The Great Hall had been transformed into a Yuletide fantasy. Dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks hanged from the branches of great, towering evergreens along the perimeter of the room. Fairies floated between the pine needles, giving them a bright and cheerful glow, and even though the skies outside were clear, snow had been magicked to fall gracefully on the treetops and disappear before the snowflakes touched the ground.

It was the last Friday before winter holiday, and I had managed to survive completely unscathed; true to their word, Jen, Mary, and Marlene hadn't left me alone in public for a moment. I was currently being marched to the Gryffindor table between Jen and Marlene, who was singing some disco hit rather loudly into my ear.

Naturally, Sirius Black joined in, and they leapt onto the benches mid-song, putting on an impromptu performance. Marlene had Charmed her pink streaks to purple ones and had made up her face in fabulous shades of purple, plum, and mauve. Her dance partner, for his part, was in a bright purple shirt with ruffles down the middle and a matching ascot peeking beneath the collar. And no one would ever accuse Sirius Black of shying away from a little makeup! His eyes were lined in bright purple and small, artfully placed gems.

Mary chose to make her robes sparkle with purple light whenever it moved. Jen had Charmed her school tie and the large griffin embroidered on the back of her robe to purple, which seemed a popular choice among Gryffindors. I searched through the other tables to see if The Radical Report had nudged any others to wear purple tonight. Quite a few groups in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had the odd purple scarf or hair à la Marlene.

Someone in Hufflepuff had cut out the purple collage of Dumbledore from The Radical Report and stuck it to the front of their robes. Others merely set copies of the zine on their tables casually. One girl sitting at the head of the Ravenclaw table was wearing a purple gown that bared her shoulders. And sitting apart from the rest of the Slytherins were two members of the Millennium Falcons and a handful of others, their purples the most discreet and difficult to distinguish; they'd Charmed the lining of their sleeves to purple.

It warmed me to know that so many students were on the side of Muggle rights; for the first time in a while, I felt hope blooming in my heart.

Someone grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. "Hey," said a familiar voice. I turned to see Potter—er, James looking extravagant in a purple shirt whose ruffles rivaled those on Sirius Black. He smelled of pine and spearmint.

"Hey," I said, a small smile creeping onto my lips.

"Look at what you've inspired, Lily," he said, gesturing around us, his voluminous sleeves ballooning with the movement. "This is all because of you."

I waved him away, observing the students in the Great Hall. "No, it's not," I contested. "Frank and Sirius came up with that idea—I had nothing to do with it."

He held both my upper arms and forced me to look into his hazel eyes. His irises whirled with gold and shone with warmth. They were so beautiful…

"You were the one who shared your story. You were the one who spoke out. You"—again, he gestured around us—"are the reason people listened."

I blushed, the heat traveling down my neck. Oh, how I loathed to blush! It clashed with my hair and made it obvious to everyone around me how I was feeling.

"I suppose my story helped," I began, trying but failing not to look into his eyes. I shrugged. "Perhaps it opened a new perspective for some, but . . . I don't know what all this purple can actually do, you know? In a practical sense."

James sent his beautiful eyes to roll dramatically beneath his spectacles. "In a practical sense? It's symbolic, of course, but it's meant to show that these ideas of Pureblood supremacy are only coming from a small fraction of witches and wizards, and that the rest of us recognize it for the bigotry and injustice it perpetuates."

We walked towards our table to join our friends and continue the conversation. "Fair enough," I said. "I appreciate the solidarity, of course. I'm just wondering if there's anything else we could do, something that would have a meaningful impact? Maybe raise funds for the victims and work with the Ministry's Department of Muggle Control to devise some ways to get it to their families?"

James drew his eyebrows together—his thinking face, as I'd come to learn (or relearn?). "There isn't much time to do that here at Hogwarts now that the term is ending."

"Right," I said, deflating a little.

"Oi, why so sad, mate?" called a glittering Sirius Black from across the table.

