8 August 1977 at 3 in the morning - The Catacombs at Earl's Court, West London

His feet swept with every beat. Each stomp another drop. Each jump another high. Sweating skin, back to back, one hand reaching out to the other. No one could see more than a foot in front of them— each person even more inebriated than the next. Their bodies moved both in sync and to their own rhythm. It was a revolution. It was freedom— the music taking him to another dimension. The synthetic powdered pill someone had just fed him from the tip of their tongue slowly dissolved into his system. His feet felt like they weren't touching anything; the tracks pulsing blood through his veins, into his heart. He briefly locked eyes with someone, both grinning at one another, then threw his head back and closed his eyes again to delve into the ecstasy.

His eyes opened back up in a flash, registering something in the corner of his vision. There, in the distance, propped up against a wall, someone stared at him and only him. He froze, the music disappearing as they looked at one another.

Fuck, he thought to himself— his stalker lifting a cigarette to his lips. The ember glowed brighter as oxygen passed through it— a signal in the dark. Hello, fancy seeing you here, it said.

Fuck, he repeated again. What the fuck was Mundungus Fletcher doing in muggle London?

The shirtless bodies were piled one on top of each other, but Alexander Sykes managed to push his way through them— a panic erupting throughout him. How did he find him? And was he even looking for him in the first place? Why was he here?

Fuck, fuck, and fucking fuck.

Because not only were the Catacombs at Earls Court an underground rave scene meant for muggles— but an underground rave scene meant for gay muggles.

After years and years of building up a false identity that by his fifth year, it had become all too apparent that he was unlike the rest of them. Initially, a little off, not quite right, people definitely thought he wasn't all there in his head, but it didn't take a genius. He had figured it out sooner than later when he started going to Quidditch games for reasons other than actually giving a fuck about Quidditch.

But there he was: his biggest secret exposed in its naked glamour.

Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck, he kept singing in his head, the illicit speed in his blood system pushing both his confidence and his heart right through the roof. He was ready to knock the wizard's jaw into the ground. He was ready to laugh and cry and scream because he had mixed too much together and he wasn't quite sure what to say, do, or think.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Fletcher!?" Alex screamed over the music as he approached him. "Why are you here!? And why are you standing there like a bloody creep!? Stop fucking looking at me!"

Mundungus Fletcher raised his brow, a smirk lining his lips.

"We need to talk," Mundungus screamed back at him, dropping the cigarette to the ground. "Come."

1 September 1977

Girls, boys, and everything in between rushed back and forth, loitering in the corridor, peeking in through other windows to see if they could decipher even an ounce of what was being said and done behind them. First-years paled, looking up at the older years as they tried to figure out when it was appropriate for them to change into their uniforms, and where they could and should sit. While others hunted down the Honeydukes Express, chasing after the familiar sight with coins clanging in their palms and pockets.

Though the train was teeming to the complete brim, riddled with various tensions and stresses, amidst it all, a group of four managed to effortlessly unwind and frolic, oblivious to the year ahead of them and to the happenings around them.

"This will be our best year yet," James Potter announced. "I can feel it."

"We know," Peter said— visibly the smallest of the group, and arguably, the youngest. Despite his youthful appearance, it would be a grave mistake to underestimate him. Sure, much of his intimidation stemmed from the company he kept, but once a terribly shy child, he had learned to follow suit. To compete with the other three, he had learned the tricks and tips to weasel his way out of anything— and into anything, depending on the situation. It was an incredible feat, really. "You said it last year, too."

"And the year before that," Sirius quipped, staring at his reflection that had just appeared in the window as the train rolled into a tunnel. His eyes darted around the now dimmed compartment, watching the others in the glass. James was looking at him, Peter read over a candy wrapper, and Remus was in the corner diagonal from him— his back hunched over, speed-reading through the newspaper he had grabbed off the trolley.

All in all, calm.

"Yeah, but this year— this year is my year," James insisted.

