way to the hospital wing, mumbling apologies and offering him a joint "because, erm, like, it really helps with, erm, pain and stuff…" Sirius took the joint but didn't smoke it.
When Pomfrey finally let him go, hand bandaged, he went back to the library. It was busier of an evening, and he threw the Invisibility Cloak over himself once more to avoid tutoring groups and hysterical Hufflepuffs. With no tables available – that is, no tables available without the risk of company – Sirius sat down and leaned against a set of shelves full of sexual health information, where he thought it pretty fucking unlikely he would be interrupted. Armed with a new stack of books, he flicked through and scribbled notes with his scroll of parchment balanced on his knee. The angle wasn't fantastically conducive for the ink to stay put, but it was the best he was going to get. He read until his back hurt and wrote until his fingers cramped, and gritted his teeth and tried not to breathe when a pimply sixth-year girl trod on his feet on her way to retrieve a copy of 'The Witch's Guide To Womanhood'.
At eight, he gathered himself up and trudged up to Gryffindor Tower. He made himself known to Frank Longbottom, who was toiling over a Herbology essay. The conditions of his suspended sentence require him to make an appearance in the common room sometime before curfew. He coughed loudly so several people saw him, and walked up the stairs towards his dormitory. He hesitated by the door. Quiet music played, and Peter said something and Dale responded. No James or Remus. Sirius ducked beneath the cloak and waited until someone entered the common room, dashing past them through the portrait hole. He made it to the library and skidded to a halt, panting hard. Then it was back, silently, to his previous position. Even with less than an hour to go until it shut, students were still pouring in with bundles of homework and purple circles under their eyes.
At ten to nine, Madam Pince descended upon the students, squawking and flapping until they turned tail. Sirius considered, and stayed put. Soon the tallow candles burned low, and the doors shut. For a while, he was distracted watching Madam Pince. He and his – and the others had once had a sleepover in the library, back in their first year, shortly after James had revealed the Invisibility Cloak to all of them. Sirius didn't think they would all fit beneath it, these days. Not that it would need to fit four ever again. His eyes stung. They'd hidden under a table for good measure, and stayed up until three in the morning stuffing themselves with sweets and playing rounds of truth or dare. Sirius had asked Remus about his scars and they'd all gone quiet.
"I'm clumsy," Remus had said.
"No you aren't," Sirius had protested. "Peter is, but you aren't. You are all… graceful." James had laughed. "Like a wolf or something!"
He hadn't known then. How could he have known? But Remus had stormed off and risked all of them getting caught. James had gone after him. Sirius had laid down on his back and stared at the etchings and gum on the underside of the table, heart thumping in his chest, a black thunderstorm of self-hatred creeping up into his lungs.
Madam Pince sent a dozen feather dusters out with a flick of her wand, and summoned a trolley of books, which she promptly began sorting.
By the white light of his wand, Sirius read until four in the morning. There were more enchantments in the pages than he could have ever imagined. Spells that changed physiology, spells that could trap people in books, a variety of timer spells to make threatening messages or posters or notices appear at certain times, or after a particular trigger. He hunted through the lines, hoping desperately… He never remembered sleeping, but he woke to the giggles of first-years, which told him he had well and truly overslept. Shit. His attendance marks were dire enough as it stood, and McGonagall was like to skin him for missing Transfiguration again. He'd tell her the truth, or part of it – he'd slept in. Though with his luck, Remus had probably told her when she asked that he'd never come to the dormitory at all. Would she believe he'd slept behind a tapestry in the common room? Or that he'd gone for an early morning run, and it was only that none of them chanced to see him?
But he had his answer, or something resembling it. There was no time to grab his things for his next lesson – Sirius checked the clock on the wall and hurried down towards the Forbidden Forest. Professor Kettleburn paused his speech to cast him the evil eye.
"Our lesson began twenty minutes ago, Black," he said. "Bloody hell, I don't see why we wait until seventeen to give you a watch. You've lost yourself five points."
Sirius spent the lesson shoving his hands into bags of dead ferrets, absent-mindedly feeding the creatures they were working with. He traced the wand movement he needed in his mind. It couldn't be so difficult… they'd covered a little of the theory behind it in Charms, though as best he could tell, they never learned this particular enchantment in school. It was a more recent invention, relatively speaking, and very difficult. Sirius could do it. He had made the Animagus potion, illegally married two of his younger brother's classmates, betrayed his best friend to his worst enemy and somehow managed to remain at Hogwarts. What was a simple charm to all of that?
Afterwards, he made his way to a room he hoped both of the others had abandoned – a room Remus knew nothing about. Dust collected on the bench, and spiderwebs spanned the recess of the window. Sirius arranged his things there and then disappeared under the Invisibility Cloak one more time, stealing up to Gryffindor Tower. The dormitory was empty. The second trunk he tried gave him what he wanted, amongst sweet wrappers and striped pyjamas. Upon reaching the room they had used to brew the Animagus potion, he unfolded the parchment and smoothed out the creases.
This time, he had no potion from Dale to help him. No friends gathered around. Wading through the layers of enchantments they had already laced into the parchment was just as difficult as creating them. He gritted his teeth as he bound his new bits of parchment to the old, and gently manoeuvred his wand to spread the clock embedded within the lower floors to the upper. He set the others' labels to their new places, heading towards the Astronomy Tower on Tuesday nights, and added Slughorn's sleepy patrols along the sixth floor. He left for Muggle Studies and it was all he could do to stay awake through shaky slides put on the blackboard with some muggle contraption.
"Many of the men who signed up were little more than boys," Professor Clearwater told them. "Some were barely eighteen, and some were younger, even. Can anyone tell me why the Unforgivable Curses are considered unforgivable – and not because of their impact on the victim?"
Lewis from Ravenclaw raised her hand. "It's because of the damage it does to the soul, isn't it? It can mess you up, sort of."
"Yes, precisely." Professor Clearwater fiddled with something, and another slide appeared. Two young men in trousers and coats in funny hats smiled next to each other in a garden. "These young men were sent out by their country to essentially perform acts very like that of the Unforgivable Curses. Unlike us, the muggles did not truly tell their youth about the damage these acts could do. Some thought it was a great lark to go out and fight."