James and I explained to the group what we'd been discussing. At the end of it, there was a thoughtful silence as everyone brainstormed together.

"What if," piped up Mary. "What if we use the Presentation Gala for a fundraiser?"

"Merlin, Mary. Is your coming out dance the only thing you can think about?" said Marlene, bumping her shoulder playfully.

Mary pinked, the color filling her cheeks. "Well, no—I just thought—"

"I think it's a really great idea," said Peter. He wore a purple ascot like Sirius and a purple-gemmed ring on each finger. He made a point of flexing his fingers and running his hands through his blonde shaggy hair. "Most of wizarding society will be there and no one is going to out themselves as a dickhead by not donating."

Mary blinked. "Yes, that's what I was thinking!" she exclaimed, sitting up from her seat and leaning towards Peter in awe.

"Great minds," responded Peter, pointing conspicuously between them.

Vindicated, Mary sat back down and bumped Marlene's shoulder with a little "Hmph!"

"I was joking," said Marlene, but none of us paid much mind. We were too busy building on Mary's idea.

"When Mary steps onto the presentation platform, she can use her time there to call for donations," said Jen.

We all agreed, even though Mary tried to get out of it. Public speaking wasn't her strong suit.

"Personally, I think the Presentation Gala is part of an institution built to hierarchize wizarding society based on—no offense, Mary—superficial qualities, and that it effectively leaves out Muggleborns to form yet a new generation of witches and wizards with a superiority complex," opined Sirius.

We all nodded.

"So we take it down from the inside?" I said.

Mary grimaced.

"I think the most we can do is make our disapproval known," offered Remus.

"Yes," said James. "Especially if we're also trying to get money out of this crowd."

Sirius poked him in the arm. "You are this crowd," he teased.

James raised a hand to his heart looking horrified and gasped dramatically. "I am offended, Sir!" he said, taking on a posh accent.

"And I do bite my thumb at you, Sir!" replied Sirius, taking his thumb behind his top teeth and flicking it out in James's direction.

Next, Peter gasped. "The gall! I insist on being your second, good sir," he said to James.

"And I must agree with this handsome sir's appraisal," said Remus, and then he, too, bit his thumb out at James and Peter.

James and Peter both gasped, and then returned the gesture.

This bizarre bit devolved into both pairs standing up and flicking their thumbs out at each other until Marlene separated Sirius and Peter. She set her very purple mouth into a frown. "Gentlemen!" she yelled. "Put your thumbs away!" She looked between the two Marauders with a glare to rival McGonagall's.

They relaxed and slowly slid back down into their seats.

Mary and I tried not to giggle. Jen simply rolled her eyes.

The dueling Marauders settled on a truce, shook hands, and then continued as if nothing had ever happened. We brainstormed until the headmaster stood at the head of the room.

Professor Dumbledore was decked in lavender-colored robes, complete with a stylish wizard's hat perched importantly upon his head. As he called for our attention, James grasped my hand, and widened his eyes at me.

It was then that I noticed the Heads of House and other faculty sat behind Dumbledore. They were also in purple! Even Slughorn, who abhorred straying from his personal wardrobe palette of browns, oranges, and Slytherin greens.

Shocked, I elbowed James back. He squeezed my hand in return.

"You did that," he whispered, his warm breath tickling my ear, and sending a delightful shiver down my spine. "You, Lily."

A thousand fairies took off in my belly, their fluttering a catalyst for the massive blush that started in my face and swept down my whole body in an excited blaze.

James started to pull his hand away, but I caught his fingers between mine and he stilled. Slowly, carefully, I intertwined our hands and squeezed. He dragged his thumb across my hand. I nearly melted, my skin tingling where our hands touched.

Then, suddenly everyone around us was clapping at something Dumbledore had said, and James and I pulled our hands apart to join in. I could still feel the ghost of his thumb trailing away from my palm, like the fiery-blue tail of a passing comet against a midnight sky.

