Sunday Morning, 4 September 1977

One day, long ago, she had woken up and all she could see was green.

When she closed her eyes— green. When she dreamed— green. Her mother had embedded into her that their blood ran green, for Merlin's sake. And for so long, Eve had been convinced that there was no way she bled any other color but green. Green: the color she absentmindedly picked when buying a quill, a notebook, a cloak. Sometimes, she swore that even her skin was tinted green.

But now, Eve only saw green when she opened her eyes. Only when it really slapped her across the face and said wake up! Like the first thing she saw that morning: the canopy over her bed— green.

Because Eve could no longer see colors, not really. She couldn't see yellow when someone lamented over how terrible their sister's dress had been, or pink when Aphrodite wondered if she should lift her burgundy hair to something lighter, fresher. No, her mind had become the battleground for something else: static. Static noise. She could hear white, she could hear black, brown… But if asked to picture them as she could once upon a time? Impossible. Completely undoable.

Eve lifted her torso up slightly to glance over at the clock sitting on her bedside table. A small groan erupted from her as she realized the time. She smashed her face back into the pillow. Sleep had come and gone in a blink of an eye. The vexation of her reality gave way to numbness and then emptiness.

She took a deep breath.

Just get up, she commanded herself, letting go of the breath she had been holding onto. Gently, she pulled aside the bed curtains to peek out. Nothing seemed out of place, not from where she observed. She sat up and hung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet pressed into the frozen floor, observing the stillness of the early morning.

The stillness of the early morning— the first few moments always so silent. Never lasting. As the day rolled on, everything would come back. The rackets, the music, the voices of everyone and no one. The truth was, it was easier during the day. During the day, she could pretend, wipe it off like it had been some gossiping girls in the background. But during the night— that was hard. Every sound was amplified: the creek in the walls that would've gone unnoticed during daylight was suddenly an earthquake, the buzzing in her head a whole carnival of drums and trumpets, Gamp's snoring akin to a lion's roar.

The war had been going on for nearly ten years, but something had changed. It wasn't a feeling, this was knowing. She knew something had changed because it had gotten worse. Everything had gotten worse that summer as if someone had flipped off the switch and decided it was no longer enough to march, they must STOMP. Growing up, she had been able to live and move as everyone else because of just how rare it had been. But now— it was never a matter of if, but when, and the when had gone from every so often to nearly every day.

That morning, and every morning since she had been in Scotland, had offered her some semblance of peace. The noise was there— but it was distant and didn't concern her. At least, she didn't think it cared much for her attention. It had been louder, more urgent the further south she had been. But there, in the bogland, only in the depths of the night could she really hear it.

"Mm," she heard someone say from in front of her. "Good morning."

Eve woke from her solitary soliloquy and, as an absentminded smile grew on her face, stared glossily as Aphrodite Flint stretched her arms up and over her head towards the sky.

"Morning."

It's bloody cold, Eve thought as her teeth chattered in her jaw and her arms wrapped around her body even tighter than before.

Just before the fall equinox, everyone fooled themselves into thinking it would be the perfect transition from summer to early autumn. The last of the birds would migrate south, the air would be crisp and clean, and the sun would shine for as long as it could through colored trees before it, too, hibernated for the winter. Instead, and as always, she was met with the all too familiar British Isles damp mist that could make even the driest of bones grow mold. The same damp mist she had tried running away from all summer, every summer. But alas, the relentless gray had chased her all the way from Hook Head.

Naturally, there was something indefinably romantic about the whole thing. In a way, it was the type of weather that had inspired many a poet to write love sonnets about widowed brides and dishonest men. The castle was tranquil as if not a soul had set foot in it since its founding. The thick fog discouraged morning wanderers, threading and waltzing throughout the land before kissing the lake.

Eve hated it.

That morning she had made three mistakes: waking up at the time she had, not questioning why Aphrodite had also woken up at the time she had, and then engaging in conversation with the said witch. Because somehow, in some way, in her own daze of sleep, Eve had been convinced that attending the Slytherin Quidditch tryouts was going to be great fun.

Except now she was frozen to the bone.

