Remus stepped out of the classroom with a cigarette ready to go in his hand. Though these brief breaks were often meant to stretch one's legs halfway between their two-hour-long Charms class, some had found other means to fill up the snippy recess. Over the years, stretch their legs went to stretch their lungs, and a group of them somehow managed to form what was happening right then and there.
"Enya," Remus greeted as he located the witch hanging about the portrait of the drunk monks, a company that offered ample amusement and seemed the least disturbed by their fuming sin. Especially since the smoke seemed to stall around them for a good while due to the enclosed space. "Anwen." His eyes fell upon the other inhabiting the opposite side of the painting. A cigarette was in Enya's and Anwen's hands, only the former turning to smile up at him.
"Remus," Enya returned.
"How're you?"
"Grand," she replied, still grinning. She leaned forward to press the end of her cigarette to his, and he puffed a handful of times until he could feel the smoke burn his throat. It was a trick that Ed had taught them all, seeing as he couldn't get the hang of lighting his cigarette with a wand without lighting the entire thing up. Or, maybe, it was because Enya had never gotten around to using magic for every little thing. Out of all of them, she had always trailed the most between the muggle and magical world. Using the best of both, as she often jested.
"This class is right dull," Anwen began as the smoke rose evenly from Remus' cigarette. "Theory, theory, theory— all theory."
"Yeah, there've been better topics, certainly," he added. "Was that what you lot were talking about, or did I interrupt a more interesting conversation?"
The slight didn't offend a single one of them. Enya broke out into another grin while Anwen laughed.
"No, it wasn't anything," Enya assured him. "We were just talking about Ms. Abbie O'Brien. She was this lady who would give out bonbons to children after school, always outside her house when we passed. My mum wrote this morning and sent her obituary. She passed."
"Ah, I'm sorry," Remus commiserated quietly.
"Yeah, no, it's quite all right. I didn't know her that well. I just knew her because, yeah, she used to hand out toffees, candies, and whatnot. And, you know, we didn't grow up with much, but it was lovely that we had her around, so," Enya finished her speech by taking a drag from the cigarette.
"I told Enya we can eat a bunch of bonbons tonight in honor of Ms. Abbie O'Brien," Anwen informed Remus while grinning.
"It's such a sad tale," one of the drunk monks mulled. All three of them focused their attention on it. He was leaning over heavily, his chin hanging by a thread on his palm as his eyes drew thick and lidded with every passing moment. Remus' eyes narrowed on him, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
"Is it?" Remus asked him.
"'Tis," was all it managed.
"Didn't sound like one."
"She died unmarried with no family. Everyone thought she was mad," the monk continued, repeating the story he had just heard.
"Oh," and Remus couldn't help but think that the monk had just detailed a painting of his own future. He looked back at Enya, who had not said so much as a word, and returned to finish his cigarette before Flitwick summoned them back. "So, why'd everyone think she was mad? For handing out toffees, surely that's normal?"
"No," Anwen replied, clearly listening but looking elsewhere as she did. Evidently, she had already heard this part of Ms. Abbie O'Brien's biography.
"No," Enya shook her head. "No, Ms. Abbie had a number of oddities. She was always talking to herself, and her eyes were always red— everyone thought she spent most of her day crying when she wasn't handing out candies. There was a rumor she was a banshee because of it. Being an O'Brien, too, it didn't help." Remus paused, taking in the information. What he knew of banshees didn't sound like Ms. Abbie O'Brien.
"What do you mean being an O'Brien didn't help?" Remus asked, now staring straight down at the side of Enya's face.
"Oh, well, it's quite well known that the O'Briens have a banshee," Enya stated too readily.
"As legend has it," Anwen inserted, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, but no, surely there's some truth to it," Enya responded. "At least, I don't know… It can't all be made up. If all this exists," she gestured to the castle before her with the fingers holding the cigarette, "how can we say that they don't?"
"Yeah, sounds like English shite to me," the monk muttered.
"Did you just say shite?" Anwen asked the monk, both of them glancing at one another. All he did was take a swig of his wine, smack his lips, and continue to stare out into a vastness of nothingness.
