9 September 1977

They paced themselves just right so that their footsteps wouldn't resonate and alert of their presence to those who lurked in the shadows. It was a botched job from the very start, for no matter how slow they walked, their sounds were the only ones filling those endless corridors. There was nothing but crackling torches to counter them, not a wind to howl or rain to splatter.

Of course, they were doing it on purpose— on a somber Friday night, they both knew where everyone was.

"What do you say? We gonna' nab 'em tonight?" Lily joked.

"Eh, even if we did, they'd just end up going back after we left. I'd just report that we walked by and saw nothing," Remus responded with a slight shrug.

"Yeah," Lily sighed, releasing a short snort immediately after. "Does that make us terrible?"

"Probably, but who's going to care? You're Head Girl, and Merlin, they made James Head Boy. For all I know, he's down here lurkin' somewhere right now." Lily felt her gut twinge fleetingly as the thought of what Remus could possibly be referring to skirted about her mind. The feeling was as quick as it was unwelcome. She let out a light but almost forced laugh, which caused one of the portraits they passed to stir and grunt in their sleep. A sigh extinguished it as they turned the corner. Remus glimpsed over at her from the corner of his eye, following her gaze to where she looked.

"Should I even bother?" Lily questioned, eyeing a broom closet door with great disinterest. Remus lifted both his palms up and let out another lazy shrug.

"Your choice. It's not shaking."

"What if they went to sleep in there?"

"Er, you reckon?" Remus stared at her, his lips slightly parted as he tried to determine whether she was joking or not. "I mean, I'm sure no one has. Those things are uncommonly small."

"And I take it that you're an expert, mm?" she teased, wagging her finger at him. He looked down the hall, a grin breaking out on his face.

"Not exactly, but sure, let's check— why not?" Her hand wrapped around the door handle, and she threw it open. Her hands were spread out, and her knees bent as if expecting someone to jump out. From behind her, Remus' grin turned to a faint chuckle. He heard her suck her teeth, her head jutting into the narrow space to inspect further. "A bit dull tonight, yeah?"

"Tell me about it," she grumbled, backing out and closing the door. They continued on their rounds, falling back into mutual, respected silence. There was never pressure to speak. It was one of the things Remus enjoyed most about Lily and her company— one moment, he could be crying from laughter, and the next, they'd be reading quietly beside one another.

They continued on like that for a bit. She would turn sideways to look up at him every once in a while. She watched as he sporadically ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the unwashed, sandy brown waves. As anticipated, there were shadows under his eyes, the latter looking browner than hazel in the gloom of the corridors. And none of that compared to the blood-shot veins wiring out from his pupils to every corner of his eye.

"You okay?"

Remus swiveled his head over to her, both of them watching each other. The full moon still had a few weeks away, but unfortunately, he was still a student. Not enough sleep, rushing through meals and cramming all the day's information into a handful of hours. With or without his condition, it was exhausting.

"Yeah, I may have taken too many classes," he answered, stretching out his arms and letting out a deep yawn.

"Oh, for sure— you and I both, Remus. This week was bonkers, wasn't it?" Remus nodded. "The professors didn't even bother with a review, just new material right from the start. And, ugh, Slughorn was supposed to be the easiest—"

"Is he not?"

"We've had a reading or writing every day for his class, two rolls minimum."

"Merlin, he's become McGonagall?"

"It sure seems so… I'll never catch up." Lily's words died out with an exaggerated sigh, her eyes scanning the distance as Remus' remained on her bobbing head. He pursed his lips, the words aching at the tip of his tongue— a part of him screaming to shut up, the other hungry with wonder.

"The rest of the class is okay, I assume?"

"Potions?"

"Mhm."

"Well," she began, the last letters trailing into the darkness as she peeked into an empty classroom. "Not enough students, so they've shoved all the houses together. The Slytherins have the reigning majority, and they make sure we know it. Then, I'm sure... I take it you heard about Selwyn?"

"I may have heard something, you know, through the grapevine," he answered. "She ended up in the hospital wing, yeah?"

"Incredible, innit?"

"I don't know if I would call it incredible," Remus said, scratching under his jaw as a pinched expression painted his face. "What exactly happened?"