She was frozen to the bone sitting in the lower levels of the pitch, on a moist, splintered, rickety bleacher that had not seen construction in what she assumed was a hundred years. All around them, threatening noises vibrated out throughout the columns and rows of wood that kept the flimsy structure standing. Nonetheless, and much to her surprise, it was bustling. Whether it was the crack of dawn or not, the pitch was anything but desolate. The Slytherins, however, were a silent bunch, only murmuring to one another every so often— if even that. So, while it wasn't exactly deserted, it wasn't noisy, either.

The seventh-year witches, especially, had not uttered a word to one another since they had first come together. Melisende Gamp had already been there, stationed where they were seated now, watching on as Rosalia Selwyn finished the Herbology exercises she had been meaning to complete on Friday. Eve made an attempt to be at least partially interested in the bodies dizzily flying back and forth, and Aphrodite would make the odd comment or two on some bloke's body. And though Alexander Sykes was seated alone a few rows behind them, he was the only one with half a brain who had brought a handful of biscuits and a steaming cup of tea while cheering Moira Palancher on every time she flew past. Around them, younger years sat— some witches, but mostly wizards who watched on, commenting on who would make what.

"What're you all doing here?" A voice acknowledged from behind them. They turned to see Moira hop over the benches towards them from where she had taken a break to sit with Alex. She was in full costume, holding her broom in her hand, as she helped herself to the vacant spot beside Aphrodite.

"We came to support," Aphrodite responded cheerfully. Melisende snorted from beside Eve, but Eve hadn't been paying attention, instead every so often looking around towards the exits, her legs beginning to jump up and down to keep warm. Moira let her broom fall to the side and pulled off the skin-tight leather gloves oppressing her hands. She stretched her fingers, allowing them to breathe.

"How come you aren't on the field?" Melisende asked.

"I'm co-captain," she answered, a teasing grin reveling on her lips. "No need to try out, just observing."

"Oh, I didn't know! That's brilliant," Aphrodite cheered, clapping her hands together. Melisende's eyes narrowed on Moira's face.

"Please," Rosalia begged as she remained hunched over, scratching her brain for last year's insights.

"Why not captain?" Melisende egged on, ignoring the pleading procrastinator beside her.

"As if they'd ever make a witch captain of the Slytherin team," Moira carped but masking the discontent with a quick eye roll. "They'd rather a sixth-year wizard be in charge than their most veteran player, but," she shrugged her shoulders, "it is what it is. Besides, it would've been a right pain. None of 'em would've listened to me anyway. "

"Bollocks," Melisende sniped, her lips pressing into a tight grimace made of complete disgust as she stared at Moira.

"Didn't know you were one for the game, Kavanagh," Moira commented, leaning over, her elbows pressed into her knees to glance at the witch. All Eve could offer her was half of her own attention, the other half disassociating, the state only propelled by the players going back and forth as they tried to reach for quaffles and smash others with bludgers.

"Not particularly, no," she finally admitted, squinting her eyes as they followed the path of a body falling off of a broom.

"You ever even come to a game?"

"First-year?" Her honesty forced a bubble of laughter to escape from Moira, but as Moira followed Eve's line of sight, she immediately stood up to peer over the edge of the pitches.

"Fuck me," Moira cursed under her breath, lifting herself and her broom up. She mounted it and jumped off the lower pitches to fly down to the body. Eve watched but could not register what was happening.

Silence ensued, the four witches falling into their typical habits: Rosalia rushing to finish what she believed was procrastinated work—it was far overdue, truth be told. Aphrodite played with her nail beds, Melisende strategized the game, and Eve— well, Eve had been sucked back into her vacuum. And then around the tenth time that she had blinked, a body began to convulse in the corner of her eye.

"Seacole's never going to make the team," she heard Melisende comment. "Every year, he keeps trying but ends up in the Hospital Wing. Pathetic."

Eve would have said something, but all of a sudden, her head whipped around. The noise, that noise, was back. But despite what her instincts would have indicated, it had not traveled with the wind. It had been in there, too close, too distinct to have been just the wind. Except, no, it hadn't been that noise at all. It had been screaming, a masculine one at that, too. She blinked slowly, turning back around with slightly furrowed brows. As she turned, she caught sight of four boys sitting in the higher sections of the pitch. Aphrodite noticed her friend's apprehension, so she, too, turned to look up at them.