"The O'Briens have a banshee," Remus repeated. "Can you have a banshee, though?" The odd phrasing of her words was not missed by him. He had never thought of a banshee as a sort of pet, something that one could simply acquire. At least, that was most definitely not written anywhere in their books.
"Oh, no, no— you can't have a banshee. This is ancient magic from before written history. Only certain families have 'em," Enya clarified. Remus looked to Anwen and then to the monk, neither saying much as if this was something they already knew. He was beginning to wonder which Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson he had missed. There was no way, though, even if he had missed— surely, he would have read about this. This was not Potions, Herbology, or Divination— this was one of Remus' best subjects. He prided himself on knowing its contents.
"Only certain families?" He continued to quiz. "Which one's? The O'Briens and…?"
"Oh, I don't know…" Enya took a puff from her cigarette. "It's really not known how many banshees there are, truth be told. But most of the older families have one; it can't just be the O'Briens."
"Older families?" Remus glanced up at the ceiling. "How old? Like… Founders of Hogwarts old? Most of—"
"Oh, no," Enya quickly interrupted, shaking her head. "No, I meant Irish families, my bad."
"Irish families? Only the Irish have banshees?" Remus turned to Anwen, who seemed to be listening the same way a parent would listen to their child blabber about a school play they were in— only to find out that their child was playing the tree.
"Yes, of course, it's Irish magic," Enya answered sternly.
"No," Anwen jutted in, her head tilted to the side as she stared at Enya pointedly. "The Scottish have banshees, too."
"Those aren't banshees," Enya disagreed. "That's a different kind of magic. It's not the same thing. They're washerwomen."
"No, Enya," Anwen said with an exasperated sigh.
"Washerwoman?" Remus repeated in an undertone. Now, what the fuck was that? But Anwen did not seem to want to continue that line of inquiry and instead leaned her shoulder against the wall to finish off the remaining bits of her cigarette. "Wait, all banshees are Irish?" Remus asked a bit more loudly. "That can't be true."
"No, but it is," Enya affirmed, turning to fully engage him. "Like I said, it's very old Irish magic. It's not something that everyone can do. It's different."
"That's not written anywhere," Remus argued. "Why wouldn't they say that?"
"I don't know if that's something we'd want to be written everywhere," Enya responded, the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor now in a conversation of their own. "It's a very powerful kind of magic, but power is a tricky thing. It sometimes gets out of hand. We don't know if it would do us good or bad if people were knowing."
"Sure, I mean," his shoulders sank as he considered it.
"And also, whenever someone met an Irish witch, they'd think they were a banshee," Enya continued.
"That'd be right awful," Anwen agreed, finally laughing. "At least that's one stereotype you didn't have to deal with." Enya placed her fingers on her forehead, then her stomach, and then across her shoulders. Remus watched every motion, unsure of what she had just done or what it meant.
"Amen," the monk said.
Anwen's laugh fell to a grin— it seemed that this was something that the three of them knew and he did not. Again.
"Surely, no one would believe that every Irishwoman they met was a banshee," Remus commented out loud, but then they all began to laugh as yes, that would indeed be something that would happen. Especially at Hogwarts. "Merlin, that would be a bit mad, yeah?"
"God, it would," Anwen agreed.
"Language," the monk drawled. Anwen swatted her hand at it.
Remus began to imagine Enya as a banshee, but she did not fit the picture. She was not green and shrieking. As a matter of fact, the two witches standing with him were some of the most laid-back individuals he had ever met in his entire life. Nothing really bothered them— comments, jibes, quirks — they were always met with a laugh or a grin. They had a decent sense of humor and would always pick fun at one another. There was nothing banshee-like about them. No, Enya Fitzgerald most definitely did not fit the requirements to be a banshee. But then, Remus continued to think over all the other Irish he had met in his lifetime. There had been some at Hogwarts that had graduated, some who were younger, but the only other one he could think of at that moment was Eve Kavanagh. The thought alone made him chuckle— imagine Eve Kavanagh was a banshee? Ha, that'd be one for the books.
Wait…
His face fell, although the witches before him did not realize it as they were occupied with themselves. Was Eve Kavanagh a banshee? Surely, he could not just assume. Surely, this was precisely what Enya and himself had been referring to and what happened to Ms. Abbie O'Brien. One could not just suppose that someone was a banshee based on a shallow and inadequate amount of facts. Whatever laughs they were having, being a banshee came with severe consequences. Death. He paused, pondering it for a moment. Surely, he'd be in the wrong to believe Eve Kavanagh was a banshee based off of the mere detail that she was Irish… That was what they were talking about when they talked about prejudice, right?