"Of course, he didn't tell you..." she mumbled under her breath as she shook her head. "Somehow, someway, Potter's glasses snapped in half— and naturally, his response was to throw a hex in whichever direction he managed first." They walked in silence for a moment as they both pondered over it. In truth, Remus hadn't been there, and he should not have bothered bringing up the topic in the first place— he knew that... and yet.

"He can be rather quick-tempered at times, can't he?" Lily responded with a snort. "You know, er, he's been trying to mellow out a—"

"Did he put you up to this?" She stopped short, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked up at him. Remus raised his brows, not entirely meeting her stare as he looked at the portrait hanging behind her. "You don't need to do everything—"

"No, he didn't," he said— partly because it was true; James had no idea that this conversation was unraveling at this very moment. Remus finally met her gaze, Lily shooting him a pointed look that directed him to continue. "I swear, he didn't— he's actually rather upset with himself, is all. He's been trying quite hard to get himself together and—"

"Grow up?"

"Yes… It's—"

"Remus, why're you doing this?"

"Because," the unsteadiness in his words stilled, his posture straightening. "He made a mistake, is all, and he's my mate— I felt like, I don't know, maybe—"

"You're not his dad, though— you don't have to make excuses for him. And, besides, I don't care what he does. He can throw hexes at Slytherins for the rest of his life. Not my fucking problem."

Remus paused because it hadn't been the response he had necessarily expected and also because her tone betrayed her. He tilted his head, both of them staring each other down. Not in a threatening manner, but as if each were trying to convince the other of the contrary. Suddenly, the certainty he just had disappeared, feeling as if the last few sentences exchanged between them had occurred in completely different planes at entirely different time periods.

What game are they playing? He thought to himself, both James and Lily pretending as if neither existed in the same space as the other.

He almost wanted to remind her that she had been the one to lecture and reprimand James for his outburst— but then he would be letting on that they had spent quite some time on the subject.

"Oh, okay," he managed with a quick nod. "Shall we, then?" Lily turned about, resuming the walk they had been on just moments ago. The air between them was stiff, her footsteps louder and firmer with every step she took. Remus blinked, wondering what in the world he had just done. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Will you be taking anyone to the game?" she asked after they turned another bend, finally breaking the tension.

"What game?"

"Our game?"

"Oh," he let slip, "but that's not for another two months."

"So?"

"So?" he snorted, almost wanting to full-on laugh. "I don't even know who I'm going to sit with tomorrow at breakfast. Actually, I'm not even sure I will make it to breakfast. How things are currently looking, I reckon I'll be waking up 'round afternoon tea." She didn't respond, instead flicking her wand to push back thick, velvet curtains hovering in front of a statue clad in armor. "Besides, Lily, you know I don't… I always go with Sirius and Peter."

"Well, reckon you should try something else? This way, you lot could stop prodding about my life," she retorted, immediately regretting the words as soon as they were said. Again, she stopped, but this time with a heavy sigh. "Sorry."

"No, you're right— I had... There was no reason for me to bring up James," he admitted.

"No, I get it, I do. He's your friend, and he's done a lot for you," she responded, not meeting his gaze— because, in truth, how many times had she done the same, how many times had she tried to convince her friends and others that Severus was not who everyone thought he was. "I don't blame you. I just can't understand what it is about him… everything he does annoys me. He sat on the bloody stool the other day in class, and I wanted to claw my eyeballs out— and the poor bloke had done nothing wrong."

Poor bloke? Remus repeated to himself, unsure if those were the exact words he would use to describe James.

"No one's saying he can't be annoying," he assured her. "But he is trying— you've got to give 'im that." Lily finally looked up with a thin smile at his admission.

"Yeah, no, you're right," she agreed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around Remus' torso. She laid her cheek on his chest, her eyes open as she listened to his heartbeat. He lifted his hand to pat her head, and Lily immediately pulled back. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"It's quite all right."

They both knew what she was referring to, it didn't need a whole book. Remus had never been able to, at any capacity, allow himself to be with someone in an intimate and raw way. Of course, he watched the fun, the excitement, the honeymoon-esque acts and craved the same. He did have human desires, after all. The chase and the handholding, the broom-closet snogging, and everything that came after. But he knew he couldn't and never would— those were things not meant for someone like him.

