A/N: Funny story... It took me all this time to write the middle of this chapter, including a meaty convo which I then decided to scrap this morning as I sat down to do a final round of editing... so, yeah, if I hadn't let my little brain gremlins write to their grubby hearts' content, you'd have had this chapter much sooner because about 2k of words were for nothing yay

Also, anyone else fallen victim to the BG3 brainrot? just me? i can't think of anything else and i'm not even mad

CW: Sex, kinda?

ALL THE THREADS OF FATE
PART II
OUT OF THE WOODS

XIII.

I had not entered the Restricted Section since the Incident. While Dorcas hissed at James for stepping on her heel for the third time, causing his shoulder to knock against my ear, I wondered at the room's strident change.

Or perhaps it was me who had changed. I'd been sneaking into the Restricted Section longer than I'd had access privileges—the Cloak was my heirloom just as much as it was James', and we'd argued over whose turn it was with it for years before I relented and simply requested it on occasion—always had the Section appeared as welcoming as it was thrilling. I hadn't the words to make justice to the satisfaction, the sheer power that rushed in my veins at accessing so-called forbidden knowledge I believed was our right to possess. Why was diffindo fine and dandy, but a runic-imbued ritual to alter matter was off-limits? Why was blood magic unacceptable, when most of our homes were imbued with it down to their very foundations?

The Restricted Section that welcomed James, Dorcas, and I was unrecognisable. The high-pitch wine let out by the gate was ominous. The long shadows stretched on the floor, tenebrous. The towering bookcases, long ago so beloved, incited trepidation within my chest most acute. I tightened the grip on my wand at the mere sight of the pedestal Encyclopaedia Magica used to call home. And when James, thoughtless, made to remove the Cloak around us the moment we stepped past the gate, my hand shot out to stop him, when before I would have allowed or even instigated it. We'd grown too much for the Cloak to comfortably fit three of us.

"What?" James whispered.

"Get off!" Dorcas pushed at James. "Next time, we're Disillusioning, not this cloak nonsense."

"Wait." I shushed before James could retort to the dig at his beloved Cloak. Shifting the grip on my wand, I murmured, "homenum revelio."

Nothing. Only the three of us were there.

James shuddered. "Ugh. A little warning next time."

Instead of bothering with an answer, I stepped out of the Cloak, casting a Lumos the moment I was out of range of James's cool light. My eyes strayed to the podium again. It was cold to the touch, barren. Its colours appeared dimmed.

"Do you remember where it was?"

Dorcas' voice reminded me I wasn't alone. Unlike James, whose poor attempt to fold the cloak resembled a forgotten crumpled up paper ball, she had strayed to the closest bookshelf and studied the spines with down-played alacrity.

"Where what was?" James perked up. "Do you know why—how come she knows why we're here?"

He switched tracks at the last moment, rephrasing his question and pairing it with big wide eyes and a pout. I rolled my eyes at the theatrics even as guilt twinged in my stomach.

I should have told him what happened the moment it did.

"It's this way," I said instead.

The self-assuredness to my countenance was pretend. I remembered the section well, but I recalled little what the book looked like: some dark cool-tone colour with silver lettering. Thick and heavy-looking, Snape had needed both hands to handle it. Unfortunately, in the Restricted Section, that description fit about half of the books. Half of the books was a lot of books.

My second fear was they hadn't left the book behind. I was operating under the belief that they hadn't stolen the book they actually needed, since that would reveal their intentions right away, but that belief could very well be wrong. Our trip would be for naught.

Dorcas whistled. "I'd never noticed how big the Restricted Section actually is."

"There's a downstairs," James surprised me by saying.

The information appeared to blow Dorcas's mind, who gaped at us both in disbelief, though likely for another reason than my own surprise.

"There's a whole section in magizoology," I added, grateful for the distraction as we neared section T. "We can look at it later if you want."

"You don't mind?" Dorcas checked. Her voice travelled through the hallway.

"Nah, could be fun." James snickered. "They may have specimens."

They did, actually. Horrifying taxidermized creatures and even an obscurus that had been preserved in resin. I did not share this with them, however, because there on the bookshelf to my left, in gold etching, was written T-4.

The déjà-vu was all-encompassing. The shadow of Yaxley stretched an arm to reach a shelf. Rosier's stocky figure paced from one end to the other with anxious energy, more concerned about not getting caught than finding the book. The memory of Snape was an oblong shape by the low shelves. I could smell Yaxley's cologne, masculine and expensive, as if he were standing right there. My nose twitched.

"Are you sure it was here?" Dorcas walked past me into the aisle, and the memory billowed away like morning fog.

"I'm sure." I released a slow breath. "Section T-4, I remember it well."

"Are you on about those books McGonagall was furious were nicked?" James frowned.

I squinted at him, mind alert with mild suspicion. That was quite the accurate guess.

James placed the book he'd been rifling through back on its shelf. The beginning of his question was breezy.

"How do you know where they—damn—" the book refused to let go. His palm was stuck to the spine; he pulled and pulled. "—came from?! Ow."

