Wednesday, 30 November 1977
Her eyes stung, seemingly ransacked as they tried to sort through the month's work. She was on the last of the slips, and the entire world was already simulated into a mundane night terror. Nothing seemed lifelike, not even the thick, heavy red lines she knifed across the flimsy sheets before deporting them into the rejected bin as she cottoned on to how ludicrous third years were, hoping that she hadn't been just as moronic.
Dear Lord, if I was, please let me never remember, she pleaded internally, a senseless snort escaping.
James looked up at the sudden sound. After an hour of only hearing ink tips scratching against parchment, it jolted him awake. His brows squished together, witnessing the witch grin almost hysterically as she went to discard a piece of paper but sent her quill into the bin instead.
He raised his brows, and a slow smile began to build on his lips. But Lily stuck to her guns, persevering with a now bare hand to write something on the following paper in her stack. Her eyes grew wide, blinking rapidly as she stared at her bare fingers.
James angled his knuckle against his lips, attempting — but failing miserably — to block an uncomely chortle.
"You, uh," he began, his cheeks lifted and shiny. The wizard glanced at the ground beside her. "In the bin, Evans."
Her head swiveled to the left like a seeker finally spotting a snitch, and her entire torso dove over the chair's arm, reaching forward and grunting as she picked up the feathered object. For a second, she eyed it with a stiff, unmoving posture and a pinched mouth, then left it on the table. Lily leaned her forehead onto the curved edge to stare at the floor, and all James could see was the rise and fall of her back.
"All right, there?"
Admittedly, she tried to find a decent way to frame and weave both macro-level and micro-level suffering into polite small talk. Still, it was too late, and everything seemed too absurd to even try to search for the proper, formal way of telling someone any of that.
Stupid small talk would have to do.
"Lucy Sinclair thinks McGonagall assigns too much coursework."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"What did she say we should do about it?"
"She said we should do something about it," Lily replied, frowning.
"You know? I don't disagree with this Lucy Sinclair," James said, slagging heavily into the right side of his chair. His elbow propped up his head, the cusp of his jaw placed between the curve of his thumb and index finger as he attended to the sap in front of him.
The bullet points for their prefects' meeting tomorrow and with the Heads of Houses went ignored. The wizard's once perked-up body gave out, and instead of catering to the witch— he opted for the object between them. His eyes circled the light stain on the table, wondering if he could make it change shape by staring at it long enough. What kind of magic would that fall under? He tapped his thumb against his thigh and ran a hand through his hair.
"I'm sorry."
Lily peeked up at him, but it was far from a child's glance. It was long, enduring, and calculating. Silence. Not even the torch mustered the courage to break it, flaming quietly in the corner as it lit up their tired minds, their fatigued hearts. To James, it felt like a sunburn. His face was reddening, completely put out of countenance. To Lily, it seemed as if she had gone 'pst,' and the cat responded with a nice, fat 'sod off.'
She was going mental.
Yes, that must be it; she drew for herself. For what was reality if not the things she knew? Was it not the life she had experienced up until that point? Because if it was— she'd like to inform someone that her reality very much felt like a ballerina who had fallen and broken her leg, bedridden for weeks and missing the entire season of the Nutcracker to some lame backup dancer from Leeds. Yes, that is precisely how she felt.
No, this was most definitely a dream.
What was going on?
James Potter was apologizing.
Eve Kavanagh had taken a significant fall for her— Lily Evans, a muggleborn.
And Lily was still in a losing game, half-assing her responsibilities as she was determined that the world was against her in every single way it could be.
"Sorry?" Lily grinned manically, shaking her head in his direction as if she had missed the cue.
The sound alone unnerved James. It was not the voice he had grown accustomed to over the years. It wasn't light or full of life. It was threatening, like a knock on the window after midnight; something else was coming that only she knew, something terrible— a sick twist on dramatic irony, except it wasn't a play.
And James wondered if he really should take her advice — once and for all — and keep his mouth shut. It seemed nothing he said ever came out sounding right. In his head, they were lines of poetry, but once they turned into reality, he could see all the faults within them, wanting nothing more than to take them back and pretend they had never occurred in the first place.
Speech — in the Ancient Greek style, that is — was not in his realm of expertise.
Lily stared at him with eyes turned pink from strain, the strain of reading, light, and whatever else life had thrown her.
"For what I said to you," he began, pulling at his tie, finding it as annoying as the restlessness in his right hand that kept craving the touch of his hair. "The Quidditch game sort of got to my head, and… Okay, I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I don't remember it, but Remus filled me in. Okay? It's terrible." He took in a deep breath. "I'm ashamed."
He glanced up at her and wondered how it was possible for his body to still ignite with a match made from complete disdain— disdain being Lily's face at that moment. Whatever. He supposed he deserved this. All he could hope for was that she believed him this time, even partially. It was the only thing he wanted. James was not looking for anything else. He did not expect anything else.
Maybe everyone was right— he was a masochist.
"Well, you can take your sorry and shove it where the sun don't shine, Potter."
He couldn't help the smile on his face.
"I expected that," he admitted with a light laugh, his hand going back to trail through his hair.
"You want to know something?"
What did Lily Evans want to tell him? What did she want him to know? Even though her voice was ice and his blood was fire, he looked her in the eye. Wrong, for he was fire, and she was ice, and now she was fighting him as he melted her into a puddle.
She would fight, though.
"All my life, I've been kicked and spat on. I've been on the floor. I've had to crawl to achieve the things that come so easily to the rest of you. I walk every day through these halls, judged, sneered at, and having to prove myself to all of you. Then I go home, and you know what? I have to sleep in my bed, eat dinner with my family, and prove to them that I'm not as daft as an 11-year-old because that's how they treat me."
Unlike James, who had installed a new editing system into his brain, Lily's was wholly broken and rusting at her feet. To him, she made no sense at all. She lacked understanding of what she wanted to say, but he listened and didn't dare ask questions or even breathe as he spotlighted her.
Except, Lily saw and spoke with more clarity than she had in days.