So for what could be three or four years in the making, he had been able to play it off as if it didn't bother him in the slightest. They would do what young boys did, talk of dates, girls, and things people did behind closed doors, and he would stay quiet. Every time. He never partook, opting to remain on the sidelines and pretend as if he hadn't heard any of it. And, yeah, sure, maybe once upon a time, he had begun to be convinced — especially after years of being James' friend — that, yeah, perhaps he could let go just a bit. He doubted anyone saw him or would see him that way, but if by some chance they did, why not? But almost immediately, his life took a turn for the worse, reminding him of exactly why he couldn't go about and jester with, and like, the rest of them. From that day until the last, Remus shut down all prospects, understanding that he'd never be with anyone in that way, that he could never be with anyone that way. Accepting it, moving on, and living with what life had given him.

"Mates?" she asked.

"Merlin, Lily." He almost wanted to laugh, but her reminder stung even as the chumminess between them settled back in. Remus waved it off, it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

"You know what? I say we call it a night."

"Yes, agreed," he responded. This time, they both laughed.

"There he is!"

Both Remus and Lily turned as they heard the offensively rambunctious greeting echo into the otherwise empty commonroom. Two pairs of eyes fell upon their Head Boy sporting crooked spectacles and an even sloppier grin. His hair stood straight as if his star team had just scored, and an over-enthusiastic twinkle danced in his intoxicated eyes.

"Here I am," Remus replied, his brows furrowing as he took in the sight in front of him. "Merlin, you're completely pissed." Lily let out an unamused snort, waving her hand with the least bit of care in the world. Before the witch could make her way past them, James approached, stumbling over Peter's spread-out legs.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Lily said as James placed a floppy hand on Remus' shoulder, leaning his entire body weight on him. Either he was acting as if the witch wasn't there, or he truly didn't realize she was there. Lily glimpsed at Remus, smirking before turning around to head up into the confines of her own dorm.

"Wher'ave you been, Moony?" James patted him on his chest once, twice, and then another five times until Remus wrapped a hand around his wrist to stop him from continuing.

"I was on rounds. The ones you assigned me— now that I think about it," he jibed.

"Oh," James' lips remained in that position for a few seconds.

"Why would I ever? I mean— Friday night? Really?"

"Yeah, mate," Remus said, raising his brows and nodding. "Fucking, really."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. I was actually wondering the same thing."

"Because we wanted to use him as our cover for the Halloween prank," shouted Sirius. Both boys turned to look over where the sound resonated from the fireplace but quickly realized that Sirius wouldn't be visible to them from where he sat in the armchair. "Less obvious if we kept him on the same schedule from the start."

"Ah, that's right," James pointed a finger toward the burgundy upholstery. "Thank you, Snuffles." Remus rolled his eyes, went to the couch, and plopped himself into the low seat. He could feel his aching muscles immediately relax as his body sunk into the aged cushions.

James followed him, opting to lean against Sirius' armchair.

"Promise it's only for this… like two months, Moony. I'll give you first shit, I mean shift, shit..." James stuttered, his head lolling to the right as he snickered at his mistake. Though Remus wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes, his friends' chortles forced a smile onto his face. He shook his head, holding his forehead in his hand as he stared into the fire.

"All right there, mate?" Sirius asked James, looking up at him.

"Grand, Snuffy," he responded with a small hiccup. The laughter eventually died down as James sat cross-legged on the floor beside the armchair. Remus sat back on the couch, leaning his neck all the way back, facing the stone bricks of the tower's ceiling.

"Looks like someone needs a drink," Sirius said as he eyed Remus up and down.

"I need to sleep," Remus yawned as if to prove a point. He stretched his hands above his head, a crack from his shoulder blades vibrating into the emptiness.

"Sleep? It's ten."

"It's midnight," Remus corrected him.

"Still early for a Friday," Sirius said, shrugging. Remus looked back and forth between his two friends.

"Why? What do we have?" he asked. His friends shared an insidious look among themselves.