The book released him. He staggered backwards, almost toppling to the carpeted floor, shaking his hand as if to dispel pain. When he returned to me, the meaty mound of his palm was in his mouth.

"I was here," I said, cautious for a new reason.

One could never predict how James might react to news. He might find it funny. He could grow livid. He might fail to see the seriousness of the situation and jump straight to pranking, or going after the Slytherins to enact a revenge I neither wanted nor needed.

"You know who stole them?"

James's voice was garbled. He released his hand with a loud sh-mwack. My nose crinkled in disgust at the faint trail of saliva that followed, glinting silver in the glow of two lumos.

"But you haven't said anything." He wiped his hand on his trousers and a pensive look furrowed his brow. "Unless you don't want them found out. Why are your friends stealing books, Merry?"

"If they were my friends, I wouldn't have brought you lot here, now would I?" I rolled my eyes. "I would have access to the books already."

Balancing on tiptoe, Dorcas tore her eyes from the fifth shelf and sent James a tight-lipped smile.

"She's got you there, James." She tipped her lit wand at him in a simile of a nod.

James had the decency to look abashed. It lasted less than ten seconds, and that familiar easy grin returned to his face.

"My bad." He shrugged. "But in my defence you're friends with Slytherins. Plural!"

"You're related to Slytherins." I reminded him. "Plural."

James pulled a face at me, mocking. "You're re-la-ted to Sly-the-rins."

I ignored him.

The shelves looked the same as always: slight dust, tight fit, the odd chain bookmark tumbling from the shelve to idly swing against the books below. I struggled to decide where to begin. Neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall had revealed in any of the interviews the stolen titles. They had always been merely referred to as the stolen tomes, or the missing books.

I needed to remember as much as possible about the book I had seen them peruse.

"There are very few empty spaces." Dorcas pointed out what I'd only just started to notice. "How many did they take?"

"Unsure." I focused on the shelves so I wouldn't have to look either of them in the eye. This was turning out to be a terrible idea, futile. "I only saw them look at one. Snape found it. He was looking… here!"

The grainy carpet dug into my knees as I searched the lowest shelf, right down the middle of the aisle, for anything that might look like it didn't belong. Dorcas crouched beside me, displaying an amount of patience I had long abandoned for unease. Her lumos illuminated the book spines.

"Snivellus stole books?" James snorted. "I find that hard to believe."

"I don't think that was the plan, if I'm honest," I said, leant back on my haunches to squint up at him. "I think my presence made them improvise. I'm guessing when Plan A didn't work, Yaxley or Snape came up with the theft. I doubt Rosier is insightful enough."

James' eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. His eyes widened. Too late, did I realise my mistake. Both Dorcas and I had mentioned people, as in more than one person, were responsible, but Dorcas had been as reticent to disclose their identity. One slip of the tongue and now James knew this wasn't as superfluous as he'd dismissed it to be. Unknown students stealing books? To him, that was just a few swots striving for academic glory; he likely found it impressive, just because they'd managed to sneak in without a useful little heirloom. Snape stealing books? Knowledge to taunt him with, perhaps, mock him. Rosier and Yaxley, however, was a bad sign. I could tell part of James's anger was directed at me.

"You'd already destroyed Encyclopaedia Magica by then, I'm assuming," Dorcas added. "You practically gave them the perfect out."

"Meredith. What's going on?" James demanded.

He planted both fists on his hips, wand still gripped tight, and everything around us distorted as the angle of his lumos slanted. I disliked our positions, how he towered over me while I knelt.

"You're damaging books, and dealing with Yaxley?" His disbelief was a physical thing, floating around us. "How is this the first I've heard of this?"

"I don't tell you everything, Jamie."

"You do the important stuff!"

"Well, I was mad at you then, wasn't I?" I sniffed, looked at him over my nose. It was a difficult front to maintain when I already had to crane my neck to look at him, but I thought I was successful.

James relaxed his arms. Tension pinched his face. "You didn't hurt yourself because you slipped down a passage, did you?"

Oh.

"I did, I really did!" I promised.

James looked unconvinced. Dorcas had busied herself with a book on magic flaying, holding it in front of her face and hmm-ing and huh-ing in much too a performative manner, so that was unhelpful.

"I did fall down the passage and hurt myself. I just did it while… um, hiding away from Yaxley and Rosier. Typical weeknight, really." I feigned nonchalance and, before James could press the matter further, turned back to the shelves. "I don't think the book they were looking at is here."

Suffocating silence followed my sentence, so thick I was certain James was about to become apoplectic, malfunction, and keel over, but there came no dull thump that would signify his body hitting the carpet, and his lumos was very much still intact, so his magical core remained strong.

James let out a sigh, the first noise he'd made in what felt like years. Apparently, he'd weighted his options and opted for letting the subject drop, because the next thing he said was this:

"What was it titled?"

Relief tingled down my body until my fingertips trembled. Dorcas let the book flop close and returned it to the shelf; her face was set in a disgusted grimace.