My heart was going a thousand miles a minute. I felt heat spread from my roiling middle to the tips of my limbs. I couldn't pay attention to anything except what James was doing, where his hands had gone, where his thigh pressed against mine, and how much I wanted his hands on my body.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, my breath caught.

I didn't have access to our complete history, but even without it, I knew I was done for.

I wanted James Potter.

Briefly, I recalled our kisses by the lake after his Quidditch game, how his lips felt soft and sure and safe and—

James flung his arm around my shoulder.

I looked up at him, startled but pleased.

His eyes seemed to ask, Is this okay?

I reached up and kissed him on the cheek, my lips lingering before I pulled back and gazed into his eyes.

Oh, yes. It was very okay.

The next morning, as I made my way to the Hospital Wing, I tried not to think about what I would do if I couldn't remember my relationship with James. Could we still work? Out of habit, I jammed my hand into my robe's pocket and felt for Jen's apophyllite stone. Something about feeling its cool, smooth surface in my hand helped ground me.

When I got to the doors, I took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly before I pushed through them. This will work, I told myself. It must.

Madam Pomfrey stood at her potions table, stirring a cauldron absentmindedly while leaning over a large, ageing tome. Medicinae memoriae. St. Mungo's solution to my Obliviated memory. I hoped it worked.

I needed it to work. If I had to catch James staring at me longingly from across the room while microscopic acrobats did lovely, dramatic somersaults in my stomach—

"Ms. Evans!" Madam Pomfrey called me over and I quickened my strides in acquiescence.

The way her eyes kept flicking between the potion in the cauldron and the dog-eared page in Medicinae memoriae was less than reassuring. For a Healer, her workstation was a mess. She had half-open phials all over the table, ingredients spilling haphazardly onto the most-definitely borrowed book, and some sort of purple substance dripping down one of the back table legs. There was a vaguely fruity smell in the air.

I cringed. Why wasn't Slughorn making this?

"Here," she said, proffering a mortar and pestle.

?

Bewildered, I accepted the mortar and pestle. She dumped a handful of blueberries into it and instructed me to muddle them. It started to resemble the purple substance that had now pooled onto the floor.

She caught me looking at it and pointed at a window behind her. "An owl," was all she offered as an explanation.

Ah. So she wasn't a messy Potioness, merely the victim of a chaotic owl.

"Madam Pomfrey," called a familiar voice from the doorway.

I turned, feeling immediately soothed.

"Ah, yes. Horace, if you would be so kind." Pomfrey's voice sounded less strained. She was obviously relieved to have the Potions Master around.

Professor Slughorn sauntered over at his leisure, his round face widening as he grinned at me. "There's our amnesiac!"

I tried not to let my smile slide off my face at that. "Hoping that won't be a permanent title," I laughed nervously.

He held onto his belly as he chuckled in response. "Oh no, not as long as I am here!"

Slughorn flicked his wand at the messy workstation. The fallen phials righted themselves, ingredients returned to their containers, and the dripping purple sludge Vanished. He peered over the large, yellowing pages of the Medicinae memoriae and hummed thoughtfully.

Madame Pomfrey took the mortar and pestle back from me and set it on the workstation next to a bottle of what looked like turmeric. I wondered if perhaps this was the recipe to a meal and not a potion. "Apologies, Professor."

"Not at all, not at all," he replied, waving her away. "So. It's been precisely a week since Ms. Evans's most tragic Obliviation. The Ministry was generous enough to entrust us with Medicinae memoriae, although it might have been more generous if they'd simply given us one of these potions from their stock . . . Well, never mind. Let's crack on, shall we?"

Slughorn proceeded to empty his robes' pockets. I craned my neck around his thick waist and saw a bottle of armadillo bile, a phial of eel eyes, a sachet marked "dragon liver," and what appeared to be a single jobberknoll feather.

"Pardon me, Professors. If I'm not mistaken, those are the ingredients for a standard memory potion," I said, brows furrowed.

Professor Slughorn shook as he chuckled. "Nothing gets past you, Miss Evans! Yes, while these are used in standard memory potions, they're only a fraction of this antidote."