"Here." Sirius leaned over, passing the bottle to Remus. He grabbed it by its bottom and turned it over in his hands.

"Red Lion?" scoffed Remus, his face scrunching up as he looked over the foreign label. "Where the fuck did you find this?" he asked, looking back up at them.

"It's some Portuguese hooch I discovered over the summer," Sirius responded.

"Is it any good?"

"Guess you'll have to try it," James said.

"Burns like hell feels like heaven," Sirius added, jutting his chin towards it. Remus sighed, giving in and uncorking its cap. It came to his lips, a cool contrast against the heat from the fireplace, and he threw his head back to gulp down more than a shot's worth of the liquid. Immediately, he felt something thick and spicy burn not only his throat but every fiber of his being. His face grew hot, flashing red as his mouth ignited. Flinching himself forward, he scowled at both the bottle and his convulsing friends.

"Yeah," managed Sirius through a chuckle, "that was gold."

"Fuck you," spat Remus, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, come off it, mate. Wormtail and I were the same way, don't worry," James assured him.

"Fuck," breathed Remus. He eyed the bottle, the chili-like burn in his throat slowly dissipating as it left behind hints of cinnamon and sugar. "I reckon... I might like it?" Both James and Sirius raised their brows, their faces and laughs dropping.

"Have another go at it, then," encouraged Sirius.

Remus didn't need to be told twice, taking yet another swig from it and repeating the same theatrics as the first round.

"Yeah," he said after it burned a hole right through his stomach. "That's bloody swell."

"Sadistic fuck," Sirius remarked.

"Wait until we have to go to the loo tomorrow," snickered Peter from the floor. "It's going to be hell in that toilet. Whoever gets in first, I reckon, is a bloody lucky bastard. Everyone else? Fucking good luck, mate."

"Hell in your bunghole, you mean," Sirius scoffed.

"I didn't even know you were awake, Wormtail," mused Remus, taking a third shot of the foreign liquor.

"Nah, Moony, me... sleep? Pfft!"

10 September 1977

"And where're you going?"

His muscles tensed, frozen as his breath came to a standstill. A foot that had already been halfway out the door paused mid-air, slowly returning to the ground. Behind him stood Moira Palancher, her arms crossed over her chest and her hip jutting out as she looked up and down the wizard's back. He was wearing an obnoxiously long black cloak and an even more obnoxious amount of sandalwood cologne. The smell wafted through the empty space between them, making her vision spin.

She raised her brows as he looked over his shoulder and met her stare.

Fuck, he thought to himself.

He stood there, considering it all: the moment, the person, the truth, and the lies. Who was Moira Palancher? It was a question he had asked himself way more than any normal person ever would or ever cared to. The only thing he had known— that he had ever known was that she was a Quidditch prodigy, and that most of her energy was spent building muscle and speed. He had always had her written down as a mindless jock, but how did a mindless jock end up exactly where they had ended up together?

...

31 August 1977

"No?" Alex muttered under his breath, despite himself, as the floorboards creaked open and all eyes rose to engage the newcomer. She stood there, her hair tied into a million braids, showing off cheekbones sharp enough to cut paper. The muscles of her thighs stuck out from underneath her flared, velvet teal skin-tight pants— her stance proud, her glance uneasy.

She scanned the room, initially passing Alex's gaze as the others turned back to busy themselves with one another and whatever else they had been doing before her entrance. But a small wave out the corner of her eye returned her attention back to his, interlocking with one another. Her shoulders dropped with the breath she had been holding in. What other option did she have? Sit alone? She walked over to the only semi-recognizable face in the whole room.

"No?" Alex repeated, a Cheshire-like smirk dancing on his lips. "Palancher— is that you?... What're you bloody doing here?" He paused, the once playful expression turning into full wonder. "Do you know where you are?... Do you know what this is?"

...

Notting Hill Carnival, London, 25 August 1977

The summer's heat and humidity were oppressive as she held the glass bottle up to the sky and listened to the music in the background. The thin, white cotton tank top she was wearing barely stayed on her shoulder for more than five seconds, and her feet began to blister with the mix of dampness and heat that evaporated from the cement. Her dark complexion glowed with a layer of trapped sweat; the bandana wrapped around her head loosened with every beat that rolled through her body.