"Everywhere I go— I have to be Lily Evans. So many expectations and everyone always waiting on me. But you know what? I don't want to be her. I want to be someone else." Tears had begun to well in her eyes, but her face remained stoic albeit full-blooded and flush. "So, I want to fucking know when I get to be someone other than who I am."
His tongue was caught somewhere between the underworld and whatever this was. Nothing right nor wrong could be said, yet everything he could think of tasted stale between his teeth. But he knew it was because Lily didn't want him to reply. All she wanted was to be upset with someone. She wanted to curse them, send them out the window, and crack their spines so they could feel what it felt like to have a hand wrapped around her neck at all times of the night. An object of a more fabulous hunt, she had hounds chasing her, but nowhere she ran felt safe. Why keep running? Where was she supposed to go?
"I know it must be tough to see Selwyn and Kavanagh still here," James attempted to empathize, but, again, nothing he said was ever right, for Lily began to laugh again— that same cold, maniacal laugh she had grown into as of late. He remained still, but his eyes narrowed on her.
"You don't get it. You won't ever," Lily said in a whisper. "The safest I ever felt was seeing Eve Kavanagh on the ground," she admitted what she hadn't even to herself. "Everything you did, everything Remus did— none of it mattered. None of it did anything but put me on edge. And I tried telling you that, but you didn't listen to me. I was so scared every day. All I could think was— what next? What happens next?" She began to breathe deeper but shallower, somehow. "And then Kavanagh finally did something, and I felt relief. They put knives to her neck— and that made me feel good."
James thought Lily had utterly lost it.
He had been ready to go after Lily's attackers in a way that would have been roaming those halls with yet another reason to make him a warrior, a champion. But Lily was confessing to something dark— and those darker parts had never been anything she could tell anyone. Except for one other.
"Kavanagh did not do that for you," James pointed out.
"No! She didn't!" Lily bit back like a starved dog. "She didn't— and Thank God for it, too! Because if Eve Kavanagh started doing things for other people, like me, then she'd be a fucking slave! But no, somehow, she survived a thousand daggers coming down on her." Lily could feel the blood pumping through her, eyes darting around the room. "The bitch doesn't speak, and people still fail. They still can't touch her."
"Kavanagh was called a blood traitor, and someone hit her," James reminded her pointedly.
"And she walked those halls with those fucking bruises and made everyone look at her! We all felt like absolute shite— all of us! Even Sev— I've never heard Mulciber and Avery be as quiet as they had that morning. She wasn't ashamed at all! It was bloody smart. I should've done the same. Instead, I hid behind you lot and Marlene like a coward, and I still lost. I had all these people on my side, and I still lost. What does that say about me!?"
"You can't possibly admire her, Evans," he countered, his lips forced into a scowl. "She set you on—"
"So, maybe, I should take a fucking page out of her book, because if I, for fucking once, in my life did something for myself, did something selfish, maybe someone would actually fucking start listening to me instead of stepping all over me as if I'm absolute rubbish!
"I don't think you're—"
"And no one ever fucking listens to me!" Her hands pulled at her hair, and it pained James to see the locks suffer in her violent grip. She looked straight into his eyes. "Why won't anyone listen to me? Is it really because I'm a mudblood?"
"Don't say that," James said, his face softening.
"Or is it because I'm a good person? Because if it's that, I don't want to be that anymore."
Her body heaved, her slight shoulders trekking up only to hit a landslide and fall back down. This was her raw, and James never thought something as cringe-worthy as crude outrage could look so divine. He never thought he'd want to wrap his hands around a bonfire and let it burn him right through until his heart collapsed from the lack of oxygen. It was complete psychosis, and it was marvelous to watch.
"I'll listen to you."
For the first time since Halloween, his words sounded so sure, so confident that he could live up to what he proclaimed. It was the first time he thought he had finally said the right thing. Even though he had so much he wanted to tell her— like how wrong she was. But no, he hadn't said that. This was correct.
"What?"
James moved to the edge of his seat, straightened his back, and placed folded hands on the table. His chin stood tall and proud like the boy holding it. It was like a light at the end of the tunnel.
"You see, I'm ready to listen."
She leaned over to him, her eyes scrutinizing slits as she bowed her head down to observe the creature in front of her. Maybe exhaustion was to blame, or the fact that the world had sat on her shoulders and she had finally had enough carrying it, but she began to laugh; a troubled trail of incredulous bells filled the room.
James looked down and lifted the corners of his lips into a satisfied smile, forcing himself to trudge through the uneasiness.
"But you've never listened to anyone in your entire life," she argued.
"Yeah, but," he shrugged, "anyone wasn't you."
She watched him for a second, both looking at one another.
"Why?" Her voice became a whisper, the fury and mania collapsing into a dying flame.
"I know I've been a complete tosser, especially in the past, but I'm trying to do better," he admitted, sighing as he realized that he had more failed attempts than successes, nevertheless hoping that Lily had noticed at least some of it. But maybe, just maybe, she would believe him this time and take the hand he was holding out to her. "You know, I really wanted to jinx them, but… But I didn't. Not because Marlene had told me not to, but because I knew it would make things worse. I just wanted to do right by you. It was unfair, all of it, but I didn't want to make you upset anymore. I really don't, Evans. It's the last thing I want to do."
"Liar." He looked up, the beginnings of another apology already sugaring his lips, but it trailed off like sand caught in the curl of a wave. Her green eyes were widening, her upper lip twitching as she decided between grimacing or grinning. "Someone made leeks sprout from Gamp's ears during Herbology."
"It wasn't me," he stated hastily.
"Liar."
"No, no, you can ask Remus," he urged on. "I swear— it wasn't me. I don't know who it was, but it wasn't me. It must've been MacDonald. The bird loves leeks— I think." Lily began to chuckle, throwing her head back and clapping her hands together. It was so appealing and contagious that after a few seconds, he joined in on the chorus. "Or Peter or Remus— or, well, not me. Because Herbology is my worst class, Evans. It couldn't have been me."
"Oh my god, you're right," she agreed, breathing deeply to catch her breath. He pursed his lips into a taut smile as he looked away from her face. A sort of mousy coloring tinted his cheeks.