"Antidote is a bit … misleading," Madame Pomfrey muttered to herself.

"Too right," answered Slughorn. "The technical term for this potion as applied to your particular circumstance, Miss Evans, would be 'restorative.'"

My heart sank. Restoratives weren't exactly guaranteed to work.

"Now, now, don't be disheartened! I am nothing if not a Potions Master, and this"—he pointed at the open tome on the table—"is nothing but centuries of research used by the Department of Mysteries." He turned back to the table and stirred the cauldron once. "Poppy?"

Madame Pomfrey stepped forward and between the two they worked out the final steps of the potion while I sat and mulled over Slughorn's words.

The Department of Mysteries? I'd never heard of it before. Surely if this spellbook came from such a place it was because nobody knew what it was for or how to use it. But Slughorn said they had an entire stock of this kind of restorative and knowing the Ministry, there's probably a hundred layers of bureaucracy to get through before they'd just hand over a phial of it. The spellbook was likely the fastest way to get a treatment.

"Bottoms up!" said Slughorn as he passed me a bubbling goblet.

Pomfrey sprinkled in bits of peppermint leaf before I could raise it to my lips. "You're welcome," she said in a tone that conveyed exactly how not excited she was to be making this.

I shot them both an uncertain smile.

I took in a deep breath.

Oh, Merlin, PLEASE let this potion work!

The potion was salty, acrid, minty, and fruity all at once. And even though I'd swallowed it down, it felt as though it was bubbling up my esophagus.

I was about to cover my mouth to save my professors from an imminent belch, but the air traveled up my chest and throat so fast that I could hardly warn them. But I didn't belch; instead, the sensation traveled up through my sinuses, the pressure warm behind my eyes.

"Wha—" I started. They hadn't told me what to expect and this felt very weird.

Suddenly, my vision was clouded by pops of bright light. I started to feel dizzy; the lights were confusing and disorienting. "I think I need to lay down," I said, feeling for the cot.

The lights continued to pop even behind closed eyes and my head began to pound. I squeezed my eyes shut and put a hand to my temple.

"Miss Evans?" I heard Professor Slughorn say.

"She's going into mind shock," said Miss Pomfrey. Her footfalls were loud and quick as she ran around the room.

"Merlin!" Slughorn gasped. The sound of someone rifling through the pages of a book filled the air.

A moment later, someone pressed an ice pack into my palm and guided it to my head. My lips were pried open and drops of sweet, honeyed water landed on my tongue.

I wondered if wolfsbane felt like this, if Remus had to endure something this awful every full moon. It wasn't a surprise that the Marauders had gone to such great lengths to comfort him every month.

. . .

MERLIN'S BEARD!

I remembered!

Remus is a werewolf; the Marauders are Animagi; and James . . .

My eyes shot open and I let out a triumphant cry. "I remember," I managed to croak out. "I remember James . . ."

I laid back on my pillow, my eyes heavy, my breath slowing down.

The last thing I heard was Pomfrey's voice. "Be still."

And I was.

"Oh Hagrid, thank Merlin," said a voice, stirring me from sleep.

I was barely waking but already felt lightheaded.

"S'no trouble, Poppy. We'll 'ave these owls cleared out in a mo'," replied Hagrid.

I sat up slowly, feeling a rush of blood to the head.

"Ow," I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut and grimacing against the odd sensation.

"Miss Evans, be careful!" scolded Madame Pomfrey as she rushed over to me. "You must be as still as you can while your mind sorts itself out!" She reinforced my position, placing pillows behind my back, piling them under my head, and then under my knees. "Otherwise you run the risk of succumbing to decompression sickness and you're straddling the threshold of what a witch's body can reasonably withstand as it is!"

Pomfrey continued to ramble on about Sleeping Draughts and restraints and so many other things, but it was difficult to focus. As she described the various ways in which I could interfere with my own healing, Hagrid shuffled along the line of windows on the opposite wall.