The older Irish families, Enya had said— was Eve's family in this category? Had Enya been referring to the Ancient Five when she had said this? Eve had to be one of the older Irish families— who the fuck else would the Ancient Five be? They were called the Ancient Five, for Merlin's sake.
I would have known, I would have known if she was going to die, Eve had told him. Remus looked at the portrait. How could Eve assert something with such certainty if it had been a lie? Initially, he thought it was because she had been a part of the plan, but he also knew her to be innocent. It was a paradox. A sickening paradox that had driven him mad. If Eve had not been a part of the plan, how could she have known Lily would not die? Were banshees not the same creatures who would scream when someone died— that's what they did, no?
Remus did not come to any one singular conclusion as he stood there— but the thought stained his mind. He realized he had not read about banshees since his third year, and he was left with relatively little to remember. Also, what was all this about it being an Irish thing? Why did Anwen Talgo seem unfazed and apathetic by all of it? As if she already knew… This coupled with the blood politics that Eve had briefly dropped on him created cause for concern and curiosity. Was he really that ignorant about the country that neighbored them for centuries? Well, he must be. All this thrown together was just another reminder of how little he knew about them. He decided he would have to fix that, if only to salvage himself from a potential fumble. If only to have something to talk about with Eve.
"If Ms. Abbie O'Brien wasn't a banshee, what was she?" Anwen asked Enya, breaking Remus of his thoughts.
"Oh, I don't know, lonely, maybe," Enya said. "Or schizophrenic." Remus blinked— now, what the fuck was that? But, this time, Anwen caught Remus' wrinkled expression.
"Mental," Anwen uncovered for him, pointing a finger to her head. "It's a muggle disease."
Wow, the more he found out, the more he realized he didn't know much of anything.
"PADFOOT," James cried, swiping his hand over his nose a couple of times as the tobacco stench began filling the enclosed room. Refusing to surrender, Sirius carried forward with the stolen vice, nestling into the corner of the window seat between his and James' beds. "Padfoot, I swear—" But the Head Boy's commands were brushed away when suddenly Sirius opened the window.
"Merlin," Peter moaned, grabbing his comforter and wrapping himself in it as the wind blasted through their dorm.
"What the fuck are you doing?" James interrogated, gaping at Sirius with a hanging mouth.
"Smoking."
"Why!?"
"With the window open," Peter grumbled. The Baltic blast turned his words into icy smoke themselves. He clutched the blankets even tighter to his body while simultaneously shaking his head in disbelief.
"Close the fucking window, Padfoot," James demanded again. He crossed his arms over his chest, but the draft from the window wasn't aiming at his chest. Instead, it attacked him right at the back of his head and neck. He scowled as the hairs on his arms stood up, and he was forced to rip down the sleeves of his jumper.
It was as if he had spoken to a wall. Peter twisted in his makeshift cave of blankets to peer up at him with an almost feverish, pained stare. Sirius' only response was a bout of smoke pushed out the window.
"Okay," James announced, breaking the mute but desperate bargaining between Sirius and Peter. He clapped his hands together as he shot straight up. Remus had just returned and entered the dormitory, briefly glancing at James but shrugging him off and continuing to his bed. "I can finally say what I've been meaning to say!"
James flipped his legs over the edge of the bed and grinned at Peter and Sirius. Neither of the two paid him any attention; instead, their attentions had turned to Remus as he began to discard his uniform in replacement for muggle clothing. Unbeknownst to James, Sirius wondered if Remus would put two and two together that the cigarette in his hand was actually his. And Peter was on the verge of requesting Remus to knock Sirius out the window so they could finally close it. Both of them waited, but James was not, at all.
"We need to do something!"
"Do something?" Peter repeated back slowly, turning his stare to James and leaning forward so he could get a better look at him.
"Like what?" Sirius asked, canting his head to the side to meet James' gaze.
"Why the fuck's the window open?" Remus finally questioned in a half-shout of sorts while pointing an index finger at Sirius.