"I wish it had been me," he admitted. "I'm not that great with plant charms, is all."
"My God," she sighed, shaking her head. "You lot are mad. We're going to get killed over some bloody leeks."
"Gamp's gone, so I think we're okay."
"Gamp's not gone," Lily told him. "But she won't come after me or us. At least, I don't think so,"
James scratched his neck, turning away. This is what Lily had meant— this is why she had been relieved to see Eve Kavanagh on the ground. It made sense now.
"Right, well, No one'll come after you again," he asserted.
"I can defend myself, Potter."
"I know you can— you're the brightest in our year, but you don't have to be alone. You're not alone."
Lily wanted to be upset with him. She endeavored to write him off and tramp out of the room while calling him a patronizing tosser like she had so many times before. Since their second year, whenever James Potter smelled an ounce of gas leaking around Lily, he would come like the staunch dog he was and bark at whoever it was pestering her.
Every time, and for all those years, Severus would whisper into her ear how much of a bigheaded wanker he was — 'Lily, he's only nice to you because you're muggle-born, thinks you need saving 'cause you're not as strong' — and she would agree because she hated feeling like she needed help. She hated everyone thinking she didn't know things because she hadn't grown up amongst cauldrons and pointy hats. But despite everything, James Potter had never actually called her out on it, had never mentioned it, and had never made her feel excluded. He didn't go around saving people cause he thought they were weak— he genuinely just wanted to help.
Like when she had discovered Remus' condition in their fifth year, he had confided in her that James not only knew but had kept him as a brother, doing everything in his power to make him feel included. And she began to think that maybe — after five years of being fed propaganda — Severus was the one who saw her as weak and feebleminded because of her lineage, not James, who had proven on more than one occasion that he viewed her as nothing less than his equal.
Of course, she couldn't deny and forget that James Potter had been a bully, but the last time he had tried to test out a new hex on anyone had been a year and a half ago.
And she knew that.
And she knew Halloween didn't count— the Slytherins could have just sat down and eaten dinner and not marched off like Hannibal's crossing of the Alps or whatever.
Besides, in the next four minutes, she was sure to fall headfirst into the table if she didn't get herself into a bed first.
"Bones said you looked horrid without any hair," he reignited their conversation after a while, glimpsing over her face. "I told her she was full of shite, but she's recovering, so I'll give her a second to take it back."
"Thanks, Potter— was that an attempt to make me feel better?"
"It was an attempt," James admitted, nodding.
A swell of pride grew in his chest when he saw her try to bite back a smile after minutes of a contorted face. James knew she was probably trying to understand all of this, for he was also. She had hurt him a month ago, and he still felt the pricks in his heart, but it seemed more manageable when he could talk to her. Sure, he wished it was under different circumstances, but this was okay. This was good, too. It was better than what it had been since Halloween.
"You're not supposed to make me laugh," she mock-reprimanded him. "And you're not supposed to use someone's trauma as a joke."
Deep down, Lily knew that had been the point, that almost every time he said something stupid, it was to make the other person feel better. That's who he was, seeing the world as a playground while he sang show tunes and made people dance. James wasn't just an arrogant toerag, although he could just as easily be, but the boy with a big heart who had found space for monsters, rejects, and leftovers. Sure, he needed work— but who didn't?
It was the plainest truth and the most confusing epiphany that had ever occurred to her.
It had been apparent months ago when she had begun to notice the better parts of him — rather than what had been there years ago. She should have known and should have been paying more attention. But it had crept up on her, so silent, so discreet that not even her subconscious had caught it in her dreams.
When she became nervous as he walked into the room, brushing back her hair and sitting a little straighter, wondering if he was looking at her, rolling her eyes when she caught him. It had become evident when they had fought one day in the Great Hall, and the sun hit his eyes in such a way that they made the hazel in them turn into a rainbow of the earth— forest, honey, soil, everything. And it had frustrated her because no one was allowed to have it all. No one, no one, no one— but he did.
How? she asked herself. How was it possible to go from nothing at all to all at once? Falling, spinning, and diving without even knowing. So scared without understanding what she had to be scared of.
It took six-ish years, a slap in the face, a little bit of firewhiskey, and a rampage to realize.
"I'm sorry, too," she whispered. Their eyes met.
"For what?"
"I didn't do it because I thought you were easy," she continued.
"Oh, okay."
"I did it because..." She looked down at his hand, his tapping fingers coming to a halt as he listened intently. Because he didn't know what was happening, and she didn't know what would be the next few syllables to roll off her tongue, but there was a newfound magnetic wave coursing through the room and into their bones that made both of them want to run towards one another. "Because, well..." Their eyes locked, and she finally said it, "because I wanted to kiss you. And I was upset when you rejected me—that's why I didn't talk to you the day after. I was embarrassed."
"I didn't reject you."
"I know, but it still felt that way.
He sighed—admittedly, he didn't know what to say. He couldn't quite understand it. He was at a loss. To him, he had done the proper, gentlemanly thing. To Lily, it had been rejection. So, he did the one thing he knew how to do. The one thing besides Quidditch he had plenty of practice on.
"Lily?"
"James."
"Will you go to Hogsmeade with me?"
"No," Lily laughed, shaking her head. James' entire body shocked backward.
"What!? Why not?"
"Because I'm still annoyed with you over Halloween," she answered, sitting back in her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. James gaped at her helplessly.
"What? Lily— I know, okay? I wish I had listened to Remus, okay?" James confessed, not entirely sure if he believed his words or if he was just saying it for the sake of saying it at this point. "We should've done it differently, so we could've all had a good laugh. It was just all supposed to be a laugh."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"I do," she assured him. Plus, she could not help feeling utterly satisfied that she had singlehandedly heard James confess that he had been in the wrong. There, indeed, was a first for it all.
"Okay, will you go to Hogsmeade with me now?" James attempted again.
"No."
"Fucking 'ell," he scanned the room, "what can I do to atone for Halloween?"
"I don't know. I'm sure you four can put your big brains together and figure something out," Lily quipped.
"I'm not apologizing—"
"That's not what I said."