Bellchant's hand went up next. "But sir, if they were using – you know, the, erm -"
"Rifles!" Tolipan piped up.
"Yeah, yeah, those – how did it, you know, damage their soul? I mean, with the Unforgivables, you have to mean them, don't you? And it's the way that the magic works that does the damage, because it's Dark Magic. If they're just using some chunk of metal, well, they have no connection with it, it's not like a wand. They can make it kill someone without meaning it. So how does that damage their soul?"
Professor Clearwater lowered his wand and leaned back against his desk. His muscles rippled beneath the tight arms of his robes, and his stubbled jaw worked. Sirius drifted in and out of dreams, eyes fixed on a random vein in the older wizard's neck as he fought to stay awake.
"Well," Professor Clearwater said, getting a thoughtful look that made Sirius' stomach clench with its similarity to Remus'. "We have many spells that can do the same as an Unforgivable Curse, but indirectly. Because they have uses other than for harm, we classify them differently. But, Mr Bellchant, do you think if you, say, used a Blasting Curse on another wizard, that killed him – would your soul not be damaged at all? From the act of killing? And even if you didn't intend to kill that wizard with a Blasting Curse – does its being accidental mean that the death doesn't haunt you?"
Bellchant frowned. "But – well, if it's an accident – those things happen, don't they? It isn't the same as using Dark Magic."
Professor Clearwater hummed. "You can do many horrible things without using Dark Magic, Mr Bellchant. Sometimes you can do worse things without magic than you can do with it."
Defence saw him sleeping in the back row, and Herbology found him at a table full of giggling Hufflepuffs. Matilda Mortensen was more than happy to do his work, and he tried not to look at Remus as she patted his puffapods into the soil. His voice floated through the crowd, and Sirius dug his nails into his palms. It isn't yours to hear. You blew that chance. Mortensen left lingering touches along his arm and offered him water from her own bottle. She was pretty in a different way to Rose; the midday sun instead of midnight rain. Sirius' eyes drifted back to Remus' bench. Remus was a gale, blowing him over. Remus was a storm. Remus was the grey of three in the morning and the paths paved with regret.
Dinner didn't bother him. Sirius returned to the little room and worked into the night. His hand cramped with the writing. Bells tolled out across the castle, marking the next day. James' birthday. James was sixteen, and Sirius wasn't there to see it. He wasn't there to climb into his bed and pinch him awake and sing an offkey rendition of 'happy birthday' and pour alcohol down their throats until the world turned to misty haze. It was one in the morning before Sirius came to the final part, and pressed his wand over his heart.
It was time for the Homonculous Charm.
March 26th, 1976
In Herbology, bulbs burst into high colour, a cacophony spreading along the western wall of the greenhouse. Professor Sprout had taken pity on them, with it being the last lesson of the week, and amplified the radio so that Miriam Wakefield's voice filled the room. Lily bobbed her head along as she patted the soil around her lilac puffapod. As soon as she removed her hands, Mary poured, splashing water through the dark soil. Marlene leaned against the workbench, carving her initials into the wood. Lily tactically pretended not to see.
"Potter's tomorrow," Marlene said, wriggling the pruning knife. "Are we going?" All the older Gryffindors were welcome, though Lily had received no fancy invitations. It was Potter's sixteenth birthday, and the party promised to be loud, late, and lavish. Between picking something to wear and recovering from the sleep deprivation the next day, Lily suspected choosing to go would be to sacrifice an entire weekend. A weekend that could be spent… Well, there was no guarantee of that, either. Only this afternoon.
"We have a lot on," Lily said noncommittally, flipping through her textbook. She found the spell to check the plant's water levels and brandished her wand. "Sumaquis Herbarium." A shower of blue sparks rained over the puffapod. Overhydrated. She winced. "We need to take a little water out."
"I'm sorry," Mary said, worrying her bottom lip. "I'm sorry. I'm just – I'll make up for it. I'll do it." Lily opened her mouth to offer to help, but quickly shut it. The Dehydration Spell was exceedingly difficult, even for her, and for Mary – but it wasn't her call to decide what magic Mary could and couldn't do, no more than it was up to her to decide what Mary did and didn't eat.
"Thank you."
"I think it'd be fun," Marlene persisted. "We don't have to be there all night." She shrugged. "And everyone else from the quidditch team is going. I'd feel like a prat if I didn't."
"I don't care if you go," Lily said. "I just don't know that I will." Marcus had mentioned something about sharing his notes form his O. with her, and she thought tomorrow night would be a good opportunity, especially if the common room was quiet. It wasn't as if she was obsessed with revision or anything, but it sounded like a good idea to do at least a bit, what with their mocks approaching.
"What's the incantation again?" Mary asked, pale brows furrowing. Lily flicked through a few more pages and pushed the book over to her.
"Here."
"I want you to come, though." Marlene wiggled her eyebrows significantly. "Will Marcus be going?" Lily had made the mistake of mentioning the moment on the ramparts to Marlene, who hadn't let up since.
"Marcus and I were going to revise," she said, trying to sound casual. And it was casual. Honestly, it wasn't like they'd made a plan or anything. Mary practised the wand movement, mouthing the words. Marlene grinned.
"Hot date?" She hammered the hilt of the knife against the bench, starting on the second 'M'. "Bring him. The party will be more fun."
Lily slipped out of Mary's way. "Marcus doesn't think much of parties," she said carefully. He was all candlelight and quiet moments, fingers brushing over page corners. He wasn't seized by the need to snog girls in front of half the school the way Potter seemed to be. Marlene snorted.
"The only people who don't like parties are people too boring to make their own fun," she decreed imperiously. "Even Mary likes them, and have you known anyone who tries harder to camouflage with the wall?"
"Arfaceo Herbaquiem," Mary whispered, voice trembling. She twirled her wand, the tip pointed at the soil. A thin watery line rose from the dirt and the wand sucked it in. Mary's brows met in their concentration. Lily fell silent. Mary rolled her wrist.