"Took you long enough," Peter muttered.
"And what the fuck is he on about?" Remus added, shifting the same finger so that it now pointed at James.
"'Cause James says it stinks," Sirius answered, lifting the cigarette to Remus, who did not relent the contorted expression for a second. "And 'cause James wants to do something, you know?" Sirius wiggled his brows. "Something."
"So?" Remus asked, standing stiffly. "Just charm the smell away— or charm the window to keep the cold air out!" He kicked his shoes under the bed, and though he wasn't looking at any of them, he splayed out his hands and continued his rant. "Just fucking charm something! There's a billion and one charms— and you chose to freeze us to death!?"
"No one else has a problem with it," Sirius replied as the puff of smoke escaped him and trailed into the room. Remus turned to glance over his shoulder, eyes squinted and scanning over the other two members of the party. Peter visibly trembled underneath the hoard of cloth he caged himself into, and James sneezed as the tobacco flushed his nostrils. Remus returned his focus to Sirius with a slightly tilted head and pursed lips.
With a heavy sigh, he threw his hands up in an act of surrender. Remus reached for his wand and sketched out a spell along the arch that held the window pane in place. It immediately blocked out all and anything short of habitable away and out. Sirius rolled his eyes, not at all deterred by the grand display of heroism, and continued to hang himself halfway out the window without a care in the world.
"Thank Merlin, Moony," Peter praised as he let the blankets drop back to the mattress.
"Okay— so who wants to hear my idea?" James attempted again to place the spotlight back on him as the warmth settled into the room. They all looked at him, and a bright grin crossed his face.
Remus, now seated on his bed, pulled a cigarette out of his bedside table drawer. He, however, charmed the cigarette itself so that it didn't produce any unpleasant scent that would have James sneezing and coughing up a play of sickness and illness. As for the ashes, well, he'd deal with that later.
"Show off," he heard Sirius mumble under his breath. Remus lit the cigarette with a smirk but didn't bother to respond. "You're going to tell us anyway, Prongs."
"Yeah, we're all here now," Peter pointed out.
"No, now we have to wait for Godric himself," Remus mocked, causing both Sirius and Peter to break out into a short chortle.
"Okay… What if we created spider bombs?" James finally disclosed, his mouth slightly parted, his hands held out as if he were displaying the creation in question to them.
Sirius opened his mouth and then closed it, his eyes thin and jumping about the room. Peter's curved spine bent even more than before, and Remus inhaled so long on the cigarette that he didn't have to be the first to comment on what James assumed was a masterpiece.
"What the fuck do you mean?" Peter commenced, taking the lead. "You mean— like… Spider spiders? Bombs full of spiders, Prongs?"
"Yes," James played along, stifling a laugh.
"Real ones?"
"Yes."
"Oh, fuck that," Sirius spat out. "Fuck that— I would… Prongs, I'll stick a spider bomb up your arsehole with all the eggs, too, and close your glory hole shut if you even think so much as—"
"Where?" Remus broke, a slow smile building on his lips.
"Everywhere," James answered. "Anywhere."
"Elaborate."
"Yes, please," Sirius begged, placing his cheek into his palm while sporting a distant stare. All he could imagine was the library crawling with spiders on every book, bind, bird, and bloke there was. Because while that had been their Halloween prank in some way, at least the critters had been imaginary and isolated to one specific castle location. To a particular group, but James wasn't referring to that— he said anywhere, everywhere, and real. Sirius was not having it.
"First, I was only taking the piss," James explained, standing up from his bed to pace about the room. "It's not going to be spider spiders, no. What kind of sick bastard do you take me for?" Sirius scoffed absentmindedly as he took another drag of the cigarette. Remus' eyes narrowed on James' face, and his expression seemed a lot like he had something he could entertain that question with— but he wasn't going to, not right then, at least. "It's going to be spiderwebs, just webs— no spiders."
"Thank Merlin," Peter sighed.
"We plant them around the castle, yeah?" Remus lifted his chin and began to nod slowly, indicating that he was listening. Sirius left the cigarette to dangle slightly to the side. "Anytime anyone steps on 'em— boom!" James made a display of the words with his hands as fictitious fireworks. "Web."