Life was great. Life was amazing.

She leaned back into the music, soaking in the sun. Colors of the Caribbean flooded the streets of West London. Green, yellow, black, red, copper, brown, and white. All around her were people upon people, all kinds of people she could want: people singing, dancing, licking away at melting ice lollies.

"What the…?" she said, a scream piercing through the traditional sounds of the islands. Moira paused in place, the strap of her tank top sitting midway down her arm. Her eyes thinned, scanning the crowd when there, in the distance, she could spot a group of people herding, either attacking or escaping— she couldn't tell. She reached down, lifting her floor-length skirt to ensure the wand she had strapped to her leg was still there. Then she approached, and as she did, she could see the crowd growing before her. Growing not because people had joined but because they were running— charging right at her.

"Waah Babylon bwoy a cum!" Moira heard a taller, shirtless man wearing a yellow cap yell from beside her as he passed. She darted her eyes to his and then back to the crowd. Instinctively, the witch began taking steps backward, but nowhere near as fast as she should have to beat the herd.

"Cum gyal," another woman shouted at her. "It guh be hell if babylon si unu pan de street." Moira ignored her, keeping her attention on the horizon. The woman shook her head, sucking her teeth before shooting Moira a last look. Smoke had begun to rise in the distance, and shouts had been replaced by sharp bangs and slaps.

"You trying to get killed!?" This time the voice was much closer. Her head whipped around to the boy clutching at her forearm, pulling her in a direction perpendicular to everyone else.

"Fletcher!?" Her mouth dropped open, abiding by his commands as he threw a troubled look over his shoulder. "What're you—!?"

"We need to get out of here, now," he said; the thwacks and blasts had grown sharper. They were foreign to the pureblood witch, who, despite being pulled away, kept looking out for the others. Mundungus' eyes grew, pausing shortly as a car with sirens flew past them. Moira followed it as it drove through the crowd, her brows scrunching together.

"What's going on?"

"The muggle police," he answered quickly. "They've come to shut down the party."

"Party!? This isn't a party. It's carnival!"

"Yeah, well, Englishman said it's over— it's over," Mundungus said, his hand still pressed into her skin.

"Oh, fuck that." She ripped her arm from his grasp and began to run towards the crowd. But Mundungus had been prepared, reaching out for her, and before she knew it, both of them had warped through time and space— their faces elongated, their speech slurred, traveling through the unseen.

...

They hadn't been friends long— as a matter of fact, Moira could hardly even think who and where Alexander Sykes had been the last six years. Who did he go out with? Who did he eat dinner with? She remembered him briefly wavering around some younger years, that one Ravenclaw wizard before he graduated, and Aphrodite Flint, who would sometimes spare him a drink during Hogsmeade weekends. But nothing went deeper than that. Actually, he was quite the loner. Well, of course, until they had been pushed together and told to tango.

"I'm going to London," he answered, shrugging, throwing it all to the wind. He had secrets, sure, but so did Moira.

"London?" She took a step closer, noticing the thick charcoal rubbed under his eye. "How? Why?"

"Apparition, luv," he said, wiggling his fingers about in a jazz-like fashion. Her eyes widened, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.

"No way," she whispered under her breath. "Can I come?"

"Well, sure," Alex answered, almost laughing. "You like to dance?"

"I love to dance."

13 September 1977

Eve's bleary eyes wandered over to the clock that hung directly above the entrance. Why had it begun to seem as if the minute hand hadn't moved forward not once since she had taken her seat? She was almost tempted to walk over, stretch upwards, and manually flick it forward, but the desire to stick her head in a boiling cauldron far outweighed the former inclination.

As the saying went: one had to be there; there was no other way to describe it.

Her gaze rose up from behind her wispy eyelashes, sailing over the bodies that leaned into one another, chattering amongst themselves as they waited for yet another day to begin. All around her were titters and giggles, but behind that was the faint buzzing that drove her to the edge of her seat.

An early morning Potions class was sadistic, but an early morning potions class with two hours — at best — of collective sleep was a whole other sport.

