6 October 1977

"Ooh, I bet the bastard is having a good fucking laugh," Alexander Sykes slammed as he read over the list posted on the board in front of him. "The complete twat gave me Gamp again." The wizard turned with a bitter, bordering theatrical smile that scrunched ever so slightly upwards in quick intervals. "Fucking Gamp." Moira let out a short laugh, placing a hand on his back as his own reached up to rub his face. "No, fuck him— she's a bloody creep. She's such a creep. Why does he do this? Like… what the actual fuck, Potter? "

"Because no one else wants to deal with her," Moira reminded him.

"Right, but just put her with Black? Yeah? They're the same breed of weird." He paused momentarily as the witch began to laugh again. "No, Moira, you don't understand— she's like super creepy."

"No, Alex, believe it or not, I do— I've had to sleep in the same room as her for six years now."

"You should hear the rubbish she says," he continued, his eyes widening.

"Like what?"

"Like... fuck do I know. Always complaining about this person or the other. Got something to say about everyone... Merlin, how is it possible to hate everyone?"

"Well, yeah," Moira concluded, looking through the doorway and into the room behind them. She took a second to absorb the image in front of her. There was a large, round table stained mahogany-red with the same chair replicated multiple times at regular distances. The walls behind the furniture were stained with smog and smoke, and the scent of grape-flavored tobacco and burnt autumn leaves filled the air, a smell that only centuries of vegging out inside a castle could create. "You reckon they know about the Parkinson thing that happened last year?"

"No," Alex said bluntly, shaking his head once. "No, they wouldn't put her on prefect duty if they did. That'd be bonkers." Moira broke herself out of the daze with one of her own chuckles. "The fuck? Imagine? You have someone who killed someone's cat and hung it up in the common room after going on prefect rounds? Ooh, I feel so safe."

But Melisende's disparagement came to an unceremonious halt as Alex caught wind of James Potter coming around the bend. "Anyway," he said, running a hand through his tight curls, shaking them so they bounced. Moira looked over her shoulder to see what had caught the wizard's attention. "Gotta go."

"I'll see you at dinner," Moira told him. "Courage, brother." They looked at one another, breaking into a chuckle as James Potter passed behind the witch. The Gryffindor couldn't help but throw them a glance, causing Alex to roll his eyes as he followed in the Head Boy's steps.

The Slytherin looked around the room, grimacing at his options. But rather than wait to be hassled into sitting somewhere he would much rather not sit, he took the first seat available to him without so much as a peek at who was next to him. Serendipitously, it also happened to be the seat directly opposite James Potter.

Lovely, he thought, holding back a grin.

Though he had expected his move for attention to go mostly unnoticed, James Potter had not succeeded in scratching the itch that the Slytherin pair's laughter had created. He eyed Alex, feeling his stare on him as he settled his belongings. They both eyeballed one another, a blank look on James' face. A chair screeched against the floor next to him, but he still couldn't wake from the spell Alex had cast on him in those few seconds.

"What?" Lily asked, following James' gaze across the room. He shook his head, finally coming to.

"No, nothing," he responded, sitting in his chair. None of it made sense: when did Moira Palancher and Alexander Sykes hang out? He had just caught them nearly falling on each other with laughter— an unseemly sight for who they were. As soon as Lily took the seat next to him, and though James had chosen to converse with her when necessary, he turned t and asked, "Why is Sykes looking at me like that?" Lily's mouth opened slightly just to close again, moving her sight from James to Alex. She quickly covered her mouth with the back of her hand as soon as she had seen the Slytherin's expression, pulling her stare away and erupting into giggles. "What!?" James turned to look at her.

"Probably because you paired him with Gamp again," she whispered, looking down so that no one could see or hear them.

"What? Aren't they mates?"

"Nooo," Lily said all too quickly, too easily— as if James had missed the obvious. As if it was basic common sense that he should have known. As if it had flown entirely over his head. He sat back in his seat, his lips turned faintly downward as he internally scratched his own head. How had he missed this one? And since when were Alexander Sykes and Melisende Gamp not friends? Since when were they such not friends that Lily had felt the need to not only respond with no but to respond like that with no. What did everyone else know that he didn't? He turned to look to his right, where Remus had just arrived, taking the seat between James and their fellow younger housemate, Leron Wade.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning away from Lily towards his friend. Remus looked at him. "Did'y'know Gamp and Sykes weren't friends?"

It was as if a lightbulb had lit up as soon as the question came out of James' mouth. Like a breath of relief after holding it in for so long. A breath of relief because it had been tickling Remus since he, too, had come to that same observation earlier that week. A breath of relief for James because he realized that it wasn't him just having his head too far up his ass. He almost wanted to tell Lily to take back the tone she had used when she said no— almost.

"Yeah, right?" Remus sat forward, hunching over to close the gap between them. "I noticed, too— Sykes and Palancher? Since when?"

"Yeah, what the fuck?" James asked rhetorically, sitting back in his chair as he looked over at the rest of the members.

"You two are worse than girls, oh my God," Lily reprimanded from the other side, her eyes wide as she stared at Remus. Despite her plea, Remus couldn't help but bite back a smirk, and James did nothing to stop himself from responding with a snort.

There was one thing that no one knew about the Marauders— they were some of the biggest shit-talkers at Hogwarts.