"We're going to catch people in spiderwebs?" Peter asked for clarification, collapsing against his headboard. He briefly glanced up at the ceiling, then shared a look with Remus.
"Yeah," James said excitedly. "Exactly! Great way to put it, Wormtail!"
"So, we're the spiders?" Sirius inquired, his faraway stare now refocusing on the theatrics at play. James paused, his face briefly faltering as he considered it, and then he nodded.
"Yeah, you could think of it like that."
"It's not terrible…" Remus commented.
"Is it possible?" Peter asked, all three turning or shifting to look at Remus.
"What? Transfigure something into a spiderweb?" Remus shrugged. "Easy enough— James can do it, but the tricky part will be figuring out the explosion part so that it's large enough to encompass a certain area." His eyes moved from Peter to the window between their beds. "Which, if they're in different areas… Each one needs to be configured to the space— unless I can figure out a way to make it automatic." Remus returned his gaze to Peter with a renewed focus brightening them. "So, yeah, we just need to make these bombs look like the ground— wherever they are. Or else, it's going to be obvious — no one'll step on 'em — and then structure it to its surroundings."
"Okay, so… Prongs does the Transfiguration bit, Moony does the exploding and expanding bit," Peter listed off out loud, using his fingers to count the tasks. He caught sight of Remus' skeptical peering. "What? You're good with spatial charms." Peter glimpsed back at Remus' work that had managed to keep their dormitory from becoming a second Siberia.
"Atmospheric charm," Remus corrected him, tilting his head towards the window. "But yeah, I can do the exploding and expanding bit, as well."
"Yeah— and here's the best part," James continued— and his grin could no longer grow any more prominent, so his face became red as a beet, and without the cool from the window entering the room coupled with the boiler in the center of their room— he was seared hot. "We each get a set, and we don't tell one another where we put them."
There was a pause.
Then, Remus broke into a chuckle, Sirius scratched his head, and Peter's mouth dropped back open.
"We're pranking each other?" Sirius quizzed, his eyes narrowing on James.
"Yeah," James said, hunching his shoulders. He leaned against his bedpost. "I figured— you know, it's only fair after…Halloween."
"What?" Sirius managed through a strained laugh. "This— we're going to make ourselves look like idiots? On purpose?"
"Yeah," James confirmed, nodding quickly. "Exactly!"
"That makes no sense," Sirius said, the forced grin failing. "Why the fuck would we do that? We don't do that. We've never done that!"
Well, Remus remarked internally, holding back an eye roll.
"Wait, I'm still trying to piece it together— I mean, I don't see… So, we make ourselves the laughingstock of the school? To what? Makes others feel better?"
"Yeah!"
"No," Remus said before Sirius could continue, shaking his head. "That's— everyone's going to think we fucked up our own prank."
"Wait, I feel like this is the brainstorming phase still," Peter intervened.
"It is," James agreed, combing a hand through his hair. "In essence."
"Okay," Remus noted under his breath, but he could not lie— his fingertips were itching to begin scavenging through his treasure of books to find a way to make this work for them.
"That's why I needed all of you to be here," he informed them. "I wasn't really sure where I was going with it."
"It'll be a laugh, at least, " Peter noted, shrugging.
"Fuck, will it," Sirius agreed.
"Wait," Remus interrupted— the second wait to be hailed throughout the short duration of a smoke. He searched his thoughts, which resulted in them sitting in silence as he mulled over the plan that had James jumping and nearly falling off his bed before Remus' return from Arithmancy. "So— okay, so… If one of us gets trapped, we'll know how to get out. Are we purposefully meant to step on these bombs?"
"No, it's supposed to be random," James answered.
"Okay." Remus blinked, his face beginning to crinkle as he replayed all the possible scenarios in his head. "And what happens if someone else gets trapped? And what if— we can't…" He lifted his gaze from the ground to James. "There's some quiet places in this castle, mate. Can they get out or…?"
"As I said, I didn't get that far," James admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. Both Peter and Remus exchanged a wary glance. "Each man for himself?"
"You're Head Boy," Remus reminded him. "How is that supposed to make people feel better?"
"Yeah, imagine being stuck in a web while on your way to the loo," Peter tacked on, frowning as he formed his own scenarios in his imagination.