Two hours, she repeated to herself, her chin pressing into her palm and her elbow nearly raw from how long it had been digging into the wood. Eve could see, she hadn't gone blind — yet — but she couldn't comprehend a single goddamn thing. The line between real and imaginary had grown thinner and thinner with every passing day. She looked down at the hand lying on her thigh, curling her fingers inward. They were hers and yet they weren't. Was that even possible? She closed her eyes briefly, her breath hitching in her throat as the buzzing resurged.

Here we go again, she thought. An almost constant phenomenon. A week had passed, and she had become completely consumed by it. There was no reprieve. There was no other priority. Her peers would speak, but she couldn't hear. She would eat, but she couldn't taste. Her days had become nothing more than climaxes and pits, interchanging every minute: Do I run now? A question that had become permanently etched into her mind. How could she sit — how could anyone sit — with alarms going off in their head?

Positively brutal. To be alive and barely living.

"Good morning," greeted Professor Slughorn as he walked into the class, donning a nearly all-salmon-hued outfit. Despite her own burnout, even Eve could acknowledge that it most definitely was not his color. "I've got something exceptionally peculiar planned for today's lesson. Please, take a seat, and turn to page 119 so we can begin." The already seated students obliged, and those who had gathered around their friends returned to their posts. However, Eve did not rush to move, having heard the instructions but not quite realizing they had been directed to her. Instead, her face sunk even deeper into the hand that had been holding up her chin. She stared blankly at the — what she had begun to assume was — a broken clock.

"Right, then... Today, we will be trying our hand at Dawdle Draught. Does anyone, would anyone care to explain— yes, Miss McKinnon?"

"It's a sedative," she responded promptly.

"Yes, excellent, a point to Ravenclaw," Slughorn said, nodding. "It is a sedative, but how does it differ from other sedatives? If you recall, we brewed the Draught of Living Death a year ago— yes, Miss Evans?"

"It won't put you to sleep."

"No, it most definitely shouldn't! And what will it do, do you know?" Slughorn egged on, his face beaming as he awaited the exchange.

"It'll sedate the taker without putting him or her to sleep, being asleep but awake at the same time, mind and body," she answered, finishing off her response by tilting her head from side to side as if not entirely sure how else she could respond. "It's meant to relax and calm the individual."

The witch's uncertainty had gone unnoticed by Eve. The Slytherin lifted her head from her hand for the first time that morning. She leaned forward in her seat as if to get closer to the Gryffindor, her eyes focused, darting between her and their Professor.

Oh, yeah? She said to herself, reaching for the book in front of her and thumbing through its brittle pages. Page 119, she finally landed on it, scanning the lines for further description.

"And, tell me, is it more or less effective than other methods?"

"Er," Lily paused. "It's quite effective, isn't it? But it's extremely addictive... so, in a way, it's to be avoided and used only as a last resort."

"Brilliant," the Professor answered. "Two points to Gryffindor." He looked to the rest of the room. "Along with your brew, you will be required to write two rolls of parchment on its uses and the short and long-term effects of Dawdle Draught. Due by tomorrow's class."

There was a collection of gasps and groans to which Slughorn quickly held up his palm, the room almost immediately quieting.

"Two rolls of parchment? In less than 24 hours?" Eve heard Aphrodite lament from beside her, the witch turning wide-eyed to look at her.

"Merlin," Melisende sighed, not moving her eyes from the front of the room.

Eve couldn't have been less concerned with the time constraint and instead had found solace in clawing her thumbnail right down into her thigh. Their murmurs and grievances disappeared, her mind devoured with the account lying before her. Within those thin, yellowing pages may lay an answer.

Her stomach tensed as her thoughts raced through the possibilities. A question remained: how desperate was she? She bit down on her inner cheek. How honest could she be with herself? Every day had become increasingly taxing. Days that getting up from bed seemed unthinkable. Days that she wondered whether she should make it her last. The thought alone would cause anyone else to choke, but she had already pushed it back down before it could bother her. In her position, all options seemed exhausted— what remained?

All she wanted was for it to stop: one day— that's all she wanted and needed.

She didn't know if Dawdle Draught was the answer, but as the class began to bustle about to start their lesson's task— what did she have left to lose? She was already losing it.