"Off yeh go," he said gently, cooing and humming pleasantly as he went.

"What's—what is Hagrid—?" I started, and then groaned as a wave of nausea overcame me.

"DO NOT SPEAK, CHILD!" berated Madame Pomfrey. She shoved some peppermint leaves under my nose and instructed me to breathe in deeply. I did so and the nausea subsided somewhat.

I pointed behind her head at Hagrid and then met her eyes in a question.

She rolled her eyes. "Hagrid is here to attend to some, er—rogue owls. He'll be gone soon."

I fixed my eyes on the windows where Hagrid was scratching an eagle owl under the chin. The sky was a deep blue, meeting a bright stripe of golden light where the sun was setting beneath the highlands. If it was still Saturday, then that meant that I'd lost most of the day to this memory potion business and was about to miss our last Hippogriff practice before the winter holiday as well.

Madame Pomfrey Levitated a tray in front of me and waved her wand over it. A bowl of plain broth and dry toast appeared. "Try to eat."

I stared at the food dubiously. "How—long—?" My face screwed up as another wave of nausea hit me. I braced myself against the cot until it passed.

Madame Pomfrey had her arms crossed when I finally looked back up at her. "You'll be here until that no longer happens. Get some food into you and I'll return with a mild sedative. Best to recover in your sleep."

Reluctantly, I picked up a spoon and got started on dinner.

Madame Pomfrey finally released me the next day at lunchtime after I proved to her that I could walk in a straight line without suddenly keeling over. Nevertheless, she owled Jen and asked her to come escort me to the Great Hall. "If you feel out of sorts in any way, Miss Evans—in any way—come to the Hospital Wing at once!" said Pomfrey as she discharged me into the care of my besty pally.

Jen was stone-faced as she said, "Of course, Madame Pomfrey. I'll take responsibility for her. Anything specific to watch out for?"

As Pomfrey conveyed a list of symptoms (ear ringing, vomiting, etc.), I shifted nervously at the threshold. I remembered a whole other life, it seemed. The memories had "bubbled up to the surface," which Slughorn said explained why I felt as though I were about to let out a huge belch after I'd ingested the restorative.

I was excited and proud about some things: flying, Hippogriff, the Millennium Falcons, and standing up to the pureblood supremacists of the school.

But I was anxious about other memories, like James, for example. I don't know why he, or learning how to fly, or the many secrets of the Marauders—actually, anything about the Marauders at all—or my entire experience with Hippogriff had been wiped from my brain. How could an Obliviation spell have been so specific?

At least my schooling knowledge was mostly intact, enough so that the last week's exams hadn't been much more stressful than usual.

Madame Pomfrey handed Jen a small sack and said, "I've stuffed them all in here so the poor thing could recover in peace." Her mouth twisted downwards. "Children should not be attacked by the public. I'll be writing to the Prophet, mark my words!"

The corner of Jen's lip ticked slightly upwards. "I'll write to them as well, Madame Pomfrey. You won't be alone."

The mediwitch nodded once, turned on her heel, and closed the large wooden doors of the Hospital Wing behind us. They creaked and complained, their final thud echoing loudly from the castle's stone walls.

"Oh, Lily!" Jen said, and she wrapped her arms around me tightly. "I was so worried when you had to stay overnight! We came in to see you after practice, but Pomfrey said you were not to be disturbed. I asked her to please send word when you were recovered, and"—her voice took on a bewildered tone—"I'm honestly surprised she did."

I patted her on the back awkwardly, as she had pinned my elbows to my side. "I'm grateful for it."

Jen stood back as she smiled, and her eyes twinkled. "Me, too. Obviously. Everyone's been asking me about you, as though I should know the specifics of your recovery. Such a bother." She blew her dark fringe out of her eyes. "So how are you feeling? How much do you remember?"

I chewed on my bottom lip absentmindedly and then replied, "I think I remember everything. It's hard to know, isn't it?"