Moira walked against the crowd in the corridor, weaving and winding around until she approached the small, grass-covered yard between four galleries. Most had escaped to the confines of the library, but she wanted to be under the sky. She always wanted to be under the sky.

"Pst," she heard someone hiss before she could manage even one step into the garden. Moira swiveled around, her wand out, and pointed in the direction she had heard the sound come from. From the shadows of one of the alcoves stepped out a boy fitted in all-black from head to toe. Black jumper, black trousers, black shoes. He held his hands up as if surrendering to her.

"Fletcher, you loathsome git," she sneered, shoving her wand back into her robes.

"I've been called worse," he said.

"What are you doing here? And why aren't you in uniform?"

"Just came back from vacation," he joked. "Couldn't you tell?" This time he held his arms out, turning around in a full circle to give the witch a complete view.

"And why are you pst-ing me like I'm a cat?" Moira looked up and down the corridor and then out to the garden. A couple of younger years loitered around the edges at the opposite side. "Aren't we not supposed to be seen together?"

"No one's going to see us," Mundungus snorted, looking lazily over at the younger years. "They don't give a fuck." He caught her scrupulous peer. "What? You don't trust me, do you? You don't think I know what I'm doing?"

"On the contrary, I don't know how to feel about you at all," she answered, crossing her arms over her chest. "And no, I don't understand how you, of all people, are running the show— but okay."

"That's a start, at least."

"Don't get too excited," she warned. There were a few silent beats before he began to close the distance between them.

"Walk with me," he instructed her.

She paused, mulling it over. On the one hand, she was nosy. She wanted to know what he had stopped her for. Because it most certainly was something. Mundungus Flecther was a cave creature who never came out unless there was something important enough to merit it. Much like a slug coming out after the rain. On the other, she really didn't feel like taking a walk. Whether it had been Mundungus Fletcher or by herself— walking had been the last thing on her mind.

"Couldn't we just stay here?"

"No," and he moved past her, out of the exterior hallway, and onto the grassy grounds. She sighed, following him.

"I'm walking," she pointed out when he turned to look over his shoulder.

"Indeed."

"I will hex you if you don't quit this mystery act," she warned him. "It doesn't suit you." Though he had had a head-start, Moira soon caught up. Her long strides and Quidditch-made muscles were no match for whatever poor excuse Mundungus called a body.

"Am I being mysterious?" The smirk still holding firm on his lips— she couldn't help but think how much she wanted to wipe it off his bug-looking face.

"My wand is in my hand."

"That's nice."

"You bet your bony little arse it is."

"My arse is not bony and, besides," Mundungus paused, looking around as they passed from the garden back into the school's corridor. Except, here, there was nowhere for someone to hide. There were no alcoves, no pillars, nowhere to pst at passerbyers while covered by the shadows. "You're a good person, Moira."

"Says who?"

"Please, don't play tough. Deep down, you're a good person, no matter how much you try to hide it."

"Fletcher, is this some sort of paid intervention? Get to the point," she demanded.

"You're not even going to deny it? Wow," he marveled.

"I could drown you in the lake and let the grindylows feed on you, but then again, I'm a good person," she mocked. The Ravenclaw responded with an all too deep eye-roll that almost made his vision dark.

"I really was hoping to have a nice chat."

"Really?"

"No, I'd rather be inside with my girlfriend and a spliff."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Something like it, but yes."

"You know, for a moment there, I thought I actually cared, but wait... I don't. Why are you bothering me? This looks fishy— we really shouldn't be doing this?" She watched as Mundungus stopped and scratched the back of his neck, looking out to the empty hall.

"We're having a meeting," he finally said out loud.

"Where? Here?" Despite the urgency in her voice, Mundungus remained stoic.

"Yeah, this weekend, midnight— Hog's Head. It's been a month, and the Ministry hasn't been able to find the pair that went missing a while back," he added, feeding her more information.

"Okay?" Her eyebrows knitted together, her eyes narrowing on his face.

"And Dumbledore has some doubts on the Ministry's willingness to…" His already too-low voice deepened further, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Willingness to do much of anything."

"So?"

"So, he thinks it'll keep happening, and it's too close to look the other way." Mundungus paused, finally bringing his gaze up to the witch. "He thinks they've infiltrated the Ministry, which is why the investigation is going backward— someone's fucking them up from the inside. Deatheaters in the Ministry isn't a good look."

"And that's what you've stopped to tell me?"

"No, not exactly," Mundungus sighed. "Dumbledore is afraid that if they've managed to infiltrate the Ministry, what's to say they aren't here, too?"

"Here?" Moira whispered, squinting. "At Hogwarts, you mean?" Mundungus responded only with a nod. "And he wants to know if and who?"

"Mm… and what they're planning, if they're planning anything," he finished. "Right now, the biggest concern is that there may be students at Hogwarts who are," his eyes met hers, "directly involved in the disappearances. Dumbledore doesn't think they'll do something inside the school."

"Why not wait until the meeting, then?"

"Because... It's not certain, and some of the members have children here, loved ones—again... it's too close. If any of them suspected, there's no saying how they would react."

"I see." Moira lifted her stare from him. "And what's to say they aren't exactly who we suspect them to be?"

"Meaning?"

"I mean," she tilted her head back, "I mean… If anyone's going to be, it's going to be one of... you know—"

"No, you can't assume that," he said, shaking his head. "Then you would be just as much of a candidate as the rest of them." Their eyes met. "It's a serious oath with serious responsibilities- not just whoever wants. Okay? You need proof, got it?"