I thought about that night again, forced my mind's eye past the three boys and the colour the book might or might not have been, and remembered.

"Something, something of dark something and something calamities?" At their unimpressed looks, I defended: "it was dark! And I couldn't see the front cover properly, but I remember the spine had a IV, so it was volume four, obviously, and underneath it said Cyneburg Judd."

"Right. Cyneburg Judd, of course." James coughed. "And who is Cyneburg Judd?"

"Not is, are." I corrected. "I'm unsure who Judd is, and I won't know for certain until I have the book, but I believe Cyneburg is Cyneburg of Knaresborough."

Understanding washed the frown on Dorcas's face away. She muttered: "shit."

I thought shit was right.

"And for those of us who don't daydream about residing in the Restricted Section…?" James trailed off, looking at me hopefully.

"Honestly, James, pick up a book, would you?" I huffed. "She was a dark witch of the early 13th century, infamous for her use of cursed objects like they were everyday household items. I've read her grimoire—let's just say you wouldn't want to touch a thing in her home."

"Safe to assume this Judd fellow won't be any better." Dorcas told him.

I was inclined to agree with her.

"So Yaxley, Snape, and Rosier snuck into the Restricted Section so they can learn how to curse the cutlery?" James asked with a frown. "I don't know, it seems a bit excessive, doesn't it? I mean, you don't need some medieval book to learn that."

Not to mention Regulus could probably tell them a great deal of what they'd need to know to accomplish that. Walburga had a penchant for collecting cursed objects—she was especially fond of a cursed compact mirror she would accidentally-on-purpose leave laying around for anyone to find. I wagered Regulus would have picked a thing or two about the subject.

Besides that, there was something else that caught my attention…

"Calamities aren't objects." I murmured.

Dorcas stared at me, faint revulsion on her face.

"There's a thought," she said in a flat tone. "Reckon Mr Inoue might know something about it?"

"He is well-versed in the magical history of pretty much every continent."

At the very least, he might have an inkling of who this mysterious Judd was, and the European wing of his institute did have a section dedicated to the United Kingdom, however small it was.

"Hang on." James raised a hand in the air. "Who is Mr Inoue?"

Putain.

"Who is Mr Inoue?" Dorcas repeated. "The man you're sneaking us out the castle to see in, what, three weeks?"

I closed my eyes, flinching.

"Oh, I am, am I?" James's words were heavy with sarcasm.

There was an awkward moment filled with tension.

"You haven't told him."

I faced Dorcas and her disappointed scowl. Her arms were tightly crossed. I couldn't blame her. She had helped me so much.

I had just… not forgotten, really, more like avoided that I had set up a meeting with Mr Inoue. I had even chosen a respectable outfit for when we met with him, one that said 'look at me, aren't I polite, and grown-up, and of good background?' anything to put Mr Inoue's worries at ease and keep him from changing his mind at the last minute. Not that it mattered much, of course, considering I had already met him. Still, I had hope that sixteen-year-old me could make a better and improved impression than my fourteen-year-old self had managed.

So, however avoidant, I had thought about the approaching meeting. I just hadn't told James we needed his help. I had fought with Sirius, argued with James, and then fought with Sirius again, and I was starting to think of this endeavour as pathetic nonsense. I could not bear it if James confirmed it.

Dorcas's suggestion and my thoughtlessness, however, had made the decision for me. James awaited an explanation.

"I'm purchasing a relic from a gentleman," I began, rising to my feet. This conversation required James and I to be of equal footing. "Mr Inoue is a world historian and archaeologist. I met him two summers ago, when I visited Japan with Dorcas." James nodded to show he remembered. "He runs a magical archaeology institute, hidden away from muggles in Mount Futago. It's really quite interesting."

My evasion had little effect on James, who had known me all my life and was well used to it.

"You're purchasing a relic?" he checked, doubtful.

"Yes. Dorcas and I are meeting him on the 31st." I pretended not to understand the hidden meaning in the question. "Can you please sneak us out? I shall repay you with lots of sweets. Also, there's the satisfaction of sneaking out of the castle all the way to Hogsmeade, I thought you'd enjoy that."

James's mouth quirked at the sides, but he didn't indulge the urge to turn into a smile. Instead, to my mounting dread, he turned to Dorcas for clarification.

"She's buying some old book she seems to really want." She shrugged. "You can't change her mind; I've tried."

James frowned. The glow around us cast odd shadows into his face, twisting the expression into something almost sinister.

"What kind of book requires a clandestine meeting?"

"It's not clandestine, per se," I said. James stared at me, deadpan, until I relented. "The Primeval Essence of Magick."

With any luck, he would have no idea what I was talking about and I could carry on pretending like I wasn't doing what I was doing. After all, a thing didn't become real unless spoken aloud.

"That sounds familiar." Fuck. "The Primeval… Essence…"

I watched James taste the words, pensive. My heart swooped into my stomach.

"Wait a moment." His eyes widened. "Isn't that—?"