"Yep, you said that last year, too," Remus reminded him, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

"I reckon he's said that every year, too," Peter added, a slow grin beginning to grow on Remus' face.

"Yes, but this year I mean it."

"Okay," Sirius responded, waving a hand to get them to change topics. "Whatever—"

"What?" James asked. "It's true!"

"What's that even supposed to mean?"' Sirius turned to look at him, his face now fully illuminated as the train began to exit the tunnel and roll into the Midlands.

"Honestly?" James responded, sitting forward in his seat. "I haven't a clue, but— think about it, what if… I'm thinking to go big, yeah? Like instead of fucking around with small things here and there— we do massive ones, like real—"

"He's talking about pranks," Remus pointed out, peering over the newspaper at Peter and Sirius' pinched expressions.

"Yeah, I have to be discreet," James added in a hushed tone, glimpsing out to the hall. "You know— being Head Boy and all." His hand reached up and patted his chest where, on top of his robes, he had pinned a little gold badge that twinkled under the daylight.

"Mate, no one's listening," Sirius told him. "Who do you think is listening?"

And almost as if some divine power had orchestrated it, all four of them shot their eyes toward the tap on their cabin window.

"You see?" James whispered to Sirius as the door slid open. Lily Evans stood in front of them, holding the door open with her hand, her own little gold badge proudly pinned to her left breast pocket.

"Potter," she greeted.

"Evans," he responded with a curt nod.

"Did you forget?"

"Forget?"

"Ah, fuck," Remus cursed under his breath, folding the newspaper back over and shoving it into the cushioned seat's crack. "Fuck. Prefects' meeting, James."

"Right," shit, James finished in his head as Remus stood up and began to locate his things—wherever they had gone, at that point.

Wand, watch, Remus listed over in his head, twisting about and grabbing the cloak that he had been sitting on.

"It's filthy in here," Lily commented as if reading Remus' mind. He turned to her, smiling an apology as she stepped back into the hall to let Remus out.

"It's got character," Sirius countered.

"Like you lot just walk in here and throw whatever it is all about and whatnot?"

"Sort of?" Remus answered at the same time that Peter said, "Yeah."

"Lovely," Lily sighed, turning to look at Remus, who was standing beside her in the corridor, waiting for James. She eyed him up and down, the wizard clad in dark denim and a thin olive green jumper. "Remus?"

Their eyes locked.

"Ah, right," he acknowledged, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his own little gold badge that read Prefect. He brought it to his chest, pulling at the threads of his jumper and placing the pin a little too far to the left. He looked back over at the witch and smiled. But before she could protest, they both turned to look at James— who, to the witch's surprise, was in full uniform: tie, badge, robes— everything. He stood at the doorway, his hands placed on the edge as he leaned forward and popped his head out into the corridor.

"Oh, so it's okay when Remus breaks the rules, eh?" James teased with a grin plastered on his face, tilting his head towards his friend.

"Wearing uniform to meetings is a formality, not a rule," Remus quipped. Lily ignored their playful banter, instead turning to look up at Remus.

"You go ahead. Potter and I need to talk."

"Oooh, we need to talk?" James cooed. Lily held back an eye roll, keeping her attention on Remus, who gave her an apologetic, tight-lipped smile as he took a step backward to make his exit. She returned it with a low sigh, shifting her focus to the wizard hanging out the doorframe.

"Did you get my letter?" She asked him. He nodded slowly. "Oh?" A brief pause ensued. "Well, why didn't you respond?" James shrugged, straightening his back and stepping out, the door sliding closed behind him. They were dangerously close, now.

"Respond to what?"

"Well, did you read it!?"

Of course, James had read it. Now, had it been exactly what he had expected? Maybe yes, maybe no. Neither truth nor his own expectations were something he'd admit out loud, either. Neither was the fact that when it had arrived, in a brief moment of hesitation, maybe, just maybe, there had been the thought that this was it. It was not as if he had seen his name in her handwriting and thought of all the possibilities that lay within the envelope's hold. Boy, oh boy, what secrets could a letter spell out? No, of course not, because James Potter no longer cared for the witch. Of course— besides to the extent that he needed her to be able to complete his own duty as Head Boy.