"They were the first here," Melisende informed the two of them, having noticed their movement from the corner of her eye. "They have not shut the fuck up since— especially Potter, you can hear him from all the way down here."

Ah, so the noise had just been James Potter, naturally. Not as if it had almost stopped Eve's heart from beating or nothing. Merlin.

"Who's got the bottle?" Sirius grumbled as his friends' laughter wavered. He had, once again, despite all the efforts to avoid it, caught sight of his brother in the distance, hovering about five feet off the ground amidst the rest of the potential players. Though he wasn't sure what he had expected, the sight alone put a bitter taste in his mouth.

"We haven't even eaten breakfast yet," Remus commented.

"Fine, bring me toast with that would you, mate? Thanks," he quipped, rolling his eyes.

"What'd you expect? It's the Slytherin team," Peter pointed out, directing a whole hand toward the field.

"Cheers, mate, I wasn't sure," Sirius spat back. Peter opened his mouth to reply, but quickly shut it as Sirius swiveled his head around to glare at him. Remus glimpsed up from his book at the both of them, lightly touching Peter's shoulder. But Peter managed to wave it off, not bothered at all by Sirius' jibes as they all knew who it was really directed at. "Who bloody cares," Sirius cursed under his breath, fixing his twisted position.

You do, Remus wanted to tell him.

"Fucking hell," mumbled James as they all watched Niger Seacole, a Slytherin fifth-year, fall off his broom and crash into the ground. Regulus shouted, signaling to the other players to continue their tryout as he flew over to the injured wizard. To the right of them, Remus could see Moira Palancher flying down from the bleachers to join Regulus and Niger.

"It was only a couple of feet," Sirius said.

"He fell on his back," James returned, not even fully paying attention to what he was saying. Instead, he intently watched the situation unfolding beyond them. Moira was bent down, placing Niger's head on her lap as she looked up at Regulus with wide eyes while shouting at him a list of commands. Of which, they could only guess what was detailed within them.

"Whatever." It was Remus' turn to roll his eyes, but rather than engage, he placed his chin in the palm of his hand and returned his attention to the book split open in his lap.

"Blimey!" James shouted, standing up in his seat as he watched two younger years go at it with a bludger. "BLOW THE WHISTLE— BLACK, WHAT'RE YOU DOING!? BEHIND YOU!"

"What the fuck do they want?" Remus brought his focus back to Sirius, who had turned his attention towards the lower sections. He followed his friend's watchful stare, only to be met with two others: Aphrodite Flint and Eve Kavanagh.

...

"Can we not be friends with them?" Remus asked his new friend as they walked together to their next class. He held a book to his side, and she clutched two against her chest. She followed his gaze to the group of Slytherins that sat in the courtyard— three boys much older than the two Gryffindors. He found them regal looking, perfectly coiffed hair with creaseless robes and shiny, black leather shoes. They looked nothing like him— a scrawny boy with wavy strands of hair flopping against his forehead, a wand that hung lazily out of his pocket, and dirty trainers with tattered laces.

"My best mate is a Slytherin."

"He is?"

"Yeah, Severus, remember I told you about him?"

"With the black hair?"

"Yeah," she smiled.

"He doesn't like me very much," he noted.

"He just needs time to warm up to people, don't worry," she assured him.

"So, how come they never talk to me?" He brought her back to the original question. "Or any of us?" She shrugged.

"Because they're rich."

"So?"

"Well, they do things differently," she explained.

"How'd you mean?"

"You know Aphrodite Flint? She's in our Herbology and Potions classes," she began, turning to look at his nod. "I tried talking to her once, and the first thing she did was ask what my father does for a living. I told her he does payroll for a factory, but she hadn't a clue what I was on about; then she never spoke to me again 'cause she found out I'm a muggleborn, and she's a pureblood and rich. Both count if you want to be somebody, you see?"

"But you said it doesn't matter what sort of blood someone has, that we're all magical in the same way."