"How do I know when to stop?" she whispered. Lily grimaced.
"It's – it's like your stomach cramps," she said. "Sort of." Mary's twirls got smaller and smaller, and her upper lip curled.
"I can't feel anything," she said.
"Stop then and we'll check," Marlene said, shrugging. Mary's teeth gnashed.
"I can't do it twice!"
"I'll do it the next time," Lily offered.
"But -"
"Just give it up, Mary!"
"But -"
Mary's wrist snapped. She cried out. Water sprayed furiously from the end of her wand, drenching Marlene, and shouts flooded the classroom. The wand clattered to the floor. Mary whimpered. Lily was at her side in a second, heart racing. Sick rolled in her stomach. Mary's wrist stuck out at an abnormal angle, as if she was a doll who had been tugged too hard. Mary went green. Lily bit her bottom lip.
"I can't – I can't – is it really terrible?" Mary looked up at the roof, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh – Lily, it feels -"
Professor Sprout bustled over, flyaway hairs sticking out as if she'd been electrocuted. The rest of the class gathered around, craning their necks. Lily glared. She put her arm around Mary, who kept crying, and Professor Sprout waved her wand to assess the damage.
"Hmm," she said. "Off to the hospital wing with you, I think. Evans, you too."
"I could go?" Marlene offered. Professor Sprout levelled a look at their workbench.
"I thought you'd want to finish off your carving, Miss McKinnon? So it's all nice and ready for your detention."
Lily coughed her laugh into her shoulder as she and Mary left the greenhouse, Marlene's alternating complaints and pleas ringing in her ears. She conjured a thin tissue for Mary (a good effort, she thought, given how difficult Transfiguration had been getting lately) and steered her around the growing puddles.
"I didn't know you could hurt yourself doing magic," Mary whimpered, as they slipped through a back door into the castle. Her face was leeched of blood, and she held her sore arm out as far from her body as possible. Lily shrugged, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear.
"I guess you can," she said. "I think McGonagall's mentioned it once before, when it comes to summoning things. If you don't calculate properly, or if you've got the wrong grip of your wand, or if you overdo it – the magic can sort of lash out, I think."
"Lash out," Mary repeated glumly. "Just my luck."
The day was close to ending, and with it, the week; Herbology had been Lily's last lesson, and there was only one period after that. As they entered the Infirmary, she checked the clock. Marcus had asked a favour of her, and she'd said she'd help.
It didn't take much for Madam Pomfrey to mend Mary's arm, but she gave her a dose of a pain-relieving potion as well, and Mary had to wait ten minutes for it to work before they could leave. Madam Pomfrey directed them to an empty bed. Mary sat down and Lily plopped beside her, exhaling slowly. Her stomach was a bit swoopy at the prospect of meeting with Marcus again. The intervening days had passed without note, honestly, unless you counted a few glances across the common room or the dinner table, a few smiles in the corridor. Lily was surprised to find that she had been counting them, just a little bit. Her teeth pulled at her lower lip.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. Mary pulled at her hangnails tenderly, dragging her feet across the floor.
"I just didn't know it could do that," she said. "I feel so stupid. Who gets hurt doing a spell? Not even a proper spell – just – some ordinary Herbology thing." Lily looked her up and down, considering. A suspicion gnawed.
"Madam Pomfrey might know why it happened," she said. Mary sniffled.
"She's busy." She was lecturing some kid with a flower sprouting from the end of his nose. Lily's teeth attacked her lips again.
"It could be… you know… If you're sick, or don't have enough vitamins or nutrients or something." Mary tensed. Lily kept her head up, watching the other girl.
"I'm not sick," Mary said flatly. Lily's jaw worked.
"I'm glad you don't feel sick."
They picked raindrops and watched them race down the glass panes, and then Madam Pomfrey checked Mary over once more and let them go. With only five minutes left in their lesson, they headed not back to the greenhouses but around the corridor that overlooked the Transfiguration Courtyard. Mary stretched her arm out and curled it up, testing its movement.
"Does it still hurt?" Lily asked.
"A little bit."
"Do you want to go back?"
Mary's thumbnail went to her mouth. "I don't want to go back," she said. "I don't want Madam Pomfrey to think – you know."
Mary stayed with her until they reached the Transfiguration classroom, where Lily broke into a broad smile. Marcus stood by the door, robes neatly pressed, tie straight, collar crisp. He smiled in return, but it was softer than hers – quieter. Lily tingled. It was like a secret – something invisible, just between the two of them. It was strange, how much a week could change. That phantom kiss burned on her forehead. She brushed it away.
"Thank you for coming," Marcus said, warm and polite. His eyes fell to Mary, who was still flexing her arm. "Is something the matter?"
"A Herbology incident," Lily said. Marcus' features sharpened in concerned, but she waved him off. "It's fine, honestly. Madam Pomfrey works a treat."
"It is feeling better," Mary said. The three of them hovered. Professor McGonagall's voice rang distantly, and the sounds of scraping chairs and footsteps slipped beneath the classroom door. Marcus adjusted his prefect badge, tweaking it so it was perfectly straight. Lily adjusted the strap of her bookbag on her shoulder.
"I should go find Marlene," Mary said, breaking into the silence. Lily instantly felt guilty.
"You can stay -"
"It's alright." Lily chewed her lip.
"You're hurt."
Marcus stepped forward, almost between them. His gaze was on Mary. "Are you hurt? Should we return you to the Infirmary?" Mary shrunk back from him.
"No," she said. "No. I'm fine. I'll go find Marlene." She was gone in a flash, before Lily could so much as ask if she was sure. Her blonde curls disappeared around the corner and it dawned on Lily that she and Marcus were alone in the corridor. She turned back to him, and for a moment didn't know what to say. Somehow everything seemed ten times… more, with it being just them. Like it wasn't just prefect duties.
"Give me the rundown," Lily finally said, striding past him to lean against the opposite wall, crossing her ankles. The window at the corridor's end rattled with the wind. "What's the problem with these kids?"