"No." I blurted out too fast, showed my hand. "Maybe. Yes."

James gaped at me. "Have you gone barmy?"

I became a cocktail of panic, embarrassment, and something else, something soft and tender I wanted absolutely no one to know I harboured. In that heady haze, I struggled to find an answer that would return control of this conversation to me.

"Well, I-I—his 17th is coming up soon!"

James looked like he very much wanted to grab me by the shoulders and shake me like a doll.

"I'm lost." Dorcas declared. "Am I hearing correctly that this antique you're paying quite a lot for isn't even to keep for yourself?"

She, too, looked like she could grab me by the shoulders and shake me like a doll. My heart was beating so hard they could probably see my pulse jumping along my throat.

"I might end up keeping it for myself." I admitted. My teeth sank into my bottom lip, gnawing at the cushiony skin. "I don't know. It's silly."

It's not silly." Dorcas bit out through gritted teeth. "Who is it for, Remus?"

Oh. Yeah, that could have been a good front, couldn't it? Remus was such a dear friend to me. He applied himself when it came to his studies. In fact, he'd taken the most OWLs in our year. Everyone knew he and I enjoyed frequent conversations on academic material, such as the origin and evolution of the extension charm, or how a miscast of muggle-repelling might ricochet. The problem, of course, was the content of the book. Or how such content had been recorded for posterity.

"The book is written in Ancient Runes." James surprised me. He sounded conflicted, like he couldn't decide between amusement and irritation. "Remus is terrible at them."

My teeth pulled at a bit of dead skin along my bottom lip; the tang of blood flooded my tongue for a beat.

Dorcas shrugged.

"Well, yes, but… the only person I can think of that knows Ancient Runes as well as her is—" She gasped. "Meredith, no."

James snickered out a Meredith, yes. Right, so he'd settled for amused then. Dorcas ignored him.

"Tell me you are not spending that much gold on Sirius Black." She continued. "You haven't spoken to him in a year!"

Perhaps it was the pale glow around us, the almost fluorescent silvery blue, but I had never felt so exposed before. A gaping wound tender and raw bared to the harsh elements.

It was an embarrassing gift, especially when only a few days ago I had told him, in no uncertain terms, that his apology was unwanted in its tardiness.

It was an inane gift. Sirius wasn't that much of an academic reader; when he read, he much preferred fiction. An ancient book was not exactly what one would expect to receive after one has lost everything, either. A record player, some good sturdy boots, a nice jumper or a winter cloak, those were obvious options.

After Sirius ran away, though, after Jamie had finally been roused by my shouts and he'd woken his mum and dad, I had been struck by an overpowering need for action. Sirius refused to see me, James would not go into details, so I had no outlet. One sleepless night left me staring at my bedroom ceiling, and I'd taken quill to paper before I could second-guess the wisdom of the decision, full of hope that perhaps Mr Inoue possessed a copy of the book in his personal library or knew of someone who did.

Sirius Black was not as skilled at ancient runes and the old languages as he was through celestial providence alone, however much he liked to claim it was merely a gift that required no effort. In truth, it had been a harrowing journey that begun as early as possible, the moment he learnt to read and write, however wonky the attempt.

A large portion of the books in the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black's library were in Old English and Ancient Runes, and Sirius devoured them to spite Walburga, who claimed he was soiling them with his disobedient and disgraceful fingers, and because in their near encrypted complexities they provided a most excellent escape.

The Primeval Essence of Magick had been his favourite of them all and it explained why he was so good at school without really trying. What need is there for revision when one has found solace in an ancient manuscript on the inner workings of magic itself?

The Primeval Essence of Magick was why Sirius was so good at runes, yes, and it certainly held meaning to him, but more than that it was the reason Sirius and I became friends.

Sometime in March of '69—the second time we met, when I wasn't even Meredith but Potter-Greengrass and he wasn't Sirius or Lionheart but Black—Alphard requested Mother examine some Black heirloom he wanted moved from Grimmauld Place. Freyr and I tagged along. Freyr because Mum had caught him giving Cressida's favourite doll a horrific makeover and he was on strict supervision, and myself because I had been ill and at that age still all I wanted when I was ill was to cling to my mother.

Regulus had been away with Walburga somewhere, but Sirius had been home. Any budding friendship wilted quite fast when trying to find something fun to do only led to disagreements. He'd wanted to run around and slide down the staircase banister; the mere thought of it had rattled my congested chest and turned my stomach.

It wasn't until he found me in the drawing room doodling runes on a scrap of parchment that we found common ground. He showed me the book, then. We spent just as long having fun with the enchanted illustrations as we did deciphering what we could understand from it. He was much better than me, but somehow he still thought I was brilliant.

It was a foul potion to swallow, the knowledge that even after all these years I still wanted him to think that.

"I speak to him." I managed to tell Dorcas.

She snorted. "Insults don't count."

"No, they don't." James quipped with a silly grin I disliked very much.

"Will you sneak us out of the castle or not?" I deflected.