"Yes, what I mean, though, is that it is more important for some. They give more value to it," she further articulated.

"But that just makes them mean, yeah?"

"It makes them mean, yes, Remus. And I agree, it's not right," the small red-haired witch concluded.

...

He knew them by name and name only. They were friends with each other and not him— and that was the extent of his knowledge. Matter of fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he had actually spoken or interacted in any way, shape, or form with either one of them.

Suddenly, the less-than-cheerful memory of Eve Kavanagh calling him Richard in third-year divination struck him. Sirius had corrected her, and Remus remembered her only response had been looking at the both of them like they were gum stuck to the bottom of her shoes. The name had stuck for quite a while, too, he recalled, with Slytherins coming out of nowhere to call him Richard and then laugh about it as he walked away.

Actually, Remus could swear that the seventh-year Slytherin witches still called him Richard in the rare times that they spoke.

Initially, it had caused him great distress— he could admit to that. Mostly because he had not quite grasped what the joke was. Why was Richard so funny? To him, Richard was a more than normal and appropriate name to give someone. Sure, it wasn't his name, but it wasn't anything like some of the nicknames his own friends had imparted on others over the years. Over time, though, he had shaken it off, concluding that there were much worse things they could call him. That there were much worse things about him.

"Broom bitches."

"Yeah? And what are we, then?" Remus retaliated, his eyes squinting on the back of Sirius' head. "It's barely ten in the bloody morning on a Sunday, and we're here doing the same thing."

Peter let out a short-lived chuckle from beside him.

"No, the difference is, Moony," James interrupted, twisting his full torso to look up at him. "They're here for the blokes, we're here for the strategy— it's completely different."

"How do you know that?" Remus countered.

"Because I do."

"Okay, you know what? I'm over this. Peter, breakfast?" he asked, shutting the book in his lap and running a hand through his hair. Remus turned to the wizard next to him, observing Peter's eyes widen, his head nodding up and down slowly with delight and desperation.

"Yes. Please, Merlin."

Eve's shoulder pressed against a cold, bone-chilling stone wall in the first vacant bathroom she could find. Her hand reached out to slam the door shut, the bang resounding and echoing throughout the empty room. It turned out, it had not just been James Potter. She had fooled herself into thinking it had been, and it almost cost her dearly. Her own suspicions had been more than real, and that's precisely how she found herself in that very position just after lunch.

The all too familiar ringing had spread from back to front, beginning as a dull ache in her ears hours earlier. It had been hours. Yes, hours. She lifted her fingers, pressing and rubbing at the sore spot as her eyes remained open, plastered to the mirror. She took a deep breath, hooking it into her lungs, fingernails pressed into her palms. A pain behind her ears, something scratching at her throat from the inside. She felt like sticking her fingers down there and watching what came back up— but she knew exactly what would come back up.

A faint, buzzing sound that drove her to the edge of the world every time.

"Not now," she whimpered, her bottom lip jutting out. "Please, not now."

The only relief at that moment would be to listen. And to listen meant to drown out everything else. And to drown out other noises meant to get their attention. And one way to get anyone's attention was to scream. They were closing in on her, they wanted her attention. Fuck you, she said to them— she wanted to shout it, she wanted to write it on the walls, splatter it into the sky. Fuck you, fuck you— whoever you are, whatever it is you want, fuck you.

But Eve had learned long ago that they did not respond to curses, much less English curses.

Eve ran over to the sink, her hand clutching at her throat as she plugged the pipe and ran the water. She threw her head forward against the mirror, forcefully banging into it as the glass fought back— pounding through her head. Her breath grew heavy, her chest heaving up and down. She swallowed— hard, filling up her chambers while the buzzing grew exponentially. Ignoring it always seemed to make the suffering worse, to make it angrier. Was there any stop? Mercy? Of course not. Never. It was all just the same nightmare playing over and over again on loop.

The buzzing whirred into her faster and faster, scratching against her ligaments. Her breath drew heavier and heavier, rough and aching as her mind began to turn black, forcing and begging her to focus on the noise. Every moment that passed, the world as she knew it only grew dimmer and dimmer. She bit down on her tongue, cheeks, anything to keep that icky blackness from rising up and climbing out. Soon enough, metal pierced every inch of her mouth, the taste of hot iron flooded her senses but she forced it back down into the pits of her stomach until the sink basin was filled.