"There's not a problem, as such," Marcus said. He mimicked her in his lean against the wall, but awkwardly. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them at once, and smoothed out his robes vigorously. It was oddly endearing. Lily tilted her head to one side.
"But…?"
"Professor McGonagall believed it would be useful for them to be supervised to their common room or next lesson," Marcus said, tugging at his cuffs. "A handful of the students have made threatening allusions."
"So we need to make sure they don't blow each other up," Lily supplied. "Third-years, aren't they?"
Marcus nodded. "Gryffindors and Slytherins." Lily shut her eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, she couldn't be surprised. She bent one knee and lifted her foot to press back against the wall.
"Well," she said. "That doesn't mean anything."
"No." Their eyes didn't meet.
"Some people just don't get on," Lily continued. "I mean, there's people I don't get on with, and their house has nothing to do with it." Professor McGonagall said something else, muffled by the door, and the chatter grew louder. Marcus turned his head to look.
"Like Potter," he said lightly. Lily hesitated infinitesimally.
"Yeah," she said. "Like Potter." Are you going to his birthday, Lily suddenly wanted to ask. Questions spilled through her mind. Do you want to revise tomorrow? Why don't you like parties? Why did you ask me here? Have you been thinking about Sunday?
The door opened and shut the gaping one in Lily's mind. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike poured out, and Potter's little girlfriend was amongst them, a ribbon in her hair and a glow in her cheeks. What did he see in her? She was pretty, in that sort of traditional way – the blonde hair and blue eyes. And she was younger, which Lily supposed blokes liked, though she couldn't say why. Petunia thought it was an outrage to be seen with a bloke within two years of her age. I'm younger than Marcus, Lily thought. Older than Potter. And clearly not his type – not fair or petite or giggly enough. She refrained from rolling her eyes. God, what a pity not to be Potter's type. Tragic.
Marcus cleared his throat and stepped into the flood of children, and Lily felt sure she'd get over that horrible loss fairly quickly. Within a second or two, actually.
"Excuse me," he said, but the third-years paid him no mind, passing on either side of him like they were a river and he was a boulder in the road. "If you could please -"
"Oi!" Lily barked, and at least half of them looked round at her. She put her hands on her hips. "What lesson do you have next?"
"Care of Magical Creatures," one of them volunteered. Not Lisbete. Lisbete stood with a group of girls, shooting her a supremely snotty look. Get over yourself. You're fourteen.
"Care of Magical Creatures," Lily repeated. "Good. I need the Slytherins and the Care of Magical Creatures students to come with me, and the other Gryffindors to go with Marcus. Understood?"
They started to murmur, and Marcus shot Lily a questioning look, but she gave a sharp shake of her head in response. Lisbete's group of girls haemorrhaged towards Marcus, and the Slytherins exchanged dark looks. Lisbete and Catherine Roshfinger whispered furiously. Lily ignored them and strode to the front of the group, waving her arm.
"Come on," she said, heading down the stairs to the courtyard. She locked eyes with Marcus, and he blinked several times, adjusting his badge once again.
"Gryffindors, with me, unless you have your lesson," he called, and started in the other direction, towards the Grand Staircase. Lily waved the kids in her direction and started down the stairs. A Slytherin boy bumped David Robley in his rush down, and in turn Alastor Gumboil trod on the Slytherin's toes. Lily's wand felt heavier in her pocket.
"Oi," she said. "Everyone mind your own personal space, please." Gumboil and the Slytherin both glared. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, Lily decided, were the worst. She'd never been that sullen. She led them across the courtyard and drew her wand when a massive blond from Slytherin drew his. He held it at his hip, clearly trying to be clever. Lily slipped past Robley and Mark Jordan and pointed her wand at the boy's crotch.
"No magic without a teacher present," she informed him cheerfully, looking up. As she did so, she got a terrible whiff of body odour as it streamed from his armpits, which were at her eye-level. "If you need a Sweet-Smelling Charm, I'm happy to perform it for you."
He grumbled and put his wand away. Lily fell back, and found herself facing two more unwelcome bloody third-years. Lisbete reapplied a tube of lipstick and Catherine had a cigarette between her teeth. She stopped dead in front of them, and Lisbete bumped into her. Only then did the girl look away from her compact. A line of pinkish paint smeared across the corner of her mouth. Catherine stopped half a pace behind her and ripped the unlit cigarette from her mouth, stuffing it into her pocket.
Lily held her hand out. "Make-up. Cigarette. You've been here long enough to know the uniform policy, and Roshfinger, you know you're not meant to smoke."
"I wasn't," Catherine shrugged. "It wasn't lit."
Lisbete raised her chin haughtily and clutched the lipstick in her hand. Lily started to think that she should have taken the group back to Gryffindor Tower. She'd hoped for a glimpse of Marlene and Mary down here, but she was stuck at the courtyard's edge and they were probably still down on the grounds.
"You can't take my lipstick," Lisbete said.
"I can, actually," said Lily. "Give it over and I'll give it back to you after your lesson."
"No."
"Moult, give it here." Lisbete's eyes narrowed.
"You're targeting me," she announced. Lily couldn't help but laugh.
"Am I?" She reached for the lipstick and Lisbete flounced back. "Jesus, Moult. You can go an hour without it. Does Potter not give you enough compliments? You're pretty, and he's a prick. I'll be up in the common room when you're done, you can come and get it right away. I won't record it." Lily looked over her shoulder, where most of the others had disappeared. She huffed. It was like herding cats. She gestured sharply for the girls to follow her and started for the entryway.
"You are!" Lily was halfway across the cobblestones when Lisbete shouted, and she whirled on her heel. Lisbete's face blotched red, and her eyes gleamed furiously. "You're targeting me because you're jealous that you didn't get invited to James' party."
Lily laughed again. "Are you serious?" The younger girl's fierce exterior flickered. Lily took a few quick steps towards her and snatched the lipstick from her hand before she knew what was happening.
"You can't -!"
"Prefects can confiscate an object for up to thirty-six hours before making an official report," Lily said. "So I can, actually. Come get it tonight. Or tomorrow night, at Potter's party." Lily cocked her head to one side. "Or are you not allowed in? I didn't think he was inviting the kids."