"Yeah."

"Yeah… and? What'd you think?" James shrugged again.

"Honestly?" Lily nodded in response. "It wasn't that great."

"Oh?" The witch looked as if she had been slapped across the face, her chin jerking back, her eyes widening ever so slightly. "Then… why didn't you say something?"

"I did," he replied.

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Right now." Her mouth fell open and then closed again.

"Why didn't you respond to the letter?" Lily grilled through gritted teeth.

"Because," he looked back down at her, "I was on holiday."

"Oh, that's great. I'm so happy to hear that you were on holiday, completely disregarding your responsibilities. But, now, we have no plan."

"So?"

"So? There's a whole room of people waiting for us to walk in and tell them what the plan is, and we don't have one."

"Relax, Evans," James said, waving his hand as if to shoo her worries away. "We'll figure it out as it goes." And on that note, he slid past her, whistling a playful tune as he strutted down the train corridor. She blinked, her mouth agape as she stood there, completely lost in the woods.

"What's wrong with him?" Lily quizzed, not realizing Sirius and Peter were still watching her from behind the cabin window. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her forehead as she stared at the carpeted ground.

Relax, Evans, his voice sang in her head.

"Don't worry, we'll figure it out," she mocked out loud in a tone meant to mimic a deep, masculine voice. "It's fine— the Slytherins will be totally fine with it, Gamp and Black? Oh yeah, they won't have anything to say over it, nothing at all." She halted, her face reddening as Peter tapped on the cabin window to revive her back to reality. Out of the corner of her eye, she could catch Sirius stifling a snicker behind his palm. Lily cleared her throat, looking forward, and headed in James' footsteps.

Day One of being Head Girl: miserable.

"Eve," a fruity voice cut through the silence, forcing her stare to flicker over to the burgundy-haired witch sitting across from her.

"Mm?"

"Did you want to catch the trolley?"

"No," she answered.

"Oh." Aphrodite's berry-colored lips fell into a small o shape as the sound of rejection traveled between them. But the defeat didn't last long, for Aphrodite was already straightening her back and clearing her throat before Eve could even manage to look away. "So, how come I didn't see you this summer?"

Her eyes narrowed, trailing an invisible line from her housemate's eyes to the three ruby-red rings on her right hand. She sucked her cheeks in as she considered it… So what exactly did keep you from pureblood society that summer, Miss Eve Kavanagh?

"Family problems," she replied, quickly moving her eyes from the rings back to Aphrodite's face. After a single second of observation, and a hesitant breath passing between them, the witch broke out into a smile.

"Oh, of course," Aphrodite began to console, slowly nodding her head. She reached her painted fingernails across the table to grab hold of Eve's forearm. "I hope everything's okay."

Eve blinked, frozen from the sudden human contact. She nodded tightly, holding back from ripping her arm out of the witch's grasp.

"Fine, really," she assured her, finally pulling her arm away and crossing it over her stomach. A tight, polite smile forced its way onto her lips.

"Right, well," Aphrodite began, not at all perturbed by Eve's sudden bite. "I'll fill you in on what you missed," she continued, leaning over the table and whispering the beginnings of what Eve knew was going to be a never-ending saga.

Though her upper body remained still, Eve's foot began to tap incessantly underneath the table as she listened to who looked at who and who wore what— and oh no, did fifteen-year-old Luella Frye really try to push graduated Antonin Dolohov into an empty room at the Malfoy Mansion?

Eve knew that pleasantries were pleasantries, but eventually, gossip would lead to prayer. She tried her best to stifle the urge to hang her head from her hand, watching Aphrodite's fingers dance one way and another as she became a mess of an orator. Eve did not pull her eyes from her, but she'd be lying if she said the words hadn't begun to warble and evaporate into the train's own sounds. They were far gone from the London ghettos, but nowhere near the thick forests and swampy bogs of the North— both of which were terrifying prospects as she calculated just how long Aphrodite Flint had to speak her piece.