"Okay."

"Good," Mundungus nodded once. "Then you know what you've got to do. Let Sykes know as well."

"It's not going to be easy," she said. "They don't trust one another— much less me. Alex even less, I think."

"None of this will be easy," and though that should've been the end of it, with the wizard turning away, Moira spat out the one question that had lingered since she had seen him over the summer during carnival.

"What's in it for you, Fletcher?"

The Ravenclaw only threw her a look that ended with what had now become an all-too-familiar smirk. He lifted his hands in a fuck-do-I-know motion as he walked into the distance backward, facing her.

Because while she could figure out why she and Alex had been hand-picked — Alex being an outcast his whole life, existing on the outskirts to make sure no one found out what they believed to be a sort of delinquency; and her, the witch who spoke with an accent, who came from the other side of the world, who had constantly tried to attain first place but failed because of the frontiers she attempted to break on her own— she could not place Mundungus.

Mundungus Fletcher: the boy with many faces. The Janus of Hogwarts. Everywhere and nowhere all at once. Moira had tried to piece him together, but it was a tireless maze with no resolution. She had tried to figure out what exactly he was doing running around, abiding by Dumbledore's every wish, disappearing in robes and coming back in a suit— but all he ever did was show up, say what he had to say, and then vanish into thin air.

"Bloody Santa Claus," she muttered as he disappeared around the bend.

"How was it?" Sirius asked, looking up from where he had been laying on his bed. Remus' newspaper from earlier that day sprawled across his lap. James was absent, most likely at Quidditch practice, but that hadn't seemed to stop Peter from sitting on the edge of his bed. On the nightstand between them, an unaspiring game of wizard's chess was unfolding, but Remus hadn't looked long enough to know who was winning. He figured it'd be one of those things where Sirius would let Peter think he would carry the day just to smash his King to pieces in the last three seconds of the game.

"Wouldn't know," he answered, placing his bag on the floor and taking a seat on his trunk. He lifted one foot to untie his laces. "Didn't show."

"I knew it," Sirius said, breaking out into a laugh.

"How?" Remus muttered as Sirius' palm stretched out to Peter, beckoning forward with his fingers. "What? You bet on it?" The pair looked over at him, Remus' stare moving between them. "Whatever, fuck it." He blew a raspberry and kicked his shoes under the bed as he moved to lie in it. Despite staring straight at the red canopy, he could hear coins jingle in Sirius' palm. "You really knew she wasn't going to show?" Remus asked, turning to him. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I knew she wasn't going to make this easy for you," Sirius snickered. "No bloody way."

"I can't believe she didn't go," Peter mused, for whom McGonagall's words were God's commandments. "What're you gonna do? Gonna tell Minnie?" Remus sighed, running a hand through his hair as he straightened his view back to the canopy.

"I should, shouldn't I?"

"What else is there?" Peter asked. "Lie and say she came?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, feeling the cloth of his pillow bunch up underneath his shoulder. "Talk to her? See what happened? Benefit of the doubt?"

"That's just stupid," Sirius snorted.

"Why's it stupid?" Remus countered.

"Because she didn't show up the first time— what makes you think she'll show up the second time? Or ever? You're a half-blood… and a Gryffindor, mate. You're beneath her. No way she'll take orders from you."

"Yeah, but... something could've come up," Remus reiterated. "You don't know, we don't know. Maybe she's ill."

"Did she look ill?" His eyes narrowed at Sirius' question, recalling the few glimpses he had gotten of her throughout the day. No, she didn't look any paler than usual, nor did she seem as if she was in pain— but she didn't look swell, either. He had to admit. Since Tuesday, he had spent quite an ample amount of time trying to learn about her as well as he could from a distance. All he could gather was what he had already known, for the most part. Except for that touch of languor— he hadn't forgotten that.

"I'll talk to her first— you never know," he said, sighing and reaching into his bag for his pack of cigarettes.

Though, sure, Remus had a bunch of better things he could have — should have — been doing... It didn't stop him from scanning the Marauder's Map every few minutes — or, rather, whenever the chance presented itself — that Saturday. Eve hadn't been at breakfast that morning, which had been the initial push to check, but he had found her in the Slytherin common room during his morning solo smoke session. Hours had passed, morning turned to noon, he went to lunch, and now the sun was making its way back down— the day had gone by, and she hadn't left the common room.

She hadn't eaten. Unless she had food in her room, of course. But who kept that much food in their room?

What the fuck? He had thought to himself when he initially realized. But then, towards the late afternoon, when the sun was just about to set, he caught her in the hallway just outside her common room. At that moment, he had been alone in the Gryffindor common room, finishing that weekend's coursework. He sat up straight, his eyes on her name, following her as she meandered through the dungeon corridors. Eventually, she made her way to a staircase, heading up. Without thinking twice, without even collecting his belongings, he pocketed his wand and cigarettes and sped off from the tower.

Remus couldn't quite explain it himself. Just a couple of days ago, he needed the support and force of his friends. Now, he was on his own, trudging forward to accomplish what he had set out to do. It was almost as if he had reached a maximum limit to the endless questions that had piled up. It was almost as if he had spoken to her once, that she had proven him wrong and then resumed to prove him right— and he wanted to prove himself wrong again. It was a whirlwind of thought and ego, one that he couldn't understand in its entirety.