Catherine ducked her head and edged away, fiddling in her pocket. Lisbete's mouth opened and shut like a goldfish.
"I'm his girlfriend," she said incredulously. Lily raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes like she had her no idea.
"Oh! I thought he was your babysitter." She wiggled the tube of lipstick. "Tomorrow night, then. See you there. Now, are you going to your lesson?"
"We don't actually take Care of Magical Creatures, we forgot that we didn't," Catherine said, grabbing Lisbete by the hand and wrenching her away. "Bye, Evans."
Lily shoved the lipstick in her pocket and raced after the group of third-years. It looked like she was going to Potter's party after all. Brilliant, she thought. Would Marcus go, if she was? She sort of wanted to see him with his hair down. She didn't expect him to drink – she didn't, and had no intention to until her birthday came around – but they could dance, or find a quiet corner and talk. The brilliance of Potter and his mates' Party Room laid in the way it sprouted quiet alcoves like a plant sprouted leaves. It could do anything you wanted; it was pretty goddamned marvellous magic, and she hated the fact that they'd found the place before her.
She ducked down another corridor and caught the tail end of fluttering cloaks heading out a back door. Crap. Lily grabbed the door just before it shut and hurried after them. Michael Hoover was at the back of the pack and shot her an odd look as she passed him; it made the hairs on her arm stand on end.
"Hoo-?" But he overtook her, eyes down and hands tucked under his cloak. Weird. She quickened her steps to catch up with him. Was something wrong? He pulled his hood up, but the sprinkles were growing heavier. The Whomping Willow batted angrily at the torrent of spring rain.
Remus.
The realisation caught her in the ribs again, and she shoved it down. It was none of her business. It was none of her business, and it was a hunch, and if she was wrong – well, she couldn't afford to bee wrong, and she couldn't do anything until she knew that she wasn't.
Well, until she had proof. Because right now, she knew that she wasn't wrong. Rain fell on her cheeks like teardrop kisses. Remus. Sev. Her chest tightened.
"Ouch!" Gumboil shouted. "Bugger off, you slimy snake!"
The mediocre retort ripped Lily from her thoughts. Third-years. Honestly.
March 27th, 1976
James was on his second Grindylow when the music died. Large banners strung across the Party Room proclaimed what all knew and what he felt, in his bones; it was JAMES POTTER'S 16TH BIRTHDAY. Sixteen, and a Saturday to boot. Was there better luck than that? He'd woken up to a trunk overflowing with gifts and two of his best mates sat on his bed, serenading him to the doleful sounds of a terrifically tuneless 'Happy Birthday To You'. He'd thanked them both and stolen a glance at the drawn curtains around Sirius' bed. Probably Sirius wasn't up. Mornings didn't suit him. But even if he'd been awake bright and early, Remus and Peter wouldn't have asked him over. A lump caught in James' throat.
He rummaged through the cards and tore into his presents – a dozen from his parents, including new quidditch boots with extra enchantments for comfort, a wand holster, and a map of Australia that bellowed facts when he tapped his wand to place names and had a shimmering red, hand-drawn heart around where he was to go for the Transfiguration Tournament next month. Lisbete got him a teddy bear he stared at for far too long while Remus and Peter tried not to laugh, and in the end tucked it into his bed with its head on his pillow. Peter gave him a basket full of sweets and Remus an older record of the Fizzing Whizbees'.
"It's not new," Remus said, eyes down, fingers fidgeting. James shrugged, turning it over to examine the songs on the back.
"It's brilliant," he said. "I have the new ones already, I don't need duplicates." Once Dale got up and gave him a pat on the back and a rolled joint for his birthday, James put the record on and lit up to the title track, Tubatub Fortune and Wily Witches. Still no Sirius. In the end they'd gone down to breakfast without him, and when they'd returned his curtains were open and his bed was empty. James watched carefully, waiting for the creak or the rustle of sheets that would give away someone beneath an Invisibility Cloak, but none came. So they fucked around a while longer and trudged to the Party Room to start setting up.
Ludo had come early with the beers, Dale with the goods, and the rest in search of a worthwhile Saturday night. Most of the older Gryffindors were present, with a fair smattering from the other houses too. Music blared over a magically-amplified record player, and the lights went down, leaving them to bask in the glow of floating candles with multicoloured flames. Rose Striding sidled up to him almost immediately, and James opened and closed his hands several times, giving her a polite smile.
"Happy birthday," she'd said. "Only a year until you can do all this legally." She was pretty, and her eyes gleamed when she smiled. Had Sirius seen that, in the depths of a bottle and a dark night? Had she smiled at all, or had she been crying over her father? Was he horrible for looking at her and thinking about all that, as if that was her only bloody importance in the world?
"Cheers," James said, and clinked their bottles together. He'd been on his first, then, and it barely opened.
"Have you seen Black around?" She asked, folding her arms across her chest and swigging from a yellow Elfwine Kiss. James' throat bobbed.
"No," he said. "No, I haven't seen him around today." He swallowed a mouthful. "Might be revising." Bullshit, and they both knew it. Striding only smiled against the lip of her bottle.
"I know you've fallen out," she said, casting her eye over the crowds, "but you're still looking out for him, aren't you?" James pressed his lips tight and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I am." He lifted his beer to his mouth, but couldn't drink it. A question pounded in his chest, and he had to know, no matter how fucked up it was to ask. It had nothing to do with him, but he had a gut feeling that it would matter. "Rose?"
If she was surprised at being addressed by her first name, she didn't show it. "Yes?" James seized a lock of his hair between his fore and middle finger, and twisted it between them.
"Was he a complete arse to you?" He watched her closely. She took another sip of her drink and blew air through her lips. Her gold dress – muggle-style, short with little reflective circles sewn on – flashed in the coloured lights like the tail of a mermaid.
"No?" James stiffened at the rise at the end of her voice. Rose shook her head. "No. I was upset – he was just – I think we were both a bit… well, fucked." Her eyes shifted to him. "He's… he's not well, is he?"