"Done." James agreed instantly. "You realise, of course, that you can't be the one who gives Sirius the book."

I remembered with sharp clarity that James, too, had been missing in Potions the morning after Mary's birthday. I'd assumed he'd been hanging too hard to even leave his bed, or the dorm lavatory. I feared perhaps Sirius had chosen to confide in a friend, after all.

"Like I said, I might keep it for myself." I shrugged. "It's become a favourite of sorts."

James disapproved. I could see it in the furrow of his mouth and the slant of his eyebrows.

I looked at Dorcas. "It's an idea, at the least, to ask Mr Inoue about Cynneburg."

She opened her mouth to comment, but before she could speak a loud bang reverberated down to us, like a heavy door slamming shut. The three of us froze, straining our ears for any other noise, footsteps perhaps, or the sound of the library doors opening. None came.

Dorcas exhaled. "Let's go before Filch catches us. They'll think we were the ones stealing books, if he does."

James had the Cloak at the ready, not one to be asked twice. Dorcas and I huddled closer to him, shuffling until we found a somewhat comfortable position, with her flush at his back and myself somewhere in the middle, glued to both of them. He threw the Cloak over us. Even with the strategic places, we could not afford to take steps bigger than a shuffle lest we risk our ankles showing underneath it.

The days of three or four of us scurrying about underneath the Cloak were truly gone and done with. The thought left an odd taste in my mouth, sharp and unforgiving.

Mortification was not big enough a word to describe what rooted around my heart in the aftermath of our Restricted Section visit. I blamed haste. And no small amount of resentment, or perhaps hubris.

Had I paused and thought like any rational individual would, I would have known before the suggestion was even out of my mouth that nothing would result from us traipsing the darkened halls of the library. Instead, I had allowed my frustrations toward Fabian guide my decision-making, my anxieties over the Incident had clouded my judgement, and my stubbornness in shutting out James had come back to bite me straight in the arse, on both cheeks for good measure.

This was a conclusion I reached sometime around four in the morning, after awaking from another chilling sequence of dreams (dreams or Dreams, who could say?) and staring at the canopy of my fourposter as my head swam with the memory of our late-night escapade.

I was an idiot. An utter fool. I was certain that if I even so much as made eye contact with anyone, I would word-vomit once again. The fleeting thought that James would tell Sirius—because James told Sirius everything and in what world had I even considered telling James about this—twisted my stomach into painful knots.

So, I opted for avoiding the problem. With ease.

A visit to Hogsmeade with the group? No, sorry, I've made plans with Nemesia already.

Prongs and I were planning on sneaking to the Greenhouses for a drink, wanna join? My, I wish I could, Rem! Vaughn's agreed to help me with Advanced Transfiguration, you know how I need the help, and he's oh-so-busy with NEWTs already… next time, yeah?

Vaughn had not agreed to help me with Advanced Transfiguration. I hadn't needed the help, and indeed what we'd done was spend the stretch of time between lunch and dinner sprawled within the Stone Circle high as anything on faedust, but if I'd told them that, they would have joined.

Though hanging out with my Slytherin friends was a tactic that always proved successful, even if we were doing an activity my Gryffindor friends would love to join. Evil was an umbrella term for Slytherin house in their eyes, and I exploited that with all I had.

Sunday I spent with Damocles, Nemesia, and Fawley, accompanying them to their Duelling session. Though Duel took place every Sunday at noon, there were no extra-curriculars during half-term since it was supposed to be a time of rest for the professors as much as the students. Slytherin members disagreed with this rule, and partook anyway, supervised by two prefects instead of Mother. They also refused most other houses at the door, unless they were vouched for by a trusted member. I got the impression they held their own private duelling club outside of the one sanctioned by my mother, with the weird handshake Damocles performed with the Fifth Year at the door, and his slow nod toward me.

I didn't participate in any duels. It was simply not my cup of tea, but I enjoyed spectating, and deviousness fuelled my attendance.

Nemesia and Damocles were very good, quick on their feet, cool-headed, and four steps ahead of their opponents. Tacticians, to be sure. Fawley, bless her, was nervous, hasty, and thoughtless. She joined me on the bench after the first round.

It was Yaxley and Rosier, however, that held my attention.

If I planned to use some ancient, twisted Curse on someone, an unsanctioned duelling session such as this would be the perfect moment to practise. Most who faced off against Yaxley or Rosier were advanced enough that they could evade or deflect, and appeared smart enough that they would assume any unfamiliar incantation would be of the nasty variety and take necessary life-preserving precautions.

I watched them, while pretending I wasn't, and made mental note of each single hex and jinx they threw at their opponents. I memorised which protective spells they used while on the defensive, what they liked to start with when switching to offense.

Out of the two of them, Yaxley was the one with most rhythm. Exact yet graceful, every duel was a musical instrument he'd learnt down to the bones until he grew confident enough to improvise and produce music rather than noise. He only went on the defensive when he needed a moment to read his opponent's switch in tactics, and it never lasted longer than two spells.