As he hopped down the stairs, he pulled out the Map from his back pocket to locate her name again. She seemed to be standing — sitting? — still just outside one of the exits leading to the grounds, facing Hogsmeade. Remus memorized it, closing the Map and shoving it back into his jeans pocket.

"Hi," Remus said unostentatiously, revealing himself as he stepped out of the exit and turned to the left to look down at Eve. Unlike earlier that week, she immediately looked up, her eyes blinking as their gazes met. The sun shone directly in her eyes, forcing her to squint. Remus stepped closer to cover her from the sun's rays. She was sitting on a bench, legs crossed under her, back hunched. For the second time, it would disturb him how human she seemed, accessible. She wore nothing that any other witch at Hogwarts wouldn't have— a dark navy jumper and black, almost baggy, trousers. Beside her, on the bench, was a black velvet robe that she had most likely taken off as the uncustomary sun that day saturated her in its warmth.

Oh fuck, she thought to herself, turning away as soon as she realized who it was. She closed and opened her mouth, her eyes slightly wider, her breath held as she looked down at her hand. Oh fuck.

"Afternoon," she responded without turning to look at him.

"Afternoon, Kavanagh," he said, nodding, lifting his brows, and tilting his head as he tried to get a look at her face. All he could make out was her forehead and crown of light brown hair that fell over her face and shoulders.

"Mhm?"

"Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

Fuck, she repeated for the third time in her head. She knew it had been inevitable the moment the scattered segments hitched to one another. Why else would he have been there? Of course, he would want to know where she had been— because he had been waiting for her.

"Busy," she said, lifting her face but not meeting his stare.

"Busy?" He waited to see if she would add anything else, but she didn't. "Busy with what?" She continued to look past him towards the coloring trees that lined the path to the village. Remus sighed, his shoulders falling as he helped himself to the open space at the other end of the stone bench. Eve's face scrunched up again, but he couldn't know if it was from the lack of sudden sun barrier because she was searching for something to tell him or his overall presence.

He wouldn't know, couldn't know, but it was most definitely the second. Eve was reaping her brain to find an answer he would be satisfied with. How could she tell him that she had forgotten? Not only had she forgotten about their meeting, but she had also forgotten about the tutoring, their conversation, and where and when they were supposed to meet. Not only that, she had forgotten the day— she only knew it was Saturday because no one had been in uniform that morning. And the reason for all this? Well, Lupin, she thought: the reason she couldn't remember was because she was knocking back Dawdle Draught like it was her only life source.

Fuck.

Now seated, Remus had taken out a cigarette to place between his lips, lighting it with the tip of his wand. He took a long drag, the smoke swirling around them before being carried away by the slight breeze. The scent was foreign yet familiar to the witch, but her mind was too tied up in excuses and intoxication to pay attention to it.

"You could've told me," he began, taking another sip from his cigarette. Eve glanced up at him. He was sitting forward at the edge, his back curved over so that she could watch his profile in stealth. "I wouldn't have waited, you know?"

I'm sorry, the words sat there on the tip of her tongue.

"I was busy."

"Yes," he nearly snorted. "You said that. What was—"

"It was an emergency," Eve continued, the words coming out smothered as she bit down on her gums.

"An emergency?" Remus repeated, and Eve could practically hear it in his voice. He was laughing at her— he found this amusing. How could he find this amusing? It was disconcerting, to say the least. How could she skip out on him, waste his time, and make him wait... how could any of that be entertaining? She almost wanted to tell him, to remind him why he was there in the first place. But, alas, he knew better than her— didn't he? No, she didn't need to tell him anything. Remus Lupin knew why he was there. It was Eve who began to realize that she was the one who didn't know.

Indeed, Remus did find it amusing. Actually, he had found it so the moment he had stepped into her view, and she had reacted as a deer would in headlights. He had almost wanted to laugh— he knew that she knew that she had been caught red-handed. And while it had rubbed him the wrong way yesterday evening, he couldn't come to it. Not then, not now. Almost as if he was dealing with a child. A child discovered with their hand deep in the cookie jar.

"Yes."

"You have a note?"

"A note?"

"Yes," he said in the same tone she had just used. This time, however, he turned to meet her stare out the corner of his eye. Eve could have sworn she saw a smirk on his lips— and she knew that he knew she was lying, that she was full of shit. It didn't stop her from playing.

"What for?"

"Listen," he said, leaning his back against the wall behind them. "Your tutoring isn't all that optional. I could've taken house points, assigned you detention, or just written you up to McGonagall— but I didn't." He shrugged. "I know you're not going to tell me what happened, but the next time just… let me know, yeah?"

"Oh, okay," she said in almost a whisper, nodding once. I'm sorry, she wanted to say. Because she was— and maybe it was the potion, perhaps it was the fact that she had done nothing but roll around in her sheets, and her brain was turning to a pulp with every passing day, but she was.

"Good, now... does Friday afternoon after classes still work for you? And do you want to reschedule yesterday's meeting or will you skip out on that too?"

"Friday afternoon is fine," she instantly responded, not meeting his gaze. There was something to be said, though. No one else would have shown her as much grace and tolerance after having waited two hours after a full day of classes. Merlin knew that Evan Rosier would have smacked her upside down and kept her there until all the blood rushed to her face. But no, he had waited, she had stood him up with no explanation, and there he was— trying to find the middle ground again.