For the last two hours, her entire body had pulsated electrically, endlessly. She had not felt this alive in years— forget days. Her eyes had not escaped the clock, not for a split second. Time had slowed incredibly, and yet, there she was— finally alone. But despite having planned out every step in the last two hours, she faltered, a hand lingering on the door frame, taking in the image beyond her as if it was the first time she was seeing it.

Yes, at any moment, someone could find her. But every second that she spent debating it was a second wasted.

Eve sighed deeply, mapping the room for the millionth time in her head. She figured its aesthetic was more a blessing than a curse so they didn't have to look at the smog and smoke-stained walls that gave the room the distinctive look that only centuries of potion-making could create. The walls were lined with bottle upon bottle, dilapidated wooden stools were thrown about wherever, and a light so dim that it was a wonder how they could successfully decipher between their wands and horn of bicorn. Frankly, it was what the Slytherin common room would be if left to its own devices.

Now or never, she told herself, finally pushing forward as her attention honed in on the still-warm cauldron a table to the back and on the left. Eve did everything but rush, running her finger over every surface, picking up dust, sweeping the blistering counters, oil-stained bottles, and pitch-black cauldrons painted with ashy fingerprints.

She had it all planned: she knew only two would be absolutely perfect.

Lost, standing over the butterscotch liquid, eyeing it all the way down to its quivering base. All she had were two vials. That was okay, she figured. But it had to seem untouched, that was the key.

Her mouth was dry as a desert, and her heart hammered into her ribcage. The hand that reached for the vials twitched, shaking as she dipped it into the liquid.

One vial filled with Severus Snape's cauldron.

She pushed the cork, the sound of it squeaking into place prompting her to catch her breath, listening to the hall for an eavesdropper. When she was sure it was nothing but silence, she made her way over to the first table on the right.

One vial filled from Lily Evans' cauldron.

She shoved both vials deep into her pocket and, this time, did not make a waltz of it but sped off into the castle.

Oh, good gracious, she thought to herself as the world began to fade from her. The room's green scarves, blankets, and canopies bled into a single river all around her. A giggle escaped her as she lifted her hands up to the ceiling, the floor beneath her disappearing. Oh, good gracious, she sang to herself, bringing her arms down over her head, feeling every part of her skin, body, hair, all of it.

Everything went away.

The world was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She laughed, she smiled, and she looked around. It was simple. For the first time in what seemed like forever, it was simple.

For the first time in weeks, in days, she was alone. She was alone, alone, alone. So alone. No more buzzing, no more sound, nothing.

She couldn't even feel— she couldn't feel fear, she couldn't feel sadness, she couldn't feel anger. She couldn't feel hate. She couldn't feel jealousy. She couldn't feel anything. Nothing. She was empty. She was numb, so numb. There was no need to be scared. There was no need to run to the closest bathroom to scream or sink to the ocean's bottom. She didn't have to punch a wall or kick a table. None of that. No need for torture, bruises, or pain. Her hand ran across her cheek, and she couldn't even feel that. For Merlin's sake, she couldn't feel the floor under her feet.

Oh, good gracious, she fell onto her bed, her arms spread out, her hair fanned across the bed. She laughed, laughed, and laughed.

It felt so good. It felt so fucking good. She imagined nothing in this world could feel better than she did at that moment. Not sleep, not love, not anything. She felt like she was flying a million miles above the world, freely floating in space among stars, clouds, and the moon.

At that moment, she cared for nothing, for nothing could touch her. Nothing could come to her. She was free. She had left this world, this dimension, this realm. She was no longer Eve Kavanagh. She was no longer tied and chained down to her mortal body, to the condition, to this curse. She was something else entirely.

She cared for nothing anymore. She cared for nothing except for a spoonful of whatever the fuck it had been that made her feel like this. And she wanted more; she wanted so much more. She wanted it all the time, every time. She never wanted to not be this, whatever this was. Eve couldn't believe she had even hesitated, that she had considered dumping it and forgetting it existed.

She laid there, looking up at her canopy. She took in the moment, the quietness, the stillness. It was as it had been once upon a time, but better. So much better.