"Right…" James trailed off.
"Let's keep it to areas with decent foot traffic, yeah?" Sirius offered, flinging the cigarette out the window and turning so his feet were on the ground. "And… well…" He scratched the underside of his jaw as he looked at Remus. "How the fuck do you get out of a spider's web?"
"That's a good question," Remus answered, examining the pile of books stacked by his bedside. He scrubbed a hand over his lips and chin.
"I know it," Peter almost shouted, raising his hand. "We studied this in Care of Magical Creatures— I know how!"
"Great, that means any seventh year in Care of Magical Creatures will be able to release people," Remus said, nodding his head while pointing at Peter. "Good, that's good."
"You see?" James attempted to show all of them, but there was nothing to exhibit in the first place. "We'll have to help one another— it creates unity!" He cheered with his fists in the air. Sirius rolled his eyes, almost falling backward out the window. "We give people a problem, and they have to work together to solve it— it's like a team exercise! It's brilliant!"
"Well, unless a fucking Slytherin sees a Hufflepuff caught in a web," Sirius retorted dryly.
Remus pursed his lips, eyeing Sirius for a quick second. Instead of putting his own set of assertions in, he simply took to finishing his cigarette and then threw it to the ground, expelling it from the room with a wave of a wand and two charms. He leaned into his pillows, looking up to the burgundy canopy, and placed his hand over his stomach. A deep breath lifted his palm.
What would the Slytherins do?
"If the web's in their way," Remus began, speaking with a distant voice. "They'll be quick to get rid of it. Dare I say, the quickest."
"True," Peter agreed.
"Sure," Sirius ceded. "But it's got to be in their way."
"Right, and this all has to happen before the holidays," James continued to drive on.
"Mate," Remus expelled in an exasperated breath, his head leaning forward as his eyes widened.
"That's barely enough time," Peter groaned.
"It has to— we have to do something before Holiday," James championed. "To lift the spirits, yeah? Christmas spirit, come on!"
"Fuck it," Sirius said, fully chuckling. "Let's do it on the fucking train." James' face went blank. "We've never done a prank on the Hogwarts Express."
"It'll be legendary." James glanced at each of them, his eyes glistening. "Reckon, we can pull it off?"
"If we get on the train before everyone else," Sirius answered.
"But then we'll each know, more or less, where we've put them," Peter pointed out the flaw in his plan.
"We can take turns," Sirius amended. "Wormtail goes first, and then me— we can get there at night when the train rolls in. In our transfigured forms, we can go through Gunhilda and get onto the train— no one will see us."
"What if you get stuck in one of my traps?" Peter continued to interrogate him.
"Okay, we each take a part of the train— there are four parts, four of us," Sirius detailed. "Wormtail takes back quarter, I take the next, and so on."
"And us?" Remus asked, jutting his chin to James. "When do we go?"
"Then, Prongs— you're Head Boy, you get down there a bit earlier, make something up, take the top quarter—"
"—I can do that—"
"Right, and Moony," Sirius rolled on, looking at the last of them. "You use the cloak. You take the remaining section, but try to be one of the first on the train."
"Right—"
"And we make the spiderweb bombs look like normal objects," James further instructed. "Anything— newspapers, books, candies. If someone touches it by accident— BOOM."
"Now," Remus said, pointing a finger at James. "This is a brilliant idea."
"Well, if Moony said it," Sirius laughed.
"And we're back!" James cheered, clapping his hands with a smack so loud that it indeed would have left a sting if he wasn't overcome with fire.
"One question," Remus interrupted their cheering, waving a hand between all of them. "Why?"
"He wants to pull a prank," Peter answered for James, shrugging with the silliest, toothiest grin planted on his face. "We haven't in a while."
"Yeah, and it's a good prank— people'll be grateful to those who helped," James added.
"Mostly us," Sirius inserted, smirking. "Because us and the handful of seventh years in Care of Magical Creatures will know how to disentangle the web."