Fuck, she repeated to herself. She needed his help, too, and he was doing more to offer it than she was doing to accept it.

"Whatever works best for you, we can reschedule," she added.

"Tomorrow, after lunch," he answered promptly. "Okay? We need to catch you up."

"Okay," she said, pursing her lips and nodding.

"Okay, then," Remus took the last drag from his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, smashing out the ember with his shoe. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," was all he heard her say. He stood there for a second longer, looking down at her. It had not gone unnoticed by him the way she had not once been able to look at him, but he supposed it wasn't his problem to deal with. The problem that had been his was resolved.

When Remus left, Eve leaned her head back against the wall behind her— the one he had just leaned against. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, feeling the cool wind pick up and whip around her. Eve wished she had been able to give a real explanation, something substantial to tell him to fuck off— that he was in the wrong, not she. But she couldn't. She didn't have anything to offer him besides fibs and white lies. Ones that would fall through the cracks if he took five seconds to look into them.

She wished at that moment she hadn't been inebriated, sedated. She wished she could have felt the full spectrum of human thought and emotion, that she could have felt present in the moment. But no, she felt far away, floating in the air and closed into a cage at the same time.

Did she feel bad? She couldn't tell... honestly— she couldn't. Sorry seemed like the natural response to fucking up, but besides that, she couldn't tell up from down, and she couldn't tell east from west. All she knew was that she had done something wrong and that he was willing to give her another shot despite it. He was willing to give her a chance, and the first thing she told herself was: Tomorrow, no dawdle draught.

"Slytherins are the easiest," Marlene told them, mischief alight within her blue eyes. The rest of the girls sat two to one bed, a bottle passed between them as they recounted, gossiped, and did what young girls did on Saturday nights. Mary handed the glass bottle to Lily, who brought the edge to her lips and poured the transparent pale yellow liquid into her mouth. She grimaced at its sourness, never quite understanding how anyone could enjoy the taste of elderflower. Sure, it made her feel light and euphoric, but she sure couldn't say she craved it, not like others, not like them.

"I find they all look like hawks? Or some kind of bird, no?" Dorcas responded, nearly giggling. Lily scoffed but grinned as she watched her friend sway back and forth, the wine getting the best of her.

"Inbred freaks," snorted Marlene.

"Aren't you an inbred freak?" asked Mary, her eyes foggy as she stared at Marlene with an open mouth.

"Not that inbred."

Lily chuckled at her friend's response.

"Welp, guess someone's a little blitzed," Dorcas teased.

"I don't know, not all of them are ugly," Mary said, completely ignoring the giggling redhead next to her, who had begun to clutch her sides to constrain the laughter. Lily didn't even know what was funny, just that something was. "Palancher's body... and Selwyn's got really pretty hair?"

"I think she means blokes," Dorcas told the Ravenclaw witch, who subsequently broke out into a deep blush.

"Don't talk about that snobby slag," scowled Marlene at the same time.

"But, to be fair, she does have nice tits," Dorcas added, sending Marlene a pointed look. Marlene leaned over the bedside table to grab the bottle out of Lily's hands. She brought it to her lips, eyeing the Gryffindor canopy and letting the alcohol pool in her mouth.

"I don't care," Marlene said after swallowing the vitriol. "She's a dumb whore— they all are."

"Hop off it, Marly. Not all of them are dumb whores," giggled Mary, shaking her head. "Kavanagh and Palancher are far from whores. I can't imagine that Gamp gets any action…Flint? Okay, sure— dumb, fair enough, but not a whore. And Selwyn?" Mary grimaced, trying to recall what she thought she knew so much about. "Fair enough."

"Fine," Marlene huffed as Lily and Dorcas joined in a shared laugh over Mary's observations. "They may not be dumb or whores, but they've their problems. Serious fuckin' issues, I'll tell you that."

"Yes, but who doesn't?" Lily challenged, looking over at Marlene. Marlene stared her down, the room going silent.

"Melisende Gamp is a bloody psychopath. I heard she killed Spring Parkinson's cat last year and hung it up in their common room."

"Bollocks," Mary blurted out.

"Actually?" Lily asked, her face growing with concern.

"Dunno," Marlene shrugged. "Just what I heard."

"From who?"

"From someone."

"That's a serious accusation," Lily said. "How come— if that was true, wouldn't we have heard about it?"

"What happens in Slytherin stays in Slytherin," Dorcas commented. Lily's eyes fled to hers.

"Fine, I don't know for sure," Marlene admitted, holding her hands up to re-establish the peace between them. "But she is a freak, you have to admit."

"All right, fine," Lily coincided, a sigh of relief leaving her at Marlene's admission. "But being a freak or being dumb isn't a crime, Marly."

"Flint?" Marlene asked, pausing as Lily nodded. "Not just dumb— thicker than a brick… And her brother's a complete perv, used to peek up girls' skirts and all."

"So? Just 'cause her brother's a pervert doesn't mean she is," Lily argued. "And, again, being thick was never a crime."

"Uh, if being thick isn't a crime, then being quiet isn't," Mary said, her brows scrunched together as she threw them all a reproving look. "And being tough, also."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Marlene asked, turning to the most petite witch among them.

"I mean Kavanagh, Flint, Palancher— they've never really done anything wrong. Why do we have to dislike them?"