"Frank wrote to his mum asking her to send over her Rememberall to make sure Slughorn and Pomfrey hadn't missed anything."

"That's not a terrible idea," I mused. If there was something I was still forgetting, a Rememberall would alert me to the fact. I wasn't sure if Mrs. Longbottom would be willing to part with it, however.

I'd only ever seen the woman once—fourth year on Platform 9¾. She had the same other-worldly blue eyes as her son, except where Frank's gaze was curious and kind, hers was severe and cutting. She was ostentatious in her dress, or else she had merely dressed up to the nines to bring her son to the Hogwarts Express. Her long, tweed robes had a fur trim that ended at the collarbone in minks' heads on either side, a gleaming brass broach connected them at the teeth.

The only thing I really remembered was feeling slightly sick at the sight of the dead minks woven into her robes. That, and the fact that she forbade Frank from dragging his own trunk to the train compartment.

"There is magic and there are creatures for that, child." Mrs. Longbottom had raised one perfectly arched eyebrow in warning.

Frank had grimaced. I could tell he was embarrassed so I gave them a wide berth and dragged my trunk to a different train car.

Mrs. Longbottom was old-fashioned in her beliefs, and it hadn't been something I wanted to confront at that moment. Though, perhaps she'd still lend her son her Rememberall.

Jen swung the sack back and forth from her hand as we walked towards the Great Hall.

"So, what's in the sack?" I asked after a moment.

Jen grinned. "This is your fan mail."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, shut it. I'm just curious."

She laughed. "I'm not joking! Look!" She reached a hand into the sack and pulled out an envelope. "It's addressed to you, Lily Evans, Head Girl."

Frowning, and a little bit suspicious, I snatched the envelope from her. To my shock, it really was addressed to me in sprawling blue ink.

"Curious," I mused, turning it around and breaking the seal. It read this way:

Dear Lily Evans,

I am so sorry to hear about the tragedy that struck your mum at Piccadilly Square and the subsequent incompetence at St. Mungo's. It is a terrible shame what happened to you. Having your magical status questioned is, unfortunately, nothing new. It happened to me at the Ministry of Magic of all places!

Last summer, I had gone there to turn in an illegally Charmed blow dryer (it would blast bat bogeys at the unfortunate user). While I waited in the lobby, someone in white robes appeared and asked for my identification. They were quite authoritative, so I handed over my wand for inspection.

The next thing I knew, my hands were bound behind my back by magic, and I couldn't speak. It only lasted a minute as the white-robed person performed some spells on my wand. Apparently satisfied, they handed my wand back to me and the Binding spell on my person relinquished me. All they said was, "Thank you for your patience. Your identification has been confirmed."

It had never happened to m

e before nor has it happened since. I attempted to report this incident, but the various offices and departments of the Ministry continually referred me to other offices, other supervisors, other Department Heads. It's been a nightmare to get anyone to take this seriously.

I've spoken to other Muggle-Born friends of mine and most of us have been assaulted in this manner at one point or another. But no one would listen to us. No one really believed us, or thought our experiences were even worth mentioning at all.

Therefore, I am writing to thank you for sharing your story. Bringing awareness to this sort of unfair treatment is one of many first steps towards justice.

I wish you and your mum a speedy recovery.

Yours sincerely,

Emmeline Vance

I recognized that name . . . I think Emmeline Vance was a Slytherin maybe two or three years ahead of me. I remembered her as a Prefect during the Triwizard Tournament our third year.

I returned the letter to the envelope and looked up at Jen, stunned.

"I—I don't know what to say," I stammered.

"Was that a nice one?" said Jen, the corners of her lips curling upwards. "Lucky draw."

I frowned. "Wait, they're not all nice?"

Jen shrugged. "The Howlers exploded pretty much immediately, and those were not very nice. Sorry. But these"—she held up the sack cheerfully—"might actually be kind."