James coughed in surprise. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"
"Not in a bitchy way," she said quickly.
"You think he's…" James struggled for a word. "What? Properly mad?" His voice was rising, and he couldn't clamp it down.
"Not mad," Rose said pointedly. "But he's…" Something in her face dropped. She wrapped her arms around her middle. James' neck burned. "My mum gets it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The cloud."
James opened his mouth to deny it, to claim that he didn't know what she was talking about – that Sirius was just being a prick and they were squabbling over some girl or drugs or something. The memory of Sirius in the shower caught in his throat. Sirius sitting at the bottom of the shower, Sirius in the very front corner of the class, hair hiding his face, Sirius looking away on the stairs.
"Does it make you pull stupid shit?" James asked. "Does it make you fuck people over?"
"It doesn't make you do anything," Rose said. "It's a state of mind, not an agent of change." She swigged. James folded his arms across his chest.
"How do you get rid of it?" he asked. Rose rolled her eyes.
"Again, it's a state of mind, Potter, you can't wave your wand and make it disappear."
"I didn't -"
"I know." She pressed her lips to the rim of her bottle, but didn't drink. "It can be hard to be there, because – well, it gets awful, sometimes. But it's just… knowing when to step back to look after yourself, and being there when you can. I don't know Sirius that well." She stopped, considering this, and snorted. She really was very pretty. "Except for carnally." A week ago, James might have seen red at that, but tonight the corners of his lips twitched. "I could have it all turned about wrong. But if he is here, go and find him before he gets himself plastered again. Before anything else can escalate."
James held his bottle with two hands. Connor O'Neill slipped through the crowds and handed out cups of brown murk. Kelsey Wood said something to Livia McLaggen that made her laugh so hard beer spouted from her nose like twin fountains. Peter was stumbling around to the music doing something with his arms that made him resemble a winged gnome.
"What if I can't forgive him?" he asked quietly. Rose put her empty bottle down on a floating tray.
"I don't know what the fuck he did," she said. "I can't decide if you can or can't or whatever else. But I think if you really couldn't… you'd know by now."
James thought on that, and lifted a hand in farewell when Rose's friends converged upon her and dragged her out to the dance floor. He passed on Connor's offer and briefly greeted John Brown and Betty Roshfinger before slipping through the door and into the corridor. Already, Renee Walker and Thomas Roper were intertwined in an alcove, half-concealed by a candelabra. A crowd of third-years barrelled along with flared robes and shaggy haircuts. Hufflepuffs. No Lisbete.
"Happy birthday, Potter," chorused two girls.
"Thanks."
The numbers thinned the closer he got to Gryffindor Tower, and after spotting a pair of first-years attempting a duel, much to the Fat Lady's horror, he changed course. It'd be a good time to have that bloody map. Since the full moon, it had fallen to the wayside. But even if he did have it in his hands, it would probably put Sirius and the rest of them up in their dormitory, which was useless. At least he'd have an idea of which teachers were where. The last thing he wanted was to meet Filch around a dark corner.
"James."
James jumped half a foot into the air. Not daring to believe it, he pulled out his wand. He made himself count to three. It's not, he told himself bluntly. It's not.
He turned around.
Sirius' undereyes were smudged with sleeplessness, but he had more weight to his face than he had the last time they spoke properly. He was dressed and smelt neither of whisky or cigarettes. His dark hair hung loosely to his shoulders, but the tangles were few. James stared. Sirius stared back. James tried to form his name, but his tongue pitched a fight. The full moon flashed like lightning through his consciousness. Fingers becoming hooves; Peter shouting; Snape, like a bat soaring. Sirius. Sirius bled all through his memory like pooling wine.
Sirius reached into his pocket, and for a split second James thought he was going to be hexed. But Sirius only pulled out a bit of folded parchment and held it out to him. It could be cursed. James took it anyway. Sirius wouldn't, and he hadn't. James looked at Sirius curiously. Sirius shrugged. James unfolded the parchment.
The floor they stood on – the seventh – now existed, and a few taps of his wand revealed the sixth and the fifth and the fourth floors. The towers were incomplete, and obviously there were empty spaces where the other houses' common rooms and dormitories were, but otherwise it was done. Their labels were mostly in their default positions – Professor Flitwick in his office, and James, Remus, and Peter marked as being up in their dormitory. Only one dot was out of place.
Sirius Black, it read. Sirius Black, in the seventh-floor corridor, not far from the Fat Lady.
James looked up, mouth open. Sirius rubbed his lips.
"Happy birthday, James." Before James could say a word, Sirius started back the way he'd come. The Sirius Black label on the map moved in time with him. It was… truly fucking incredible magic. It was what had been a dream. But why…?
"Sirius!"
Sirius stopped dead. James' heart hammered. Sirius peeked over his shoulder almost shyly. As though they were eleven again. James could only hold up the map, which unfurled open and reached almost to the ground from his hand.
"Thanks," James said. Sirius' face tightened.
"Yeah."
James flung the words out before he could leave again. "D'you want – in the party room -?"
Something in Sirius' eyes made James' stomach clench. Please. Sirius shut his eyes for a moment. "No," he said. James went cold. "Thanks." James nodded too much, too fast.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah." The little kid inside of him kicked and screamed. "If you – you know – if you want to get pissed later…"
Sirius turned stony. "No," he said. "Thanks."
And Sirius was gone then. Gone before James could do anything but watch the little dot turn the corner and make for the common room. The label was almost at the Fat Lady before James' heart double-beat; the label started spinning round and round, and then bounced erratically from wall to wall. James' brow furrowed – was there something wrong with the map? Or –
He broke into a run. His feet slammed against the stones. His lungs burned. The halls were emptier now. The candles burned lower. A cold draught blew. Sirius. Sirius.
James skidded to a halt in the Fat Lady's corridor, panting and looking for the attackers, but all were gone, even the first-years. He flung the map open, searching for Sirius' label, to see if it was still spinning, to see if he was alright. James lost his breath. Sirius Black was now safely up in the dormitory, where James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew were supposed to be. The corridor was deserted.