Rosier was all force, what shock. He attacked head-on, led by instinct rather than analysis. Frustration fuelled his competitiveness; anger commanded his aim.

Both of them terrible in their prowess, to be sure, but not an unfamiliar incantation past their lips. Nothing that would be considered true darkness; some toed the line but they were still spells even I was somewhat proficient at. Me, who disliked duelling more than harvesting ashwinder eggs. So, all in all, nothing too obscure.

Nothing that could belong to Cynneburg.

Monday—the official start of half-term since the weekend was always free time and didn't count—saw me sat at the Ravenclaw table for lunch. I hadn't spoken to Cressida in a long while, and some sisterly bonding was just the excuse I needed not to sit in my usual spot—right in front of Sirius Black, who by now must have known what huge fool I was and had withheld any comments out of sheer humiliation. Or abject horror. I'd blame him for neither.

Cressida and I had sat, silent, perfect opposites of each other with her light green eyes and pin-straight raven hair, soft cheeks and Greengrass nose—truly we could not have looked less related—and decided at the exact same time that we remained just as unimpressed by the other as always.

We did not even attempt a conversation. I raised from my seat as she twisted to face the boy on her left, dismissing each other at once, and moved the space necessary to plop down beside Emilia.

"Alright?" She greeted with a toothy smile around an apple slice. "This is a nice surprise. We don't see you 'round these parts very often."

I reached for the orange juice and poured myself a glass until it threatened to overflow.

"My sister," I said the word like I very much wanted to say something else, "is a little pest."

"Is she?" Emilia glanced over my shoulder.

Cressida was all bright smiles and sweet disposition as she chatted with some boy she was friends with whose name I always forgot, and Lucy, Emilia's little sister.

"Oh, yes, she looks like an absolute threat. We must warn the Headmaster at once."

She could barely hide her laughter. I paused, lettuce leaf hovering over the incomplete wrap I was having for lunch, to roll my eyes with my whole body.

"You don't understand." I whined. "Lucy is an angel."

Emilia snorted, though it was a sound dripping with affection. Lucy was in Cressida's year, was Cressida's best friend. Despite the two of them sharing the same exact age-gap Cressida and I did, they got along marvellously. I blamed Lucy's lovely personality, and the fact that Cressida possessed nothing of the sort. Charming, my little sister was not.

"You wouldn't be calling her that if you lived with her." A valid point, I supposed. "Lucy borrowed my favourite pinafore dress this summer to practice tie-dyeing with. And, no, she didn't ask."

Though Emilia was grumbling, there was no real hostility in her voice, none of the inexplicable contempt that filled me at the mere thought of Cressida. Let alone the almost disgust that came unbidden and unfounded whenever she and I held a conversation longer than three or four sentences—brief conversations that always devolved to shouting and slammed doors, because Morgaina forbid Cressida practiced reason.

"Did it work?" I wondered, beginning to roll the wrap into a far semblance of a burrito.

"It was like Janis Joplin's ghost taught her herself or something." Emilia pulled a face, like she still couldn't quite believe it. "I couldn't even be bloody mad at her! It's lush."

"An. Angel." I insisted.

Emilia considered it for a moment. "We can swap, if you like. You'll be bringing her back before the month's over."

I shrugged but said nothing. Perhaps Emilia wasn't the best person to complain about sisters with. Lily was the better choice, except whatever Cressida and I shared paled in comparison to what she endured from Petunia.

So I swallowed any other complaints and stuffed my face with my crooked kidney bean burrito.

Lily and I had prefect patrol that evening. It was the first time in weeks we'd been scheduled together, I thought perhaps because Ren had noticed we did a lot less work and a lot more chattering when we patrolled together than apart. It'd gotten on his nerves all of last year, and now he was Head Boy he'd taken matters into his own hands, the spoilsport.

But patrol begun at quarter to nine, which meant I had hours left to my own devices, and just because lessons and dinner were over didn't mean I had to stick to the Common Room.

For as long as I'd been alive, I'd craved solitude from time to time. Once a day, ideally. Four times a week, at the least. There was nothing wrong with my friends, and I enjoyed their company greatly, but I found constant and prolonged exposure to people exhausting. I craved the stillness that came from being completely alone, the ability to stop and be without speaking.

As a child, the obvious escape had been my bedroom. Mother, however, disliked us cooping ourselves up in our rooms like moles burrowing under the earth. She was particularly opposed to my staying in my room for hours at a time, claimed I needed sunlight like some sort of sentient plant. So I'd gone to the gardens, yet my solitude there was not quite as I desired, since Addie would join me for any of her many games. All of Addie's games involved detailed thinking and conversation, make-belief adventures or complex tabletops.

My search for time alone led me to music. My father's piano was located in a room on the west side of the house, an area rarely inhabited since it tended to be colder than the other rooms, and decorated a little too lavishly for a family with three young children as likely to behave as they were to make a mess—and by that I meant the twins. As Freyr had said, my early attempts at the violin had been atrocious, so no one dared even approach the music room without fearing for their hearing. I also suspected there were only so many times one could listen to a toddler stumble through the chords of row row row the boat, and twinkle little star, regardless of instrument.