"What…" But Lily was fully grinning at this point. "No… You can't possibly want us." James wagged a finger at her in his best attempt to mimic their Head of House. With a similarly reprimanding yet mocking tone, he added, "Miss Evans, are you insinuating that we should pull another prank?"
"I don't know," she replied slyly, hunching a single shoulder as a smirk grew on her lips.
"Why would we do that? That makes no sense," James inquired, leaning forward with a torch of mischief lighting fireworks in his eyes. "We nearly got our heads chopped for the last one."
"It's called evening the playing field," she told him almost headily as if she was seducing him into her own games. James had thought he knew everything there was to know about Lily Evans, but she was an onion in the best possible way one could be one. Without all the smell or the tears, well, sometimes the tears, too, but there was layer before layer to peel back. And he felt like he had been peeling back only skin for the last six years. He bit down on his lower lip, staring out at her from the corner of his eye.
"That's ridiculous," he played along. "You're challenging me? Is this a dare, Evans?"
"Maybe."
"I don't know," James teased, shrugging. "We don't usually work on commission, you know?"
"Fine, if you say so," she ceded easily, beginning to pile up the parchments and shoving them into the folder so she could return to them tomorrow.
"Unless, of course, we'd... Maybe, we'd be willing to reconsider our business methods," he continued, pretending to take an interest in his nails.
"If you want that date," she inserted, raising both brows.
"So, we're supposed to pull a feel-good prank? To even this playing field you're so bent on?" James inquired, staring at her pointedly. "That's a tad half-baked, really."
"Evening, Potter."
"Wait!" James walked forward, releasing a huff. Game over, he knew that. "Okay. Okay, fine. We'll think of something. We will."
"I knew you'd see it my way," Lily said smugly.
"I did say I was listening," James returned with a smirk of his own.
"You did."
"Now, will you go on a date with me?" James shot for a third time, or more like a millionth, depending on who was counting and when the stopwatch began. Lily tilted her head back and forth, but her entire body was about to break from laughter.
"Do the prank first, then I'll reconsider," she concluded through a stifled grin as she made her exit. James held himself back from reaching out and grabbing her hand to pull her in. His heart fluttered, but only for a brief moment, realizing how close he was. So close. Again, James did not take on roles easily, but if he agreed with them, he could abide.
Once again, there was another quest to be quested at Hogwarts.
Sunday, 4 December 1977
Moira sighed, her shoulders sinking down as she pulled on the last of her Quidditch uniform. She blinked at the makeshift wardrobe in front of her, the hemp bag she slung from one of its hooks. All the money in the world and her schoolbag was ratty and torn. Money just could not buy some things— that had always been her answer. She pursed her lips, shutting the door and running a hand through her short, indigo-blue dyed hair.
It would be one and done— she would approach it as she would with anyone else. She imagined he was Alex, easy. That's who Regulus Black had become for her, a shoulder to lean on from time to time. It was okay, for they leaned on one another. And more than not, he relied on her more than she did on him. Besides, they were better together than they were a part, and both of them knew that. It was mutual surrender and temporary vulnerability.
Imagine he's Alex, she reminded herself once more. Moira trudged through the partition and straight to where she knew her Captain was waiting for the last of his team. Regulus detected the sudden intrusion, and he stood up from the bench, eyes wide, completely nude from his chest up. He clutched his robes to his lanky, juvenile body as the witch halted only a few feet away. He gulped, his eyes skimming the room to ensure no one would catch them in such a questionable showdown.
"I need to check something," she declared.
"What?" Regulus asked, one eye slightly twitching. It inclined for clarity, but the only ounce Moira willingly offered was a speedy glimpse to his left hand. But as if intuition had alerted him of her task, both hands and arms were nearly covered by the robes he was holding to his torso.
"Let me see your arm, Black," Moira demanded, sighing. Her foot tapped against the floor, and her chin lifted as she waited for him to obey.
"What!?" This time, though, he leaned forward, a peeved twist twirling over every part of his face. "Why would I do that? What do you need to see my arm for?"
"Your arm, Black," Moira repeated, her sudden certainty fading as his defiance slowly began to register. "Surely, if you have nothing to hide— you'll show it to me. It's only an arm, Black."
"Who the fuck are you to ask me to show you anything?" Regulus spat at her, gripping the robes tighter between his fingers.
Moira's entire body froze, and for a second, he thought she would drop it and leave. Wrong. Moira didn't drop anything. She was a Chaser. The best one that had graced those halls in centuries. Instead, she reached forward and snatched the robes out of his hands with as much force as she could muster. But Regulus had been expecting it— so he only pulled back, and they were now playing tug-of-war.
"Let me see your arm, Black!"
"No!"
"Let me see it!"
"Bugger off, Palancher!"
Just as he was pulling back, Moira abruptly let go, and he went tumbling backward. His eyes enlarged, and he reached forward for her. As he did, both forearms became visible to her. Moira left him to fall to the ground as the entire room reached a standstill. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Regulus repositioned himself quickly so that he sat with his body leaned over his knees, hugging them, so his arms were covered again. He knew very well what she had just seen, and he could feel his stomach tighten and clamp as the silence between them grew dark.
"I thought better of you," Moira whispered, bending her knees and squatting so they were at eye-level. Regulus should have known better than to have engaged Moira in a child's game— she knew how to win, no matter what game it was. She had strategized the entire thing since the moment she saw him holding the robes.
"It's none of your business," he said in a low voice.
"Isn't it?" Moira retorted, lifting her chin as he continued to disregard her stare. "What're you doing, child?"
"Child," he scoffed, shaking his head.
"That's what you are."
"Hardly."
"No," Moira spewed, growing irate. "You are— you are a child. I'm looking at you right now— and all I see is a young boy. You are no man, Regulus, not yet."
"I don't give a fuck what—" Her hands came to his neck, and she forced him to look at her. He advanced for her arm, but she held him with too much strength. Her muscles projected out from underneath her uniform's skin-tight material. A display, a contrast to his own skeletal figure. She released him when his breaths began to be nothing more than gasps. He coughed and sputtered, reaching for his neck to ensure it was still intact.