Even so. James raised his wand. "Revelio." He felt something. His eyes skimmed the floor and he followed the tug in his wrist, stepping towards a bench. It took him a moment to spot it – the silvery, transparent fabric bundled up on the bench's edge. James picked it up, letting the cloth fall between his fingers.
His Invisibility Cloak.
The distance to the Party Room had never seemed so short. James dimly registered music and laughter as he entered. He needed to find Peter. Remus had his own myriad of reasons, and each of them rational… but James could work with Peter. He'd said what he'd said in the hospital wing that morning, but James himself had been so full of anger and disbelief – it was worth showing Peter the map, regardless of what he would make of it. He ought to know. The project belonged to all of them besides, and Peter had a right to see what had been done to it. James ducked wide around a group of sixth-years searching for smoke or the stink of skunk. His body thrummed. Sirius had cracked it. He'd done it. James looked back at the map. Sirius Black appeared to be in the toilet attached to their dormitory. Genius.
Someone put a bottle in his hand. A quaffle soared over his head, and he stepped over a spillage some Ravenclaw waved their wand at. Alcoves popped up left and right as couples and pairs of friends sought privacy, and cushions materialised just as one fourth-year dropped and curled up on a bit of floor. No Peter. Not anywhere. No Remus either. James wished Sirius had figured out how to put a bloody enchantment on them too, to link them to the bit of parchment in their hands. If I can get Peter… Maybe Sirius could do the spell if he had them on hand. But where the hell was he?
In his gazing, his eyes landed on Lily Evans. James swallowed. She stood between Marlene and Mary Macdonald, holding a butterbeer, chewing her lip. She was dressed muggle – blue jeans flared around her boots, and she shifted and crossed her arms over a white jumper striped with red. In the changing candlelight her long hair shone, and her face radiated warmth. He remembered the way it had glowed in that little room at Auld Kirk Green, when they had been 'experiencing' what the victims of the witch hunts would have. When the room had grown so small and claustrophobic that their legs had brushed, that their chests had touched, that she had looked up with him with a question on her lips and he had prayed to every higher power he didn't believe in that she couldn't feel – yeah. And those lips – the lips that had only been a cigarette from his, that had been but an inch away, swirled in smoke. He had a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He was struck by the urge to march up to her and pull one out right there, as if she'd go back to that night with him.
Sometimes, he didn't know how he'd ever liked her.
Sometimes, he didn't know how he'd ever stopped.
Her name was on his tongue. As if by magic, she murmured something to Marlene and Mary and slipped out from between them. It took him a moment to register where she was going. She was looking at him. His mouth opened dumbly. Her hands slid into her pockets, thumbs hooked over the denim. Her head cocked to one side. Auburn hair cascaded over one shoulder. A gold earring glinted. Her almond eyes were sharp and catlike, and her smile twisted crookedly. He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the pack, and started to lift them out. Her eyebrows raised. Was he dreaming? Was he –
"Jamie!"
The cigarettes fell to the ground and spilled when the blonde grabbed him by the arm. James gaped at her. His head twisted, but Lily stepped into the crowd and melted into the masses. James threw Lisbete's hand off.
She stood there all bright and trying to look older, in red robes with a sharp v-neck and a black fur cloak that matched her fuzzy fur hat. Smears of blue behind her eyes almost reached her brows, and every lash sprawled individually. For all her efforts, she'd never looked more like a third-year. James recoiled.
"I've been looking for you all night, Jamie," Lisbete said. "Where have you been? Cathy and I went through all the alcoves and everything – I wasn't sure if you'd gone off with some stupid Hufflepuff again – but – you haven't been out, have you? What have you got in your hand?"
James pulled the map away from her grasp. She put her hands on her hips.
"I thought you were with Gumboil," he shrugged. "Didn't think you'd want to see me. I'm busy. See you later." He took off.
"Jamie!" He powered through the crowd, hoping Peter would appear any moment now, but somehow Lisbete kept up with him, even tottering in her ridiculously high-heeled boots. "Jamie, wait. We need to talk."
"No, we don't." And then it occurred to him. "Fine – where's Peter?"
"Peter?" Lisbete had hold of his arm again, and she screwed her face up. "He and Cathy and Dale were at the back there." James nodded slowly.
"Right. Good. Should we go sit there? I don't – you know, we should sit down if we want to talk properly."
She led the way to the back, where the party quietened. It was never really about the guest of honour, James thought, was it? People flocked to any excuse to get sloshed. Nevertheless, he didn't mind that the party was in his name – the banner Billy Pomfrey was being wrapped in had 'POTTER' on it in giant letters, and he was pretty certain that'd only make it better.
"Was that Ev -?" James shrugged before she even finished the sentence.
"I dunno if she'd come," he said, and his pulse pounded traitorously.
"She said -"
"This is them?" A burgundy curtain hung over an alcove, but it didn't mask the thick scent Dale carried with him everywhere. His thumb circled on the back of the map. They wouldn't need a tracking label for Dale. Lisbete nodded. Her eyes were round, and James took a shaky breath.
"I'm sorry I was short with you," he said. "Thanks for coming." Lisbete lit up, and her hands moved to grip his, their fingers interlacing.
"Happy birthday," she said, before kissing his cheek. Her lips were cool against his skin. Empty. I don't want to, he thought. She doesn't deserve it. She had kissed another bloke, though. But James skimmed his stomach for any sickness at the thought of it, for any anger, and once more came up empty-handed.
"Jamie," she said, and he flinched at the nickname. Arse.
"Yeah?"
"Are you sure Evans isn't here?" She looked around anxiously. James' brow furrowed.
"What's Evans got to do with anything?" Hearing her name from Lisbete's lips prickled. James looked back into the crowd. No sign of her. Maybe she had left – or maybe he'd imagined the whole thing.
Lisbete mumbled something about lipstick, and James chose to believe that he'd misheard, because the whole idea of Lisbete being reprimanded by Evans made him twist in too many knots.
"Right. Sorry," he said. Lisbete's face tightened. James pointed at the curtain. "I do need to have a word with Pete."
"Yes," Lisbete said. "I know."