Once it was, and without a second thought, she plunged her face into the overflowing sink and opened her mouth.

The scream was nothing more than muted, turning into bubbles that eventually popped against the porcelain basin. Eve never could tell if someone would hear her or not, but this had worked for her before. She had selected a number of locations to suit her needs, and so far, it worked for her. So, she screamed freely, and screamed, and screamed— and as she did, all noise faded. The noise, the buzzing, the running water, everything gone.

Decipherable words. She could understand if she actually made an effort to listen.

But Eve's purpose then and there was not to listen, but to drown. Despite the natural human instinct to survive, she beat all odds and fought her own damn body from lifting up out of the water. Her shrieking, her lungs clamoring for oxygen, for fresh air— telling her to get up, get up, get up. And instead, her hands grasped the edge of the ceramic sink, crushing her fingers into the stone as she kept her thrashing body from pulling up.

At some point, her lungs gave in and she collapsed to the floor.

Monday Morning, 5 September 1977

Unfortunately, it was not the first nor the last time. The awakening. Would she survive? Was this what it felt like to die? No, death couldn't feel like this. It couldn't feel like she was stuck between two walls, two walls that slowly closed in on her. Her hands were placed against them— spread apart and holding them open as if she was Atlas who held up the world. Death was supposed to be liberating and freeing. Painless.

Though her eyes could not open— she very well knew she was alive. Her body, from where it was amassed on the floor, lurched forward, expelling the contents of her stomach onto her very own lap. The witch heaved inward and then lifted up and forward again as she purged, for a second time, whatever was inside her.

It was water.

Sink water, at that.

And yesterday's lunch.

"Fuck," Eve groaned, lifting the back of her hand and rubbing it across her mouth. Her head lolled to the side, her temple hitting the bottom of the sink basin. She still could not open her eyes entirely. Every muscle quivered, her head lifting and banging against the bottom of the sink again. And again. Harder and harder. The understanding squeezed the air out of her, causing her chest to tighten. She had not escaped herself. She could not escape herself. No matter where she went, it would always follow her. Be it Hook Head or the Hebrides, it would linger and shadow her infinitely and tyrannically.

After what seemed like forever, she managed to put two feet on the ground and hoist herself up. She grabbed the corner of the sink, supporting herself up over it. She eyed her reflection through lashes and strands of strewn about, disarrayed hair. Shadows covered her face, veins popped out on her forehead, and a raw redness formed on her temple.

Except, none of that mattered. Eve closed her eyes to listen carefully to the distance— nothing, except the occasional clanging of the pipes in the bathroom.

Whoever it had been, they were long gone now.

Whatever, she thought to herself, opening her eyes back to the witch standing there, looking back at her in the mirror. WHATEVER, she screamed in her own head. All the blood pumped into her right fist as she brought it up, pulled it back, and released it into the glass.

"Fuck, ow!" She yelped, holding her right hand and squeezing it to numb the pain.

Of course, she said, looking at the mirror that had remained completely intact save for the oily knuckle prints now staining its distorted glass. Of course.

Later that Same Monday Morning, September 5

"Lily," Dorcas Meadowes cried, looking at her friend as she approached where they usually sat in the Great Hall. They were not the only, Lily noted. It seemed as if everyone was crowded around one particular section of each table. Some had their mouths gaped, others shoved the paper in their peers' faces, and a minority had continued on with their day as if the whispers weren't filling up the whole room. Lily immediately stopped, looking around the room with scrunched brows and a slightly tilted head.

"What? What's going on?"

"Look," Dorcas said, lifting the Daily Prophet in her hands and shaking it in Lily's face. She stepped closer, her eyes widening as she scanned the headlines.

"What?" She whispered, grabbing the newspaper in her own hands. "Dundee? But that's so close."

"He's getting bold," Sirius commented from where he was seated in the center of the crowd, a finger on the corner of the page of someone else's paper. "Didn't think he would dare come all the way up here."