Never did she think, though, that prayer would arrive as soon as it had.

From beside her, she could feel the sudden warmth of what could only be a human body sliding into the bench next to her. Aphrodite stopped mid-sentence, her mouth still open with an unfinished sentence as she and Eve looked at the intruder.

"What're you ladies chatting about?"

The voice woke her right up— like the fifth espresso of the day kind of awake. Everything moved to the foreground, hyperaware of everyone around her. She'd always known that the width of the car was much too small to accommodate all of them. As if someone had scooped them all up into a jar, caging them in and watching them swarm as they shook and shook and shook.

But, oh, did this boy like to beat the swarm.

He leaned against the back of the bench, his icy eyes laying thick on the back of Eve's head.

"Hm?" he asked, lifting his chin as he turned to meet Aphrodite's stare.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"You were just talking," Evan reminded her, waving his hand between the two of them. "What were you talking about?"

"Oh, uh," Aphrodite stammered, her gaze darting from Evan down to Eve.

"About my summer," Eve answered for her, not turning to look at him.

"Yes," Evan hummed, suave, smoldering, so unlike the person she knew to be hiding underneath. "You were rather absent, weren't you?"

Unbelievable — really — possibly even extraordinary. Each and every person that filled that cart, every single one — no matter their last name, no matter the town they had come from— was a collector. Of what? Masques— that's what they collected. Not Venetian or Chinese, nothing like that. No, this was entirely something else. It had been so long since they had all decided to play dress-up that Eve had forgotten what they actually looked like, what she looked like. Were they all just meant to walk around with steel armor? What was underneath? Was it frightening? Was there a mutual understanding of just how ugly it truly was under the covers? Was that why they all voluntarily participated in this sick masquerade? Because though two had questioned her whereabouts, it was not propriety or concern that had led them to do so. It was intrusion and gossip.

It had been two months of damp murkiness on Hook Head, and now nothing but dry air. With every breath, her throat blistered and choked, aching for a drop of water. Because while she may not have known just exactly what it was Aphrodite was hiding, she sure as shit could guess Evan's true motives.

Evan, Evan, Evan. His loins were lava, his blood kerosene— everything that should have come with an extremely flammable warning. A little boy who had absolutely nothing to give this world but utter disdain.

A child of the winter sea, with sunken cheeks at the age of eleven, the only color on his face was a white marble that rivaled Roman statues. He had diamonds for eyes— not blue, not grey, but stormy, replicating thunderclouds as they rolled in from the ocean, ominous, daunting. In his presence, electricity floated through the air as it vibrated and made birds flee. An ethereal beauty, just like mommy-dearest, and yet anything but motherly.

And she'd grown up with him. Summers wasted spending much too much time on the shores just beyond his castle home on that dreary island in the middle of nowhere. He had been rough, yanking at her wrist whenever she didn't want to play his games. Laughing and mimicking her vowelly accent, forcing her to speak King's English or else. The boy who would jab her in the ribs, forcing her to race him in his thorn-covered gardens— who had stood next to her before she got sorted, convincing her to follow him no matter what.

Everything had been a competition. Everything had been about getting the last word in. And she had let him, obliged him, played with him. When anyone else spoke over him, told him he was wrong, told him no, he'd grab Eve and pull her into an empty closet, scold her, and force her to repeat after him.

She knew what he was made of, and it was not Christmas shortbread.

But that was years ago.

"What? Nothing to say now?" He continued, pushing. "You two were so mouthy just moments ago— now, nothing? Hm?… What, we're not friends? I can't know?"