James knocked lightly on the fabric and ducked around it without waiting for an answer. Dale looked up from his bong. Peter sat on the recessed bench, covered in blankets, eyes red. He coughed loudly when he saw them enter.
"James," he said. "Hey. Hey. Happy birthday." He waved. James grasped the map with two hands.
"I need to talk to you, mate," he said. Peter coughed again.
"Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Alright. Yeah." Peter awkwardly got to his feet, and the covers dropped to his ankles. Tufts of his hair stood on end. Cathy Roshfinger sat on a cushion on the floor beside her brother, smoking a cigarette, and she pulled it away from her lips. James thought of Lily again. Her eyes like twin floo fires, her body so close to his he could feel the warmth spilling from her.
"Did you find Evans?" she asked Lisbete. James looked between them. Lisbete flushed.
"Not yet."
"Evans?" Peter asked loudly. "What's – what's with Evans?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter," Lisbete said. Catherine raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. James started to pull his hand away from Lisbete's, but Lisbete clamped down on him. Her racing heart jumped through her skin.
"I'll see you later," James told her soothingly. "Hang with Cathy, alright? Or whatever you like. Pete and I only need to sort this out."
"Wait," she implored, stepping closer. "I need to tell you something." She inhaled deeply. She's breaking up with me, James thought. In front of everyone? But he couldn't even care; relief set his veins on fire.
"Yeah?" he said. This was it. Fuck, this was it. He didn't know how much he had been waiting for it until it arrived. He swallowed. He couldn't let her do all the talking – it was best if it was quick and amicable –
"I love you."
"I think you're right, yeah, we're probably better off - " James processed what she had said. Dale coughed loudly. Peter squeaked. "Er – sorry?"
"I love you?" Lisbete repeated, her voice rising an octave. "Jamie?" Her chin wobbled. Fuck.
"Lisbete -"
"You have to say it," she continued, her voice growing louder. "We've been together – we've been together for almost five months!" James' throat constricted so tightly she might have been strangling him. Just say it, some part of him urged. It doesn't matter, just say it, it'll make her happy. Peter's eyes bulged. He could just say it. He was her boyfriend – wasn't he supposed to make her happy? Wasn't that sort of his whole job?
Lisbete croaked out a high, keening sound, and James' insides turned to mush.
"You have to love me!" she shouted, mascara smearing beneath her eyes. "You have to love me, by now!" James stood there uselessly. I love you, he desperately wanted to say. I love you more than anything, than all the moon and the stars and all the other shit. I love you always. But it wouldn't come. He couldn't dislodge the words. What could he say? What could he do? How could he fucking salvage this? A vein in his forehead throbbed.
"You deserve to be loved," he said hoarsely, and took his hands from hers. Lisbete's face crumpled. Catherine was on her feet and at Lisbete's side in a second. "I'm sorry I'm not the person to do it properly." Lisbete stared at him, mouth contorting, spit bubbling on her lips, black tears streaking across her reddened cheeks. She gave a shrill little shriek. Peter scampered around her.
"What'd'you want to tell me?" he asked, hunching away from Lisbete, who burst into sobs. James felt like the biggest arsehole in the world. And he was: she'd told him she loved him and he'd essentially dumped her. Merlin. His mother would kill him.
"Hang on," James muttered. He stepped around Peter to make eye contact with Lisbete once more. She looked so young. "Lisbete," he said. "I'm sorry. Thank you – you know – for everything."
Lisbete gave another shrill sort of scream. It twisted like a knife. Catherine looked at him.
"Fuck off," she said, but gently. James nodded, looked at Peter, and ducked out from behind the curtain.
A crowd had gathered, craning their necks and exchanging glances. James ran his fingers through the tangles in his hair. Shit.
"Hoover," he nodded politely. "Thanks for coming, mate. Thomas, cheers. Alright, Jenkins?" He and Peter wormed through the crowd, Lisbete's shrieks of protest punctuating his greetings. What the fuck was he supposed to say? Sorry, my girlfriend – ex-girlfriend – just got told that I don't love her. Yes, I'm a cock. Thanks for coming to my birthday!
"She's alright," Peter mumbled on his heels to passers-by. "No, it's all alright. Yeah. Yeah, it's alright. No, she's alright. All alright. Yeah. No, it's fine." James couldn't believe he'd done it. They were done. No more Lisbete in the common room, no more Lisbete at breakfast, no more snogging in the corridors. He hadn't wanted it to go like that. He almost turned around, to go and try to make it better, but there was nothing he could do, was there? And the map burned in his grasp.
Finally, he and Peter made it out of the throng and into another niche. Peter blinked.
"Wow," he said. "Did – did you know you were going to – is that why you left?"
"What? No," James said. "I can't – look. You need to look at this." He thrust the map into Peter's hands. Peter gave him a nervous look and unfolded it slowly. His mouth opened as he did. "There's – we haven't done these floors."
"Have a look," James urged. Peter fumbled for his wand and tapped clumsily.
"Fifth, sixth – did you do this?"
"Keep looking." Peter tapped until James knew he had to be looking at the Gryffindor Tower. Peter didn't react. James swung himself around to see what Peter was. If Sirius was still in the dormitory, maybe he hadn't realised.
"Him," Peter said. James stared at the neat cursive, looped over the seventh floor and Gryffindor Tower over and over and over again – with tiny imperfections and splatters of ink that meant it hadn't been a simple duplication spell. It was handwritten. Every line.
'I'M SORRY.' It said. Over and over. Over and over, in every room, in every broom cupboard. 'I'M SORRY.'
It was signed in the bottom corner, unmistakably. He'd always used frilly cursive, a holdover from his childhood lessons, he said. James would have known it anywhere. 'Sirius O. Black.'
A/N: Welll... There were a fair few plot beats I had to get in this chapter (even if some aren't blatantly obvious) and the writing just wasn't happening for me - it was so clunky and took lots of revision and tweaking! So I apologise if this chapter isn't up to the usual standard. We have 21 full chapters to go and I'm getting very excited about the direction in which we're heading. Not to mention that sixth year is coming together... But more on that later!