"Don't talk to me like that," Moira ordered. "I'm your friend."
"I don't have friends."
"Too bad," she countered. "You have me, now— whatever the fuck I am, I'm something. I'm someone, Black, and I don't give a fuck about you or your last name or where you came from. I know who I am, and I know what I'm capable of. You won't reduce me to nothing. You can't."
Regulus had to admit— Moira was a force to be reckoned with. She always had been. He had never realized until he had been made Captain. She had been a Chaser for Slytherin since his second year, but being a Seeker was often a solitary position. He had never really been a team member. Not until now, that was. There was nothing that could break her— it didn't seem like it, at least. When anyone else had to run ten extra laps, Moira would dare them to run twenty more along with her. When one of them didn't show up to practice, she would hunt them down and drag them to the pitch. All in all, she would not take no for an answer.
"You're going to tell someone, are you?" Regulus inquired, finally lifting his eyes to hers.
Moira only stared at him, dark brown looking into icy blue. She had three seconds to decide what she would do— she had been so sure that someone like Regulus could never be what he was. Not because he was young but because he was still a child, even in character. Moira had seen a side of Regulus Black no one else had— Regulus playing. Be it Quidditch, be it any other game— it didn't matter. As simple as it was, it was what made him happiest. No matter what, his eyes beamed and gleamed like stars each and every time. He was innocent— he was supposed to be innocent.
"You're a fucking child," she cursed under her breath, shaking her head and sucking on her teeth. It was not Regulus she was upset with. "What'd they do to you?"
"No one did anything to me," Regulus answered.
"Yeah, right," Moira returned, rolling her eyes. She ran a hand over her mouth, pinching at her own lips as she looked down at him. What the fuck was she going to do with him? "I'm not going to tell anyone."
"You're not?"
"No."
"Then, why were you asking? Why'd you ask?" Regulus quizzed, his chin jutting inward. "Weren't you looking for… Did someone ask you?" His eyes narrowed on her. "Was it my brother?"
"No," Moira snorted, not helping the chuckle that escaped her. "I don't go so much as a foot near your brother. No one annoys me more."
"Really?"
"Really," she admitted.
It was true— if there was anyone she could not stand more than Sirius Black, it was James Potter. Two people who swaggered and cruised through those halls without any reason to. They had done nothing to deserve such status. Unlike everyone else at Hogwarts, Moira had grown up with the mentality that the harder one fought— the more one deserved. She liked people who fought, admired people who struggled and still woke up every morning to fight another day. She favored people who fell down and got back up. Moira was simply that kind of person— and Sirius Black and James Potter had not made the cut. Especially since she did not think Sirius Black was a blood traitor at all. He was just a whiny piss-baby. A rebel without a cause.
"He can be annoying," Regulus mumbled in agreement. He pursed his lips, pressing his chin into his knees, then lowered his forehead onto them.
"Why'd you do it, kid?"
"It's the right thing to do," Regulus responded. "I had to."
"You had to?"
"It's the only way, Moira," he explained, looking up at her with a strained face. "We'll never be free. We shouldn't have to—" She bowed her head, looking at him with such an expression that brought his voice to a stop. He gulped.
"You don't even know what that word means," Moira almost sang to him in a whisper. "If you did, you would not be fighting a war that takes away another's freedom. You do not know servitude, son. You don't know what it means to not be free, to be caged."
"He says if we— if we win, we can have a country of our own—"
"You will never be free under Him!" Moira shouted, her eyes widening. "None of you! None of us! Don't you see that? Can't you see that?"
Regulus could— he had not, not initially. Initially, he had fallen for the love songs. He had fallen for the proclamations and promises that they would have it all. They could walk those streets as free witches and wizards— no longer would they have to live underground, in the shadows of the world. They would rise to the top and be leaders. But he thought it was going to be easier, he thought… He did not know that he would end up more caged than he already had been. If he did not live up to his duty, he would fall. If he did not do as he was told, he would fall. If he so much as took the wrong step, he would fall. He was constantly scared of falling that it had become a prison of its own. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at the witch. The only witch who seemed to be willing to listen to him.
"I don't know what to do," he confessed. "I don't know what I've done. I just wanted— I thought it'd make my parents proud. I was happy. It is what I wanted... It is what I want, to live free, to be free." She sighed, placing a hand on his knee.
"You're a child," Moira reiterated. "You made a mistake."
"I don't know if I did," he said, shaking his head. "But I can't breathe anymore. I… I feel like the whole world is going to crash down on me. I don't know how to escape. I can't."
"You can," Moira assured him, finally taking his hand into her own. "You want to get out, kid?"
"I can't," he responded, his voice raspy. Regulus lifted his arm to show her the mark in plain daylight— indeed, it was the mark. He was contaminated and tainted, but Moira did not flinch. She did not pull back. She only lifted her chin. Moira Palancher was scared of nothing, nothing at all. "I'm stuck. I can't turn back now— I made an oath."
"Fuck an oath," Moira spewed. "Fuck that— you're going to give your life for this bastard, huh?"
"Moira," he hissed, glancing at the entrance. "Careful. He's not—"
"He is," she told him. "He is— half the world's ready to shut Britain out. You're all fucked, and he's lying to you. He's lying. You can not stand or be a country on your own— you need friends and allies. That's how the world works, Regulus, the real world. You will not be powerful if you can not sustain yourselves." Moira paused, looking over his growingly distraught face as he was hearing information that had never reached his ears once.
"What do you mean?" Regulus asked, the corners of his lips turning downward.
"You are not enough," she continued. "You'll be left to fend for yourselves, to fight until death, imprisonment, or live a life of humiliation for a failed cause."
"Surely, they just don't know," he fought back. "We've been... Everything's underground. Once we've..."
"No one will stand by you," she rolled on, not once breaking eye contact. And Regulus knew when Moira spoke of no one, she was not speaking of his small circle of shadows. He had come to learn that she was bigger than them. Her reach extended beyond their fabricated borders.
"They will, once they know," he returned, but his voice faded as they continued to stare at one another.
"There are plenty of people still alive that remember Grindelwald, kid, and they're not about to have a second turn. Things are ugly. They're getting even uglier. You need to pick the right side."