"Oh, please," snorted Marlene, taking another sip from the bottle she still held. "Kavanagh is not quiet— she just can't be bothered, always with her chin up, chest out." Marlene broadened her chest and lifted her chin as she said the words. "Flint— whatever, and Palancher? Palancher would sacrifice her own mother if it meant getting what she wanted."

"I don't know," Lily began, shrugging ever so slightly. "I feel bad for her."

"Do you?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "She's doing it alone— she's got no help. Especially when they made Black captain— that shocked even me. She's just as good... if not better."

"She is a bloody good chaser," Dorcas agreed.

"She is," Lily said.

"She's fine," Marlene scoffed, rolling her eyes. The witch, who was also a chaser for the Ravenclaw team, would never admit that her competition was one of the best Quidditch players that the wizarding world had seen in decades. She would never admit that Moira Palancher was not only her enemy but also her fire— the one that got her up in the morning and said run!

"She's better than Potter," Dorcas continued absentmindedly. The room went silent at the mention of the name. They all looked at her. "What? She is— come on!"

"I'm better than Potter," Marlene snickered.

"Talking 'bout the buffoons," Mary began, waggling her eyebrows, a giddy smile on her lips. Lily eyed her, her brows furrowing as she scrutinized her best friend. "You know who became right fit this year?"

The bottle in Marlene's hand was slowly passed over to Lily, who brought it to her lips. She shared a wary look with Marlene before both glanced back over to the bronzed Australian.

"Potter!" Lily coughed, choking on her alcohol-mixed spit that had lodged itself in the space between her tongue and throat.

"I am not that pissed, not yet," Marlene said, shaking her head and looking out the window. "I mean, blimey— Mary, really?"

"Would you rather it be Black?"

"Fuck you," spat the blonde.

"Thought so." Mary sighed, her shoulders drooping and her arms hanging limply by her sides. "Why? Is it really such a terrible thing?"

"Depends what that thing... what this is... Do you fancy James Potter?" Lily asked with a wild tint to her tongue, green eyes carefully watching, not wanting to believe or attempt to comprehend her friend's admission.

"No!" Mary said. "Oh my god— no! Why does someone have to fancy someone else to find them attractive?"

"I mean," Dorcas began, her words trailing into a nervous laugh.

"I don't like this conversation," Marlene announced, reaching over to pry the bottle from Lily. She held it back, her eyes defensive as she wagged her finger at the Ravenclaw.

"Still my turn."

"He's a lot better this year... Last year, too," Dorcas interrupted, looking at Mary. "I don't see why he's still such a touchy subject."

"Maybe," Lily answered, "but he's still a complete wanker."

"They haven't pulled a single prank! And... honestly? They were funny, yeah?"

"He sent Selwyn to the hospital wing," Lily reminded them.

"Which is all the money," Marlene said, giggling. Lily sent her a look. "Anyway— you sure you're not into him, MacDonald?"

She swallowed down her wine-touched saliva. Innocent, oh-so-innocent, Mary had secrets of her own— secrets that she didn't feel ready to indulge in. Secrets she had still to discover on her own. The secrets that had come out over the summer. Secrets that had made her realize why she couldn't be like the others, why she couldn't think like them, act like them. Delinquency— maybe, an illness— perhaps, but it made her alive. It made her uncover parts of herself that had been dormant for years. She had been lying to herself for so long that she must fancy this bloke or the other— randomly selecting one from the crowd every so often to fit in, deciding to muse on the stranger when asked questions. They always would ask her why she never did anything, why she was so scared— but it hadn't been fear, she found out. It just hadn't been her.

"No, I'm not," she repeated.

Lily held her words tightly, frowning as she detected a hint of sadness on her friend's face. But that was the problem with secrets and half-truths. What one didn't know— they would assume. So the words were misinterpreted and a different reality presented itself in the redhead's mind. She curled her lips inward, licking over the chapped parts. She wanted to reach out and comfort her like she had done so many times before, but this felt different. There was both a slight shiver of excitement and a cup of nausea when she realized that they were talking, actually talking, about James Potter. The boy that had made her turn around and walk in the opposite direction when she saw him coming, the one whose voice had made her want to plug her ears until they bled, the one who had already taken up so much time in her head.

There was something else beneath the cup and the shiver. And Lily was cursed. She was cursed because she knew herself too well. Ignorance was bliss but not something that regularly came to her. She knew what it was, lying underneath it all: relief. Why, though? Why would she feel relief that Mary didn't intend to pursue him? Lily sighed deeply, a small scrunch between her brows, but before she could delve deeper into the thought, they all turned up to watch the door squeak open.

"Oh... am I interrupting something?" Their dorm mate, Marjory Bones, asked with a surprised tone. Her round brown eyes ran over the four girls, laying upon the bottle in Lily's hands.

"No, we're just drunk and drinking," replied Marlene. Lily held up the wine so that the witch could see.

"Care to join?" Mary asked.

"You sure? I wouldn't want to intrude."

"No! Come on, there's plenty of drink for everyone," trumpeted the now-intoxicated Marlene. They all knew she had to be to invite Marjory Bones, one of Gryffindor's three chasers, to the party. For the most part, and something Lily had noticed throughout their friendship, much of Marlene's antipathies were one-sided, and because they were, only a playful laugh escaped Marjory's thin lips. Dorcas moved over, leaning against one of her pillows, freeing up the spot for the newest member.

"To friends," saluted Marlene, holding up the bottle and handing it over to Marjory.