"Yes," Remus acknowledged slowly, the sound a drawl that could mimic the sprawl of cigarette smoke. "But why? We don't know if this'll necessarily work out how we want. It's a brilliant prank, sure, but unity?" He sighed. "Yeah, that— we'll have to see how that plays out. But what has you reaching for a cloud nine prank?" Remus stared at James with one of his brows raised. "Helping each other out? Unity?" He repeated James' words, but those were not James' words— those were not in James' vocabulary. Sirius, too, caught on, eyes narrowing, and Peter kept glancing out to the other two for some sort of cue to tell him whether he was right or wrong in his own understanding of things.
"I've got myself a date," James finally admitted in a sheepish voice, shrugging a single shoulder. "Possibly, you know… if this works out."
Remus rolled his eyes, holding his head in his hand. Sirius' head pulled back as his shoulders pushed forward, and Peter's eyebrows squeezed together. After a short pause, Sirius finally turned with a sigh to face James full-on.
"Listen, Prongs…" He wet his lips, clearly attempting to find ways to stall. "Whatever sorry attempt this is—"
"—It's not—"
"You could just snog a bit," Peter continued, drawing off Sirius' speech.
"Yeah, and not make it into a huge display," Sirius added.
"Please," Remus pleaded, staring at James— who stood there with a slightly parted mouth as he took in their words. "Don't lead whoever she is on. Be honest, yeah? With yourself, too."
"We don't need a second Charlotte," Peter reminded him.
"No, I don't think grand-daddy Potter can take another go," Sirius joked, adding a short snort at the end as the corner of his mouth lifted. James blinked.
"I didn't even tell you who I have a date with!"
They took a second to gather their thoughts, each one debating—thinking thoroughly through who it could be that James had bothered to let go of all his so-called duties to actually ask out on a date. He had proclaimed, multiple times, that he was too busy to be fucked with something of the sort.
"Yeah, who the fuck are you dating?" Remus finally came out with it, bringing his attention back to James, who lifted his chin and attempted to stare down at them as if they were his subjects. Except Remus sat two beds away from James, so it only made it easier for him to survey his features. His eyes narrowed on James'— the silence was eery. Remus looked into the distance and cocked his head slightly to the side. Now, it came together. The conversation from its beginning to its end. The brainstorm had made its round. "No."
"Who is it?" Peter inquired but then turned to James. "Who is it?"
"No," James spat at them. "Now, I'm not telling you lot anything."
"Why the fuck not?" Sirius exclaimed, his nose scrunching slightly.
"Because you wanted to have a go at me— again! You'll have to figure it out."
"I'm not figuring out shit," Sirius told him, scoffing. "When you break up— I'll find out then."
"It's Lily," Remus briefed them, rolling his eyes. "He's being a dramatic tosser because it's Lily."
"Oh, thank Merlin," Sirius said under his breath.
"A bit boring," Remus gibed, looking James straight in the eye.
"Didn't have to make it a big deal, you know?" Sirius interrupted, shaking his head as he came too.
"I wasn't—"
"Yeah, could've just told us like a normal person," Peter finished for them.
"I was trying to," James finally said, running a hand through his hair. "I've been— I've been trying to find a way, but you three won't shut the fuck up!"
"How did this happen?" Remus questioned.
"Yeah, I thought she hated us because of Halloween," Peter pointed out.
"She does," Sirius told him, shrugging when Remus threw him a dagger or two to inform him that she did not hate them. At least she did not hate him— Remus.
"That's why we're doing this prank," Remus filled the other two in. "That's the condition— can't you see? It's bloody obvious." He chortled. "Unity."
"Still," Sirius muttered, itching away at his neck. "How'd James even manage so much as a condition?
"I don't know," James answered for himself. "I got lucky."
"How lucky?" Peter asked, a sly grin appearing on his lips.
"Right, I have coursework," Remus abruptly announced.
"Oh no, Moony's got the pox now," Sirius mocked.
"But you just got here!" James protested.
"Yeah, and I genuinely have coursework," Remus repeated shortly while pulling out a pair of trainers instead of his loafers.
None of them spoke, each of them watching him work in silence. Once ready, he walked past James but sighed, turning to glimpse him out of the corner of his eye. A long expression was painted on his friend's face, which informed him he had ended the party on short notice. With a slight smirk, he placed a hand on James' shoulder and said, "I hope you know this doesn't change the fact that I'm still her date to Slughorn's Christmas Party." James' face fell, and Sirius began to chuckle as Remus continued his journey to the library.