"I picked my side," Regulus almost cried scornfully, but Moira only held his hand tighter.
"Pick again," Moira demanded.
"I CAN'T!"
"You can," she corrected him. It was not an ask. It was something he needed to do. She leaned forward onto her knees and grasped his face between her fingers. "Listen to me— you will pick again—"
"I can't! I can't just change my mind," Regulus flung at her. "He'll— he'll fucking kill me if he finds out."
"No," Moira reassured him. "No, he won't. He won't know anything. No one will know anything."
"I can't fight—"
"You don't have to fight," she said. They were almost nose to nose. He could feel her breath on his face, and so he held his own so that he didn't miss a word of what came next. "There's not just two sides, Regulus. There's a third side now. You can pick that side."
"And which side is that, Palancher?" All color had drained from his face. Not from fright but because that had been the last thing he had thought to hear. "What other side is there?"
"My side."
Monday, 5 December 1977
"Eh, Lupin," a voice sounded beside him through a bustle and crowd of students. He swiveled his head quickly to locate it, and the person he found was the last he would have expected.
The Gryffindor blinked, stopping short as Peter lingered behind him. A slow grimace grew on his face as he spotted the Slytherin colors painted over the younger wizard's uniform. He was short, definitely, more or less the same height as Peter. Unlike Peter, he had dark hair and eyes, ivory skin, and sharp features. Now, this person definitely did not look like Peter, apart from height, but he most certainly looked like someone he knew.
"Your winnings." He held out his hand, and Remus hesitated, looking down at the enclosed palm. He furrowed his brows but opened up his own hand. Two galleons dropped into it, and his mouth was to hang open as the Slytherin continued on his way without saying another word. Remus glanced down, mouth still loose, at the two coins decorated his hand. He blinked, turning around to grin widely at Peter, who continued to stare bewilderedly.
"That was Art MacMurrough," Remus whispered to him, stepping closer to Peter. He expanded his palm to him.
"What's that?"
"I just won two galleons over the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game." Remus began to chuckle, more to himself, as he stashed the coins away. Peter's eyes maneuvered back over to the body, now no more than just another random face in a crowd.
"You placed a bet with Art MacMurrough?
"Yeah, well," Remus scratched the underside of his jaw, "no, not exactly."
"What? What do you mean?"
He pulled Peter along into a quieter part of the castle, lighting up his post-Defense against the Dark Arts cigarette, and began to recount the story in all its wonder to his best friend.
...
Shadow binding is the practice of manipulating shadows to do a dark wizard's or witch's bidding, Remus read, his eyes slowly closing as the warmth of the cozy room and the pre-dinner lull overtook him. Just as his eyelids were about to drop, he heard a knock to his side. It was Eve, looking up at him, observing him intently. He managed a weak, polite smile. Remus had thought he could function three days after the full moon, having been granted two whole days of rest. But it was the lingering aftereffects along with an entire day of classes that got him. He regretted it the moment he stepped out of the common room. Although he had felt fine while lying down, now, as he sat in that deserted classroom, he could sense the heaviness still in his muscles. His head drooped lazily against his palm, a thoroughly exhausted expression on his face.
He should have told her Tuesday.
"I'm fine," Remus assured quickly as if he could read her mind. "I didn't sleep great last night."
Lies, he had slept wonderfully. He hadn't even wanted to wake up.
"What do you mean?"
"I know I look terrible."
"Not really," Eve told him, crinkling her nose ever so slightly as she looked over him. "Just tired, a bit." Remus stared at her, but a genuine smile began to threaten the corner of his mouth. Uncanny how Eve managed in the simplest of ways to make something heavy seem light.
"Thanks." Eve sat back in her chair and gazed around the room. "So, did you finish?"
"No," she admitted.
"No?" Remus repeated, lifting his brows. He had to hold back a scoff. "Why not?"
"It's boring."
"It is," he agreed, both turning to look at one another. Eve smiled, and Remus broke out into an equally small laugh. He, too, sat back in his seat, pitching a heavy sigh. "You're tired, too, aren't you?" It had been unmistakable; she had bags heavier than his own, and she kept biting her parched lips as if she was suffering from extreme dehydration. Remus couldn't argue or beg her to lift a wand when he couldn't do half of it himself. They were both just sitting zombies.
"I haven't been sleeping well," she told him quietly.
"Why not?" Remus asked, but Eve did not respond. Right. This was one of these times she would only let him skim the surface, and the rest he would have to either figure out on his own or drop it. He decided to drop it because, again, he knew how to pick his battles. "Happens to the best families."
"Mhm," Eve continued with a short snort. "Even Art said he can't sleep right."
"Art?" Remus repeated, chin flinching back. "MacMurrough?"
"Yeah, my cousin. You know him?" Eve inquired, looking up at him with a grin as wide as the sun and eyes that glimmered with the same light. Great, another subject he could add to his list of safe subjects when it came to Eve: her family.
"Barely…" Even though he could have continued talking about Art, Remus wasn't as keen on knowing every detail about her cousin as she seemed willing to deliver said details. But another thought crossed his mind.
"Wait, Eve," he began, tapping his finger once on the desk. "What happens if I give you a bet?"
"Do you want to place a bet?" Eve asked. He smirked. Despite the wariness tinting her tone, it had not been an outright rejection, either.
"Can I?"
"If you want."
"Okay," he said. "Okay, how does it work, then?"
"What do you want to place a bet on?"
"I don't know— the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game on Saturday," Remus presented.
"Odds?" Remus glanced up to the ceiling, his eyes narrowing on one of the wooden beams that connected the walls to one another. But he relented, eventually shaking her head to convey she continue. "You don't know what you're doing, do you?"
"Do you?" Remus returned, beginning to laugh as Eve seemed to find the suggestion something of an insult.
"How much are you going to bet?"
"I don't know, three sickles," he responded. He wondered if she would have anything to say or think about that— especially in light of the twenty galleons he knew Alex was playing with. She didn't, though, her face remaining severe and, dare he say, professional.