"To friends," they all sang out in harmony, falling into a fit of laughter that resonated and lit up the entire tower.

She slammed the book shut before even finishing the last sentence, picking up the wizard's attention. Her lack of gracefulness was far from ordinary, but — at that moment — she couldn't be bothered. Her muscles were dry ice and her palms a jungle as she brought a hand to run across her scalp. She let her hair fall onto her face. Her tongue was stuck in a permanent head-lock between her teeth— the tip had gone almost entirely numb. Her pulse raced as if ready to jump out and growl at the next person to look her way.

It had been over 24 hours since her last dose, and it was the first time she was clean in nearly a month. The first time in a month that the poison didn't course through her veins. She hadn't realized that shutting down every aspect of her life, including her ability to feel anything, would end up in a complete spiral when she finally decided to stop.

Under any other circumstance, she would have found an excuse to be up and out of that seat. But the witch was battling, trying to keep the chaos inside her under wraps as best as possible. It was nauseating, and that's what worried her. A mentor: someone who looked over her, who watched her, who was there. Every act would be counted, every word, every breath. Exposed and vulnerable, so she had to remain in line.

But how to remain in line when it felt as if thousands of false alarms rang all around her? An emergency bell trilled over and over again, incessantly— all smoke, no fire.

Eve tried to release the breath she had been holding as carefully as possible. She lifted her stare from the table to the front of the classroom, clenching her hands, nails digging into her palms as the urge to rip at her own skin consumed her.

At the sound of her textbook slapping, his gaze had moved from the book in his hand to the side of her face. He watched as she sat, doing nothing but staring off into a far distance. Her face was placid but strained, and he could see her eye shifting back and forth, back and forth— as if the thoughts racing in her head were his own.

"Um," he coughed, trying to grab her attention. "So—" Eve turned her head ever so slightly. "Did you finish the chapter? Did you want to start on the exercises?"

"Okay."

"Okay, so," Remus reached into his bag and pulled out an apple, placing it between them on the table. "When you're ready." He jutted his chin towards the fruit but kept his eyes on her. She peered over her shoulder at him, looking as if he had left his lunch on his face. "The exercises based on the reading you just did— you did finish, right?"

Her only answer was a slow nod while she picked up her wand from where it sat beside the book, lifted it, and pointed it. The words: she knew them, she did, she had just read them. She knew how they were spelled, how to move her hand, and how to say them.

It wasn't that— but her hand came back down anyway.

Remus sat back in his chair, watching, eyes moving between the apple, the wand, and the witch.

"Why'd you stop?" Nothing. "Kavanagh." She tilted her head ever so slightly, indicating that he had her ear. "What's going on?" It came out almost too fast. Whatever discretion she was attempting to have, she could have just thrown it out the window. He could see all of it. This was not the high-brow, nose-raised, proper witch he had convinced himself of. Her foot tapped like a snitch, and her hair was tied back in a low, disheveled bun with strands falling all around her face— he had watched her pull at it multiple times. Something was wrong— he just didn't know what.

"I'm fine."

"Really? Because I mean… you seem a little… on edge?"

"I'm not."

"Then... why'd you stop?"

"I can't." But the words had been too quiet for him to hear.

"What'd you say?" Remus sat forward in his chair so that he could look at her face.

"I can't do it," she repeated, half his understanding coming from her lips.

"But... you haven't even tried?" He leaned his elbow against the desk to prop his chin up in his palm, sitting with his torso twisted so that he didn't miss anything else. "Try— at least once." Remus pursed his lips when he was met, yet again, with dead silence. "What do you mean when you say you can't?"

She knew why she couldn't— but how could she tell him? How could she tell the stranger sitting next to her that she couldn't do it because her body was ready to break? That her body was betraying her? It was betraying her because she had betrayed it first— the consequences of her actions. How could she tell him that?

Woe is me, the Ravenclaws wizard's words sung in her head.

She couldn't do this.

"You're wasting your time," she resigned, leaning back into her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Am I?" His eyes widened ever so slightly as he became witness to her all-too-willing submission. "How so?" She didn't respond, and it almost made him want to laugh because what the fuck else had he expected? "What is it? What? I'm beneath helping you or some bollocks like that?"

"What?" This time, she turned to look at him. Straight in the eyes. It was the first time she had that whole session. And it was all too clear that he had taken her aback— his words had caught her off guard...and that froze him. His face went blank as they looked at one another, the back of his neck heating up under her stare. "No," she continued, moving her eyes from his. "No."

"Listen, Kavanagh," he began after a pregnant pause, his words cooler than before. "We both know you wouldn't have shown up if you didn't think you needed help— so you want help… I think? But you have to meet me halfway, or else there's very little I can do."

Weak, in need, and slowly going insane— what the fuck had she become.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

"Because I'm supposed to be helping you."

"But why do you care?" Eve was challenging him now. She was testing him. He knew because he had prepared for this— this made sense. Remus had been waiting for it. This was the defiance. This was the wall he had expected to climb. "You don't know me. Why do you care?" She wasn't stopping. "Because McGonagall asked?"

"Right… it's not so much about me, is it, though?" They were looking at one another again. Her gaze was on fire, but her face was still, stoic. "It's about you and what you want. Do you want to be helped? If you want help, then it doesn't matter what I'm doing here. But if you don't want help, then…." He shrugged. "So be it— can't do anything about that."