Eve had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Evan Rosier: a scrawny, indignant little boy who thought himself a man. They had not been friends since their third year. Alas, and despite whatever perceived cruelty, it had been his choice. In the last three years, the witch could count the number of times they had spoken on one hand. And yet, there he was, acting as if they didn't have the entire English Channel that divided them. At some point or other, and in more ways than one, she had become too disturbed to be bothered with whatever game he was currently enamored with. Because, to Eve, ignoring her was a game. Everything was a game to Evan. Why was he back now?

"Family problems," Aphrodite cut in, attempting to break the ice. "Personal stuff, Rosier. Nothing serious, though—"

"Right, right, of course," Evan wrote off, waving his hand to get her to shut up. His fingers drummed on the table, his eyes scanning the rest of the car. "And you, Flint, your family?" Before the witch could even answer, Evan added, "where's Gamp?"

Just go away, Eve moaned in her head, her eyes narrowing on the veins that lined his hand, running up and across his arms like blue and purple tributaries.

"Just missed her," Eve replied.

"Sykes just passed, too. They were headed to some meeting, I believe," Aphrodite further explained.

"Did she say when she'll be back?"

Gamp and Rosier? Eve repeated in her head, more than once, recycling it through and through. While she was friends with Melisende Gamp— she had never once seen Evan give her more than a side glance. Except for when the whole Spring Parkinson thing happened...

"Uh, when the meeting is over?" Aphrodite responded, shrugging. Evan smiled slippingly, his stare glassy as her answer was everything but what he had wanted.

"Very well," he said, leaning back into the seat and stretching his legs out underneath the table. "Suppose I'll wait here until she returns." He folded his hands over his stomach. "Meeting, huh? Wouldn't want to be her."

"Why not?" Eve asked, eyes narrowing on the side of his face.

"Because who'd want to take orders from Potter?"

"What, why'd she be doing that?"

"Oh, you two haven't heard?" Evan wondered, his brows shooting up as his gaze darted between Eve and Aphrodite. "Potter made Head Boy? And the mudblood, Evans, Head Girl?"

"No," Aphrodite gasped, igniting the gossip columnist within her as she leaned forward with enlarged eyes. "Merlin, that's rough."

Great, Eve said to herself, her eyes turning to the horizon in the far-off distance, lifting a finger to pinch the corner of her eye.

Eight more hours.

It started to rain as soon as the students arrived. They ran from the carriages, taking cover in the cloisters as their journey came to an end. Others were daring enough to try and race against the chilly bullets and make their way straight into the Entrance Hall. Eve had to stifle an unseemly giggle as she observed them, looking like bats with their robes held up high.

Eve, like most, wasn't a daring person, choosing instead to exit the carriage and head straight for the gothic arches overlooking the lake. From where she stood, and despite the dismal weather, she could still make out the first years crossing the water on the boats. Their little lanterns shone brightly amidst a mass of dark ink.

"Black!"

The shout forced her attention out the corner of her eye where Regulus Black and Beon Shafiq stood an arch away from her. Both of them had their hoods placed over their heads, shadowing every one of their features which made it difficult to discern who was who.

"I heard you made Captain?"

"You heard correctly," Regulus confirmed.

"Eh, that's great! Congratulations," Beon said, giving Regulus a firm pat on his back before walking off toward the entrance with the rest of the hoard.

The smile did not falter from Regulus's face, his eyes lifting up from the ground only to find Eve watching him as she advanced towards the entrance. She quickly averted her gaze, her face blanching, realizing that she had been caught staring and eavesdropping.

"Kavanagh," he greeted as she got closer. Eve had not planned on stopping for a chat— and with Regulus Black of all people.

How dull, but it was too late. Her own nosiness got the best of her. May as well say hi, she thought since she was going to be meddling in his life like that. Besides, he had fully turned towards her, awaiting her approach. There was no turning back now.

"Black," she acknowledged in return, lifting her hand slightly to wave at him. "Congratulations on Captain."

"Thank you," he said. Eve stopped in her tracks to gauge the situation— did he want her to stay? Did he expect her to stay and chat? The droplets pricked her face and the wind blew through her robes and up her skirt. She definitely didn't want to stay and chat. "All right? I didn't see you all summer."