By the time I'd moved away from easy preludes and repetitive canons, Cressida had come along, the last child they would ever have, and doting was reserved for her and her alone. When Father and Mother weren't working, they drank up every small noise, gesture, and expression our youngest sister made. My mastering the Solfeggietto had been second to her getting her first tooth—this I remembered crystal clear, despite my relative young age at the time.

I remembered it in foggy pieces, but Cressida had been a sickly child her second year, some bizarre illness that aside from potions required exposure to sun and fresh air as treatment, like she, too, was some sort of tiny sentient plant. Addie loved the gardens more than she loved any room in the house, and Freyr loved that Addie had in those years enjoyed playing in the grass as much as he did, so no one thought to check what I was doing outside of lessons with our governess, ballet, and music theory at Trinity.

I could have gone back to sheltering in my room, content to watch the world go by from my window, but I liked music very much by then, and even now when I had dropped music and refused to participate in recitals or play for any audience, desire for solitude drove me to the music room.

Well, this was less a music room and more a piano room. The little nook by the stairs to the astronomy tower held a tapestry depicting a jazz quintet. I'd stumbled upon them in third year and, after singing a little song with them, the lead of the group invited me to push the tapestry aside.

Skepticism had warned me to expect a prank. Instead, I'd followed a narrow hallway and slipped down some very thin steps to find an alcove with great acoustics and two instruments: an upright piano, and a saxophone. Both had seen better days, though thankfully the piano had needed only a quick scourgify before it could be used. I'd cleaned the saxophone, too, but left it in its place, since I didn't know how to play it.

For three hours I sat at the piano, working on the same piece I'd been practicing for the last two weeks. I had spent all summer obsessed with the French composers, but autumn had brought about a yearning for the Russian masterpieces. Rachmaninov, however, appeared to have composed his allegro ma non tanto to spite me. I failed each time I brought the full piece up to the correct speed.

I promised myself I would be over this hurdle by the end of half-term.

It was slow going, but I left to meet Lily confident that I'd have the tempo down by Sunday at the latest. I just needed to practice an additional hour a day. If not, I'd check with Professor Flitwick for some advice. I could easily guess what he would say: you're not exercising sufficient active listening, Meredith, dear.

I should probably face the hippogriff beak first and borrow a recording of the concerto from the library, I decided as I spotted Lily by the portrait hole.

"Lils!" I called.

She swivelled around, the movement one quick albeit wobbly pirouette that was a little unlike her, especially since she was worrying her fingers in a distracted manner that was more likely to be displayed by me.

"Is something the matter?" I checked.

"Nothing," she said and fell into step beside me. "The Return of the King is making me sad."

She shrugged, dropped her fingers and didn't pick at them again, not even behind the folds of her skirt as I often did when Mother scolded me for ruining my cuticles.

I looped our arms at the elbow. "It always does."

Lily hummed. "Are you okay?"

"'Course." I blinked. "I lost track of time, that's all. Didn't mean to make you wait."

"I didn't wait that long," and she didn't sound annoyed.

Monday evening patrols were the most boring of them all. Ren had assigned us the fifth floor on the west wing, which on a Thursday or even Friday night would have been exciting, on a Saturday evening, a riot. The wing was hardly used, and the fifth floor was downright abandoned. It was the perfect setting for mischief, and unsanctioned gatherings.

It was, also, the floor Rosier had set Mary's hair on fire, so no one was allowed to patrol it by their lonesome anymore. Not that Mary was a prefect. Not that Ren had been able to do anything other than rob Rosier of his weekend evenings until Halloween, since Professor Slughorn had believed an exclusion would have been bad sportsmanship in the Gryffindor v. Slytherin rivalry our class had begun our first year—I feel the need to remind you, Slughorn had told Headmaster Dumbledore, of an incident last year involving one of my own and one of theirs, which did not end in an exclusion or expulsion either, though it could have. Mary couldn't believe her ears when Dumbledore agreed.

So now the fifth floor was a pair patrol, as was the divination tower, though that one was mostly because the stairs were so dizzying you needed the safety of a second pair of eyes.

Most of our first hour and a half consisted of empty hallways, sneezing dust, and a nice little chin wag. If there was one good thing about patrol duty, is that it allowed Lily and I to catch up just the two of us.

Lily was still seeing Derek, who sounded by her lengthy description like a knight in shining armour, an absolute Prince Charming. He was whip smart, funny, a gentleman, and oh, Mer, he has the cutest bottom lip! If the weather held up, they would be daring the forty-minute trek to Aranshire this Thursday, the little hamlet Derek was from. Lily hoped they'd be exploring a whole lot more than just the little settlement, since Derek's parents were visiting family in Inverness.

I told her about Wales. I told her, though this I hadn't shared with James or Dorcas, about the warded letter I found on my mother's desk, how it'd been gone the next time I'd gone to check. She said she'd ask her parents to send over the muggle papers, in case any news about Wales were reported by the muggles but covered up by the Prophet.