"You think?" Lily asked him. Without putting much thought into it, she took a seat right next to the wizard— her eyes as big as a deer caught in headlights. James' gaze darted between the two of them, even Remus had peered over at them from where he was shoveling eggs into his mouth. "You think he'll come here?"

"No," Sirius replied without a second thought. "But," he lifted his brows pointedly, and with a curt nod in the direction behind them added, "a little too quiet, today, eh?" Lily threw her chin over her shoulder, sparing a look at the students behind her— she hated to admit it, but it was true. As everyone else hovered around the few individuals with news subscriptions, the Slytherin table was a bit too serene that morning. Going about their lives as if the world around them didn't exist— as if it was just them in that infinite universe.

Lily's lips pressed into a tight line as she looked back down to the paper in between them all.

"You know… we shouldn't assume the worse," Dorcas began, taking her own paper and folding it in half so the two moving images no longer stared at them. Her hopeful expression dissipated as all eyes turned to her, none of them making a sound. None of them throwing themselves at her campaign.

"Who are they?" Lily knew she could have read the newspaper right in front of her, but her heart was in no place for the details.

"Worked for the Ministry's Investigation Department, " James answered. The two of them locked eyes, the last of the explanation on his lips— but he didn't have the stomach to say it out loud. But Lily knew, she had known since she saw their images.

Muggleborns working for the Ministry's Investigation Department.

They had flown too close to the sun.

At the entrance, Eve stopped short, her eyes scanning the room in front of her.

It didn't take a genius to know. The moment she had walked into the Great Hall that morning, she had felt it. One look around the room— something bad had happened. Not even a week back, and the war had already come knocking on their front door. She walked over to the Slytherin table, her eyes peering over her housemates.

While the rest of the hall had an air of unease, the Slytherin table was stiff. Tense as an aged muscle. No one talked to anyone, and no one dared look at anyone else— as if they were all walking around with eyes on them. As if someone was watching them and their every move, waiting for them to mess up or break something.

"May I?" Eve stopped— the only person occupied at the whole table with what seemed to preoccupy the rest of the school was Alexander Sykes. The wizard turned around to look at her, gesturing with his hand for her to go right ahead. She took a seat next to him and Moira.

TWO VANISH: VAST HUNT IN EASTERN SCOTLAND

Her eyes dropped to the pictures displayed large and square in the center, just in case anyone had seen them. Two women: one a bit older with spectacles as round as orange; the other younger, her hair cut short with gelled curls pressed tight into her scalp and forehead.

Ah, fuck, she said to herself, her blinking increasingly becoming more rapid. Her gaze ping-ponged across the black and white print. Because she knew they were dead, like very dead. She knew they had died about eighteen hours ago. She knew that she had heard them dying and drowned herself instead of doing anything useful about it because she could not be bothered to hear them dying.

Was it guilt? No—how could she feel guilty? She didn't know them, she didn't really know how any of it worked. Sure, it happened to her— but the details were blurry, the window foggy. How could she blame herself? No, Eve could easily absolve herself of all and any blame— that wasn't what made her heart race... But the realization that if two witches in Dundee could be murdered— what was stopping someone from murdering right there at Hogsmeade? What about Hogwarts? And how many more would be murdered in Dundee, Montrose, Inverness, and Portree?

Execution Day had arrived a bit too soon for her liking.

Is this it? She asked herself, or was it about to get much, much worse?

"Pity," Eve managed, dropping the paper to the table. Moira peered over the rim of her goblet to look at her.

"Is it?" Alex asked. They locked eyes, Eve suddenly unsure what the right answer was.

Goosebumps erupted over the back of her neck as she heard Eoin's fork scrape against the silver plate— the sound ear-splitting as the entire table ate and did in stillness. She eyed the metal cutlery, a flash of her own eyeball at the end of it. She grimaced, looking down at the empty plate in front of her, her appetite completely vanished. Sleep barely there— or had she slept? Did passing out on the bathroom floor count as sleep? Her head banged from the dehydration, her knuckles inflamed from trying to one-up her reflection, and overall weakness settled in as she hadn't eaten since Sunday lunch.

Was this it?