"Do you want to place one bet of three sickles or multiple bets of one sickle or two bets— one sickle and two sickles, respectively?"
"What?" Remus blurted out, racking his brain for the answer to this. "I just want to place one bet— Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw." Eve smiled politely, holding out her palm to him. Remus was taken aback by the repetition— that was precisely what Keelan Kinsella had done. She didn't say a word as he reached into his jean pocket and removed the lingering sickles from its depth.
"What're the odds, then? Who do you think'll win?"
"Ravenclaw, obviously, they have Marlene," Remus said too quickly. Eve didn't seem to be making any judgments of her own, though, and instead peered up at him, waiting for him to finish his answer. "Odds, I don't know, it's— what? 50% chance they win, no?"
"Okay…" Eve began, and he could detect a certain hesitancy as she debated whether to engage him or not.
"What?" Remus asked, he wouldn't give her the choice.
"You can bet like that, too, but you'd be making a lot more if you," she paused, looking down at his hand still holding the sickles, and then back up at him. "Say you put these three sickles and bet that Ravenclaw would win — one outcome — so it becomes out of one, and that you also think they would win ten times the same outcome."
"What?"
"If you're comfortable with your choice, you should do a 10/1 bet. You'd get 2 galleons back if Ravenclaw wins," Eve finished.
"Are you having a laugh?" Remus quizzed, bowing his head to look her straight in the eye.
"No, but you can also do what you said— if you want."
"What did I say?"
"Place a bet claiming a 50% chance of Ravenclaw winning— a 1/1 bet. You would either lose three sickles or make a profit of three sickles, plus your original three returned."
"But if I place a 10/1 bet, I lose three sickles but could win back 2 galleons?" Remus rehashed her own words. Eve nodded slowly. "No, I'll place a 10/1 bet on Ravenclaw, Merlin."
"You could lose the three sickles," Eve warned him but pocketed the bet all the same once he dropped the coins into her hand.
"I don't care?" Remus admitted. "It's three sickles."
"People don't usually bet just three sickles," she pointed out.
"Right, yeah, I guess there's that too. The more you put, the more you have to win, but also the more you lose," Remus muttered.
"Mhm, people lose a lot of money."
He nodded but then paused, sitting back in his seat as he scanned the room in front of him.
"Bloody hell," he cursed under his breath. "Fuck, Alex bet ten galleons on Gamp, 10/1, as well. Does that— what does that mean?"
"He made 100 galleons and got his ten galleons back, too." Remus choked on his own spit, eyes bulging out of his sockets. No wonder Alex had looked at the three of them cross-eyed that morning. It wasn't because he had been drunk— it was because they had seemed like complete fools. Sure, he didn't have ten galleons to be throwing away like that, so, of course, that could've been 10 galleons lost, but Remus could have placed a couple of sickles on Melisende Gamp and gotten something substantial out of it.
"Listen," Eve began, noting his sudden shock. Her voice had grown gentle, soft. It was his favorite to listen to. "Don't get too tied up in it. Don't look at what other people are winning." It was a warning, but Remus didn't need it— his amusement was less concerned with the amount he stood to gain and instead stemmed more from the fact that Eve had just guided him through the process effortlessly and then proceeded to take the money without thinking twice about it.
"Did you just do that all in your head?"
"Did what?"
"All those numbers, you did that in your head?" Remus questioned.
"No… A ten-galleon stake on a 10/1 bet is standard, but yes, the rest, I did in my head." Remus blinked, bending over and staring her in the face. "What?"
"You're bloody hilarious," Remus said, shaking his head with a light chuckle. Eve forced her own smile of sorts, but her tilted head and pursed lips told him she couldn't quite grasp the joke. "And you keep that bet safe, Kavanagh. Alex said you were good for it."
"I am," she reassured him. "And I will."
...
"That's mad," Peter commented as the story finished. A peal of spontaneous laughter escaped him as he splayed his palms against his merrily rosy cheeks. "So, Sykes wasn't lying."
"No, it's mad. You're right. The Slytherins are so…"
"Odd."
"Yeah."
"Merlin," Peter breathed, shaking his head with a wide grin. "Three sickles... and you got 2 galleons back? That's mad, Moony. Reckon you could place a bet for me with Kavanagh?"
"Sure," Remus answered, shrugging.
"Really?"
"Yeah," he scoffed. "Why wouldn't I be able to?"
"Okay, I just don't know how it is between you two," Peter confessed.
"What d'you mean?"
"You know, cause of all that," Peter explained, somewhat muffling his words as if he was trying to avoid specific topics and names. "But, I don't know, she doesn't seem so bad. I think, well, not from what you just told me."
"She's not," Remus assured him. "She's not— plus, a bet really is a bet to them. They take it seriously. It's a laugh."
"It is..." Peter nodded, looking Remus up and down and then smiling sadly. "You know, Moony, I just wanted to let you know... Seeing as the others aren't here, but I know Prongs is upset and all," Peter continued, fumbling with his hands. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not. Not at you, you know?" Remus looked down at him, but he was tugging with his sleeves now. "She seems to treat you okay. For me, that's all I care about. You know, Moony? And I believe the Headmaster, so I think she's okay." He paused. "Right, she's one of the good ones?" He peered up at Remus, who took a rather long cigarette drag as he stared out the windowless archway. "What? You don't think—"
"I'm just— I don't want to get my hopes up," he admitted. "I don't know, truth be told. And I want to stop assuming that I do. So, I'm just kind of letting things play out. No expectations."
"Yeah, that makes sense," Peter agreed, nodding. "I think that's the right thing to do— don't jump to any conclusion; take it as it is."
Wow, maybe Remus should have sat for a one-on-one with Peter instead of Sirius, and a lot of a lot would've been a lot simpler.
"Yeah, but hey," Remus began to jest. "She did win me two galleons— so, that's got to count for something, yeah?" Peter broke out into another grin, and Remus tossed his cigarette butt to the ground as they headed to the greenhouses for Herbology.
"What?" Lily asked, looking up at Remus, who was eyeing the tables behind her. Lily followed his gaze— but about a hundred bodies could have his attention. The entire school sat behind them.