It was as she was telling me how Petunia had returned the birthday gift Lily had sent, unwrapped, that we paused before a broom closet. Its sturdy wooden door was not thick enough for the noise coming from within, clear noise that whoever was inside was having a hell of a time. Loudly and enthusiastically.

Lily and I shared a look. Though she looked aghast, I had to bite my lip not to laugh.

"Wait!" Lily hissed just as my hand found the knob. "This is a terrible idea."

I blinked at her. "It's our job."

And they always stopped the moment the door opened, quick and panicked, flailing to cover the important bits. One poor fourth year last year had even burst into tears as he begged us not to tell his Head of House. It was hilarious, and embarrassing enough that it meant they learnt how to cast a bloody silencing charm for next time. I was of the opinion that if you didn't bother to be sneaky, then you deserved to get caught.

Lily released my arm. I only caught a glance of the grimace that twisted her face before I opened the door.

And froze as effectively as if someone had cast a petrificus.

Tall shelves against two walls, rough-hewn stone and bent metal. Forgotten pots, thick-bristled brushes, and a mop. A table flush against one wall, the perfect height. And on it, right on the precipice, a school skirt pushed all the way up, a blouse in disarray, hips nestled between thighs, nails digging into the buttocks of a pale arse, trousers bunched at the ankles and school shirt opened and willowing like some fucked up flag. Golden hair bunched in a fist decorated by three thin scratches stretching down the wrist.

I met Sirius's eyes for a fraction of a second before gluing my gaze to the door, to the whorls of the wood.

He cursed, almost as loud as Marlene had been moaning moments before.

He's shagging Marlene, my brain provided, just in case the fact had escaped me. Marlene fucking Mckinon is shagging Sirius.

"I thought you'd cast a silencing charm." Sirius's voice sounded far away, almost absent.

Air. Right. I needed air, surely? If I breathed maybe my head would quit floating.

"I did." Marlene's voice was the high pitch it adopted when she was lying. Did anyone else could tell?

"No, you bloody didn't!" Lily, apparently, could. "Obviously."

I risked a glance. Neither of them had moved. They remained just as we'd found them, as frozen as I was, or maybe a lot more accustomed to getting caught in such compromising positions that their first instinct was no longer to protect their dignity.

"Are you going to get out of her," I began without recognising my own voice. It was serene, a perfectly normal decibel. "Or would you like me to give you detention like this?"

Sirius hesitated. "I'm trying to decide—"

"You're not mad?" Marlene blurted out at the same time, more shocked than she'd been when we opened the door.

"—which one would be more embarrassing." Sirius finished, which, Merlin, what a thought to have in a situation such as this. I faced Lily. "Why would she be mad?"

What a question. Though, I supposed from a very far away point, like my conscience was watching this entire interaction from a far up distance, it was a question which held some degree of validity from his point of view.

"This! This is more embarrassing!" Lily sounded equal parts disgusted and horrified. She waved one shaking hand at Marlene, looking resolutely to the side. "You said you wouldn't sneak out tonight. You promised."

It was even more difficult to hide my reaction to that.

Marlene, at least, had the decency to appear chagrined. She squirmed in place. Sirius hissed. Lily and I found the ceiling to be the most interesting thing in the whole castle.

"Stop it!" she hissed.

"Me?" Sirius whispered back, a harsh low sound. "You moved!"

"Then get out of me!"

"Cerridwen's cauldron." I slapped a hand over my eyes at the same time Lily gagged. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor."

"No detention!" Lily added, hastily. "I don't want to see either of you for a very long time. Very. Long. Time."

The two of us turned the way we came, my hand still glued to my eyes lest I see something more scarring. It wasn't until I heard Lily close the door that I toyed with the idea of lowering it, happy to wander blind, and we'd taken several steps away until I actually did.

For the longest of time, none of us said anything.

"Oh my god!" A cackle burst out of Lily with the ferocity of a bat out of hell. "Oh, my god! I am never patrolling again!"

"I'm handing in my badge to McGonagall first thing." I agreed, aiming for curt but failing with how much my voice wobbled.

She and I made eye contact for the briefest of glances and dissolved into laughter, horrified and shocked, the kind that didn't allow for breath and hurt in the stomach. It lasted the length of the hallway, starting again each time it dithered to nothing, until we reached an intersection.

A good thing, the never-ending laughter. It kept the ball growing in my stomach from developing into a scream.

"Want to split up?" I offered. "You go left, I go right, we're in our beds fifteen minutes early."

"Deal." Lily agreed immediately, face glowing pink with remaining laughter. "I know it looks good to be a prefect but, god, wish someone had warned me about the schedule. I'm knackered."

"And traumatised."

She laughed again. "That, too. See you in five!"

I waved her away. It wasn't until she'd turned the corner that I let my smile drop. My cheeks had grown tired, and the ball in my stomach had twisted into a knot at my throat.