Yes, summer, again, she bemoaned internally.

Eve Kavanagh was a regular invite to the Rosier summer household. And so, Regulus — being his cousin — had grown accustomed to her being there. To see her, to watch her. Ever since he could remember, Eve had been there during the summers. So her absence that summer had been anything but discreet. Much to her own dismay.

"Sorry, I don't mean to pry," he appended, observing her wary glance.

"It's fine," she assured him. "I had a family responsibility to attend to."

Yeah, right, she nearly snorted in her head. Even on the train when she had told Aphrodite, she had wanted to roll her eyes at her own garbage. She had barely seen her family that entire summer. Her father had been coming home late every night from Dublin, Boston, and London, and her mother had gone to her societal soirees just fine. And Eve with her elf, Dipsy, had feigned a two-month-long ailment that she had miraculously recovered from the day before leaving for Hogwarts— as if anyone had even noticed, though.

"Of course, don't we all," Regulus said, attempting to lighten the conversation for whatever reason.

"Mm," Eve smiled tightly, "congratulations on Captain, again." And like that, she was off, not staying a second longer as her teeth had begun to chatter and, more than that, she had run out of things they could possibly talk about.

He inhaled deeply, looking after her as she made pace into the castle, abandoning him in the dark.

Like most everyone when it came to Eve Kavanagh, Regulus had a million and one things he wanted to ask her, things he'd noticed from observing over the years, things forever engrained in his mind. He remembered when she had come over one winter evening, dressed in pastel purple with her hair pinned to the back of her head, curls falling from it. He had wanted to ask how she had kept it in place like that for so long. Or the bruises on her juvenile legs— he had wanted to ask her why she had so many bruises. Or when he saw Evan shove her into a closet— he had wanted to ask her what they were doing in the closet.

But Eve Kavanagh never spoke, so his observations were all he had.

He was twelve when he had first taken to observing her. She had been eating berries in Evan Rosier's garden with his cousin, Narcissa, and her usually pale pink lips had turned a deep red. He remembered thinking how painted they looked at that moment, how unreal. His observations were not intimate, nor were they sexual, at least not that he could pinpoint. Regulus was simply that kind of person, the one who could watch from the distance. And how he had watched. He had noticed how she had changed, he had seen as she went from being the child of summer, drenched in flowers, to one who spoke no more than three words when approached. Her eyes had gone from light to emptiness. Her gestures were formal and polite, but void of emotion, of life.

But that was it. Besides the polite small talk during formal events, they hardly spoke. It was not as if he had not tried, but Evan had always seemed to be there, lurking somewhere in the background, ready to pounce if he ever got too close to whatever it was that the two of them had with one another.

He supposed the only thing he really wanted to ask her now was what happened?

"All right, mate?" asked a distant voice. Regulus came back to earth, spotting Oliver Wilkes and Edmund Nott walking toward him.

"Fine," he answered.

"Well, come on, then," Oliver told him, gesturing towards the castle with his chin. "Don't wanna miss the feast."

That night, around a low, green-tinted burning fire, they sat, pondering, measuring both their exhaustion and enthusiasm. The rest of the room had died down from the post-welcome feast bustle. The first years had been introduced to their new home for the next seven years. Everyone else had gone to settle in, to prepare for the upcoming madness. But apart from the occasional shuffle or so, the Slytherin common room was dead silent.

"Rosier, Nott," a raspy, hidden voice announced from somewhere around the entrance. "Snape." Severus was the only one to look up, watching the straggler walk out of the shadows and down the stairs towards them. He wasn't alone, though, behind him Melisende Gamp followed in his steps— her high heels clicking against the stone floor, cutting through the intense silence and filling the room.

"Mulciber," Rosier greeted dryly.

"Evening," Edmund said, both him and Eoin nodding at one another as the latter took a seat next to Severus. "Gamp," he added, watching as she plopped down into the armchair at the head of the coffee table, staring directly into the green flames.