She grabbed another letter at random. This scroll of parchment was the size of a galleon, an address tag hanging from one end of the twine that tied it all together. I pulled at one end of the twine and unrolled the parchment. It read this way:

Dear So-Called Head Girl,

I've known pixies more honest than you!

You forgot to fly yet you managed several flying tricks during your Hippogriff match?

UNLIKELY!

It takes years to master a Defensive Feint!

Your mum was in Piccadilly Square when the pipes burst—or whatever Muggle contraption malfunctioned and killed their own?

DOUBTFUL!

How come her name wasn't on the official list of those injured?

A Medi-Witch took your wand, Obliviated you, and then was arrested all in the same morning?

ABSOLUTE BALDERDASH!

There is no such record at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of this happening!

If you want some attention, go back to the dirty hovel you crawled out of and bury yourself with your lies!

Sincerely,

B. Finch

"This person called me a liar, and the other person thanked me for telling the truth." I pocketed the two messages and continued reading others as we walked towards the Great Hall, completely engrossed in the polarized reception of my story. Then suddenly, it struck me. "Hey, Jen?"

She shoved another piece of post in my hands.

"Jen, how do all these random witches and wizards know what happened to me?" I doubted that The Radical Report was delivering outside of Hogwarts.

Jen halted just outside the large wooden doors of the Great Hall. "Oh, right," she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, Longbottom sent a copy of his zine to Alice, his girlfriend, and she showed it to some friends at work, and one of them shared it with some of their friends, who then forwarded it to a junior editor at the Prophet, and she shared it with some other junior editors just before a meeting, and then they got in trouble for passing it around like a bunch of school children during said meeting, and their department head confiscated it, and we assume that that person—whoever they are—showed it to some other higher-ups, or that it found its way to one of them, because after that, the Prophet included it in their weekender edition." She said all of this very quickly and inhaled quite loudly when she had finished.

"And how do you know all of this?" I asked, impressed at her detailed knowledge of the affair.

She grinned. "It's all in the foreword."

"What?"

She dug in her robes and pulled out a slightly worn copy of The Daily Prophet. "There are precisely five sentences dedicated to how annoyed that department head was at the sound of constant crinkling during the meeting as the Report got passed around."

I rolled my eyes. "Merlin," I breathed.

"Shall we?" Jen asked, motioning toward the doors.

I looped my arm through her elbow. "We shall!"

We pulled the doors open and walked inside merrily. I'd been so caught up in all this fan mail/hate mail nonsense that I'd forgotten to be nervous about reuniting with my new friends and with—James.

His bright, hazel eyes swiveled to mine as soon as we got through the doors. He nearly tripped as he rushed over to us, hope in his eyes and worry between his brows.

"Hi," I said, vaguely aware that Jen had extricated herself from my side and slipped away.

James appeared as though he were holding his breath. "Hi," he returned. "How did it go?"

I reached for his hand and pulled him close. I felt a little shy, though I couldn't understand why. For a moment I considered acting as though I didn't know him at all, but the brightness of his eyes quelled anything resembling cruelty. He'd gone through enough because of me. "I think I remember everything."

His hand squeezed mine. "Everything?"

I nodded, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were so bright. "Everything," I repeated.

James squeezed me to him, wrapping his arms around me and bouncing both of us up and down in uninhibited joy. "Yes!" he practically squealed, but his voice was muffled by my hair. "Yes, yes, yes!" He kept bouncing us around until I dissolved into laughter.

"James—!" I yelled, attempting to push out of his hold.

He stopped immediately and pulled away to look at me seriously. "So… funny business?" He arched an eyebrow.

I withheld the urge to laugh, but the corner of my lip curled upwards. "Funny business," I nodded.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He captured my lips in his and kissed me so deeply I actually went weak at the knees. We broke apart and into laughter at the sound of wolf whistles and jeering coming from the Gryffindor table.

"Maybe we should put our business on hold for the moment," I suggested.

James frowned. "Absolutely not," he said, and kissed me again.

A/N: I don't really know what to say except that this story is still in my head and still wants to be told. Bear with me. :)