"Art MacMurrough looks exactly like Eve," he eventually disclosed with a smirk as he stuffed a mashed-up mess of steak and kidney pie into his mouth. For the rest of dinner, he had taken to staring at a Slytherin wizard who he had recently gotten a complete and up-close portrait of to remain forever in his mind.
"What?"
"It's uncanny," he said through his half-masticated mouthful, forcing his words to be somewhat muted. Lily paused, blinking, then turned around to locate the Slytherin wizard of topic. She pursed her lips and turned back to face Remus, a pointed — almost castigating look— being thrown his way. He swallowed down the bits of meat and pastry with a gulp of pumpkin juice.
"Remus… Just because they're both Irish doesn't mean—"
"No, they're actually cousins," he countered quickly, glancing back at the Slytherin. He tilted his head in his direction. "I don't know how I missed that one— they look exactly alike. Did you know she's related to Keelan Kinsella, too? Granted, he's got a bunch of freckles, but dark hair, eyes, pale as a ghost. They all look alike. It's uncanny."
"I know, you've said it twice," Lily mumbled as she swallowed some peas. "How did this come up?"
"Sykes told me," he answered swiftly. "We've... Well, we have similar habits. He talks a lot, too. Non-stop. You can learn much about Slytherins from him in five minutes if you can stand being around him for five minutes."
"Similar habits?"
"Yeah," he replied, bringing his two fingers to his lips and pretending to be puffing on a cigarette.
"Smoking, you mean?"
"Sure." And gambling, apparently, he wanted to add.
"Jesus."
"And did you know," Remus continued, almost as if he was in his own world. "He had a sister who went here, too."
"Who? Sykes? Sykes has an older brother."
"No, Art," he clarified.
"Yes. Bridget MacMurrough."
"Bridget MacMurrough?" Remus repeated with a frown.
"Yes," Lily said, almost perturbed. "She graduated when we were third years. She was Head Girl. I don't know if you remember her. She was actually kind of awful to me." Remus finally looked down at her.
"Was she?"
"She used call me redhead," Lily grumbled. "Never bothered to learn my name— even when she became Head Girl. Always made it a point to let me know when I forgot to brush the back of my hair, too." She rolled her eyes. "Because, apparently, there's a charm for it, but, of course, I wouldn't know because I'm a muggleborn," Lily finished off sarcastically. Remus' chin leaned inward.
"She said that?"
"Well, no, not the last bit," Lily responded. "But she implied it."
"What? Why don't I remember this?"
"People used to call her—"
"Birdy," they both said at the same time.
"You do remember her!"
"Barely," Remus admitted. "Art's sister was really like that? Why? What reason did she have?"
"I have no idea," Lily replied, taking a deep breath. She used her fork to divide the mashed peas on her plate into a design of sorts. "Always thought it was cause I was muggleborn, and she wasn't."
"Well," he began, faltering. He lifted his gaze back up to Art— and then, for whatever reason, began to scan the Slytherin table for another person. "Maybe. I don't know. I didn't know her, but Eve isn't like that— I don't think. She says things are different in Ireland."
"I highly doubt that," Lily snorted, shaking her head.
"I don't know," Remus said, shrugging. He looked down at his plate of food. "That's what she said— she didn't go into details, though."
"She should." She stared him straight in the eye, and he brought his own up to hers. "She should— I'd really love to know how and why Ireland's so different from here."
"You think she's lying?"
"Don't you?" Lily almost scoffed, her brows shooting up into her hairline, and her head leaned forward.
"I don't know," Remus answered, the sudden excitement from before disappearing as he felt his fingers twitch. Truthfully, he no longer wanted to question Eve. Not unless she gave him reason to. And it wasn't as if he knew enough about her home country to come to a conclusion of his own. "Have you ever been to Ireland, Lily?"
"No," she snorted. "My family doesn't have money to go further than Cornwall, Remus— and that's only some years, good years." Lily paused, peering up. She pointed her fork at the wizard. "Why— have you?"
"My family doesn't let me go anywhere that's not Penmon or Hogwarts," he bit back but with a disdain more directed at himself than at Lily.
Remus sighed, patting his knife's edge against his plate for a quick second. He peered back up, scanning the table for Eve.
"Reckon we don't know enough, I can ask her again. Sometimes, it takes time for her to open up about certain things. But she likes to talk about Ireland, so I can probably find a way. It was a bit tense when it all happened. It was right after I apologized, so maybe it'll be different under better circumstances. She's... I don't know, I think she's a bit nervous with people. A bit of an introvert and doesn't like confrontation. I think it scares her, or... No, maybe that's a tad much, but she kind of does this thing where she freezes and runs. So, it's a... I think if I phrase it right..." He shook his head and began to skewer at his pie again. "She'll talk about it. I'll let you know what she says." Lily's eyes narrowed on him, but he was too immersed in silver and green to take note of her sudden observatory stance. And Remus was rambling a lot about a single person, way more than he ever had before.
"You're talking about Kavanagh again," Lily pointed out.
"Again?" Remus asked, his brows knitting together. He brought his attention back to her.
"Uh-huh."
"It's all you talk about as of late," Lily continued. "Ever since you began tutoring her, really."
"Not true," Remus disagreed, focusing back on his food but disregarding the forkful of pastry he had been planning to ingest. A small heat had begun to grow underneath his cardigan— and he reckoned there had been no real reason to wear sheep's wool that day. Even though it was December. "When was the last time I spoke about her? That's ridiculous."
"Well, recently?" He nodded. "Two Mondays ago, you'd gone barmy. The next day, you begged me to let you tutor her again," Lily reminded him, a smirk growing. "Two Wednesdays ago, you'd been with her after her exam—"
"—I had my exam too."
"You waited long enough to find out Sykes had tried his hand at Transfiguration without his wand."
"That was two weeks ago," Remus grumbled. "Plus, I tutor her— every week. It's something. I don't know, it's a part of my life. Why wouldn't I talk about it?"
"You're not just talking about just that, though. It's not just tutoring."
"It is. It all leads back there."
"Uh-huh."
"What?"
"Nothing, Lupin."