Remus lifted himself from his bent position, flipping to close the manual on Transfiguration training McGonagall had lent him and putting it back into his bag. Eve looked out to his shuffling hands, observing him collecting his things. This was the part where he gave up. She had driven him to the end, and he could no longer put up with her. It had been inevitable— she had prepared for it.

"Okay, so," he said after closing the strap on his leather bag. Remus sat forward in his seat, folding his hands together and placing his forearms on the desk. He didn't look at her but forward to the empty room. "Hopefully, you know this by now, but my name is Remus John Lupin— but it's okay if you don't know my middle name; most people don't. I'm 17 years old, birthday is March 10th. I'm in Gryffindor—" Eve's brows visibly furrowed, her chin moved forward with every spoken word, and her eyes squinted, fixating on the wizard's moving jaw. "My favorite subject is Defense Against the Dark Arts— but my best subject is Charms. I'm terrible at Potions. Absolutely could never get the hang of it." He tilted his head slightly. "I'm part-English, part-Welsh, but I've lived in Wales my whole life— mum's Welsh, dad's English. "

"Lu—" but it came out too low for him to hear.

"—my favorite meal of the day is breakfast, but I'm not a morning person— at all. Actually, I hate mornings, but I love breakfast for dinner. Those—"

"What're you doing?" Remus stopped, turning with lifted brows to look at her.

"You said I don't know you," he reminded her. "You're right, I don't. I figured… You don't know me, either, right? So I reckoned maybe you'd feel a bit better about all this," his eyes glanced around the room before coming back to hers, "if we knew one another just a bit better."

She didn't know what she was meant to do at that moment. This wasn't the script she had played out in her head. His words were wrong, his moves were off— he had thrown in his own improvisations. He wasn't supposed to still be there— he wasn't supposed to be this way at all.

"What d'you think?" He asked after a moment of silence.

What the fuck? She wanted to ask him— what was he doing?

"I don't want you to know me," she told him.

"Okay, then," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So… what do you want? What do you want to do right now? Hm? You just want to sit here and stare at the wall?" He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms out in both directions. "Open to anything, any suggestions, at this point."

"You won't give up, will you?" It didn't sound like a question he was meant to answer, but...

"Do you want me to?"

"Because you can't go back to her and tell her you failed, could you?" She was still fighting him, attacking him with words, and he knew it. But he had known that she wouldn't let him win that easily. And, sure, he did question what the fuck he was doing fighting it— what he was doing on that Sunday trying to convince the help that it needed to be helped — but, oh well.

"Could you?" He shot right back. Eve's thoughts stood still at the sudden role reversal. He was good, slick, and could think on his feet— impressive. Damn impressive, so much so that the back-and-forth banter almost made her lips break out into a smirk of her own. "If you can: be my guest," he gestured towards the door with his fingers. Eve bit down on her tongue, holding back any reaction that would indicate her thorough bemusement. "Okay, look, I'm willing to work with you, right? You just… You need to trust that I have good reasons to want to help you."

The game ended abruptly, and a wall of silence built between them. Remus leaned his head back, almost as if stretching, to look up to the ceiling, counting the cracks he could spot. He was five minutes away from calling it an end to the day for both their sakes and sanities, but a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. His brows knit together, and he looked— really looked. Eve had lifted and spread out her thin, piano-like fingers in the space between them, the dark stone floor acting as a backdrop against the paleness of her skin.

"You're shaking," he commented in a low voice. She quickly folded her fingers into a fist and placed her hand back on her lap. His eyes searched the side of her face. "Why're you shaking? Are you nervous?"

"No," she whispered. He could barely hear it. Eve hoped he wouldn't try to dig deeper than that, but Remus couldn't wrap his mind around it— what could have her shaking, then?

"How long has this been happening? You know… I hate to be that person, but…"…but I've noticed you don't show up to meals… "have you eaten anything?" She didn't respond. "You want some choco—"

"I can't do it," was all she said, the exact words from before. "Not today."

"Yeah, no, you're right— you can't." Remus took a deep breath, nodding his head. They both knew what fatalities lay ahead if she tried with trembling hands to conjure a spell, any spell. So, he took her answer at face value: if she couldn't today, that didn't mean she wouldn't be able to— which meant this wasn't always. This was just something that was happening then and there. He supposed that was enough of an answer. He supposed that was the closest thing to an answer he would get. "Okay, then, how about… Let's just work on getting through the assignments you've missed. What'd you think? Can you do that?"

She pulled a stray lock of hair behind her ear, nodding once before pulling her bag from the side and placing it on the desk. She brought out parchment, an inkwell, and a quill and re-opened the textbook to the pages he had assigned her to read earlier that day.

"Okay, yeah, just work on that, uh, and as you finish, I'll go over and make sure…make sure it's all good and then— yeah," his words trailed off with a sigh. Remus didn't move. He didn't have anything left to say. He had fought, and he had won, he supposed— but if that was what winning felt like, they could keep it. It didn't feel like winning. It didn't feel like they had made strides. It didn't feel like they had gotten anywhere. If anything, shit just took a turn for the worse because Remus was beginning to feel as if something else played around the corner. Something darker. But he couldn't put his finger on it, which didn't sit well with him. It didn't sit at all. There was a reason why she trembled, there was a reason why she couldn't conjure a spell, there was a reason why she thought he was wasting his time— but what the fuck was the reason? If only she would tell him. If only she would say something— anything.