"Busy night?" Evan asked her.

"Potter," she answered in a puff of air. "Murton and I had first shift."

"Who's got second shift?" Edmund inquired, all attention on the witch.

"Sykes and Farley."

A collective grousing erupted from the cluster.

"Don't even have to ask to figure out third shift," muttered Evan, leaning his chin against the hand being held up by his elbow. "Dumbledore."

"Fuck Dumbledore," Eoin spat, scrunching up his nose as if smelling something rotten. "This is all his doing."

Melisende Gamp observed him, trying to place her finger on what it was that stood out there. Rougher, both in personality and looks— reckless, hair always cut short so he didn't have to bother with it because he wasn't one to fuss over his looks. Honestly, she had learned over the years that he didn't care much what anyone thought. He was and had always been convinced that his ideas were his own. Not his family's, not his friends, they were his and only his. And in a way, it made him the odd one out among all of them.

"I don't care," Eoin continued, his eyes turning flat. "I won't listen to a thing he says. I'll fuck 'im right up the arse if he tries to give me a fucking detention; I'll fuck—" But he was cut off by the sound of another straggler entering the common room. They held their breaths, waiting for the person to announce their presence. "It's just Avery," Eoin informed them, a collective relief washing over them, though none of them would show it.

"Where were you two?" Edmund asked, following Cedric who had walked over to the table to pull out one of the wooden chairs. He grabbed it by the top, spun it over, and placed it between Eoin and Melisende. "Gamp had rounds— but you, Avery?" His eyes narrowed on Eoin. "And you?"

"Mm, I wouldn't put my nose where it doesn't belong, Nott," Cedric hummed, sitting back in the seat and reaching into his robes' pocket. He pulled out a seemingly infinite bottle made of an obsidian body and a silver crown.

"Tormenting fourth years," Evan answered, smirking.

"Did you hear about Potter?" Cedric asked, shooting a glare at Evan.

"Enough with the blood traitor," Edmund drawled. "All day— Potter this, Potter that… It's become rather dull."

"But look where we're at?" Eoin countered. "Mudbloods, blood traitors running everything— bloody hell. What does that say about us? That we sit back and let it happen?" Evan's eyes narrowed on his housemate. "Shouldn't we talk about it? For years, it was us who held such positions. Headmaster, Head of House, Head Boy, Girl—"

"They mean nothing," Edmund inserted.

"They mean something," Eoin bit back.

"Slughorn is still one of us," Edmund pointed out.

"Slughorn's a filthy blood traitor," Melisende scowled, leaning forward to stare Edmund in the eye. "His love for that mudblood is distasteful, obscene."

"He's a complete oaf," Evan remarked.

"We're not letting anything happen," Cedric input before someone else had the chance. "Besides, their time's coming." He wrapped his fingers around the silver cork and with a quick pop it came undone. The wizard lifted the bottle to his nose, taking a deep breath as the smell of heedlessness danced into his nostrils.

"Quintin Black?" Eoin asked, taking the bottle that Cedric had offered him by its neck.

"It's Thursday," they heard Severus utter from beside Eoin, who glanced out at them from the corner of his eye. It was one of those rituals that the half-blood wizard could never quite understand— why would anyone in their right mind ever want to be incontinent? Where they could be so easily taken advantage of? If there was anything obscene, it was not their Potions professor. It was a bottle of Quintin Black downed in a single evening the night before classes.

"So?" Cedric retorted, shrugging. "We're here to celebrate, no… What is this? What'll we drink to?" He whipped his already glossy-eyed stare to his friend holding the bottle.

"Our time will come," Eoin toasted malevolently. They all watched as he reached the bottle up to the sky before bringing it back down to take a swig from it. The alcohol was strong, the first sip already infecting his mind as a chuckle bubbled up and out of him.

"Our time is here," Melisende amended, reaching over and snatching the bottle out of Eoin's hand.