Of course, he could have done his coursework in their dormitory or in the common room. But he wasn't going to sit around somewhere while he and Peter discussed the intricacies and details of just how far James' luck extended. Especially not with Lily. There were just some things Remus did not need to know about— and his ache for knowledge didn't reach there.
Well, his ache for knowledge did reach there.
Not about James and Lily, per se.
But what was the point if it was only meant to be imaginary?
"That was cold," James whispered.
"Ice cold," Sirius agreed.
She approached the top of the steps, pausing momentarily to take in the image before her. Several occupants were sitting on the velvety emerald upholstery, and a low roaring fire tinted the room with the same color. It made the faces of those sprawled out amongst the furniture look like their house's sigil, their scowls and grimaces only emphasizing it further. It was a familiar scene that had become attached to a poem about secondary homes.
Releasing herself from the dungeon's impression, she straightened her back and began to descend the steps. Her footfalls were quiet, not a shuffle as her toes pressed down first against the plush carpet. She walked alongside the shadow, hiding from the other's eyes.
"Eve!" Her name echoed throughout the room like an unwelcome church bell. She nearly jumped at the sound, halting immediately. Fuck, she thought to herself, and yet, she found herself politely turning around with a forced smile on her lips.
"Evan," she greeted back through slightly clenched teeth and the best behavior she could muster. The memories of his less-than-friendly fire drill still rang in her head.
"Join us," he offered enthusiastically, oblivious to her vexation as he shifted over and gestured to the space he had just freed for her on the couch.
Fuck, she repeated, gulping. In another dimension, she would have spotted him and returned back to her dormitory. But she was starved, aching for something to eat— and she thought that he had enough company surrounding him that her presence would have gone unnoticed. In another world, she may have scowled at him, told him to bugger off, or straight out ignored him. But that wasn't her world. In her world, she would do as he told her. Because Evan, too, would have ignored her if he wasn't playing at something. And Eve was bent on beating him, whether she knew it or not. She didn't know if playing friends beside the fire would do much, but her legs were split between two river banks, and she would have to suffer. This was part of her game.
"Okay," she replied, making her way over to where he sat.
Evan watched her every moment, her footsteps making no sound like she was trying not to wake up a three-eyed dragon. Her eyes were corpse-like, staring past his shoulder and at a horizon that only she could see. Perfect. She was everything no one else was or could be.
She sat down uneasily, folding her skirt underneath her legs. Her eyes flickered over the wizards sitting across from her. Not one of the three, the third being Eve, had bothered to acknowledge or greet the other. Instead, Edmund Nott, sitting diagonally from her, gawked at her with his head supported by only his index finger. There was a fire in his eyes— but Eve was not good at reading people, so she wrote it off. To his right, Cyrus Baddock stared curiously, rather than scrutinizingly, at her. She was the hen in the cockpit— but something was off about this configuration.
Mainly— what the fuck was Cyrus Baddok doing with Evan Rosier and Edmund Nott?
"We were just discussing with Baddok about the muggleborn that they appointed as the department head for the DME, and we were wondering what he had to say about it," Evan broke the silence, all three pairs of eyes shifting towards him.
Eve blinked, eyes darting between the three of their faces.
Why the fuck would Cyrus Baddok, son of Nigeria's Ambassador to the British Isles, give a fuck about who they appointed as the Head of the Department of Magical Education in Britain?
"Okay, I see," she said cordially, pressing her fingernails into her thighs.
No, she did not. Actually, that was part of the many problems coursing through her at that very moment. Because there was something not right about this picture. Cyrus Baddok did not concern himself with Evan Rosier, not really. Besides being a year younger than them, his company had often been contained to those like Leo Jackknife, Moira Palancher, and Beon Shafiq. On occasion, it extended to Edmund Nott, Regulus Black, and Rosalia Selwyn— but never Evan.
"And I saw you and began to wonder— would the Irish ever do such a thing?" Evan detailed. His eagerness to pull something out of her mind snapped her in half. Her eyes darted around the group, slowly growing aware of what she had walked into.
"Ireland?" Cyrus asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes, the Ancient Five rule Ireland for centuries. All of them purebloods. No one else can take up a position," Evan explained.
Well, not... Sure, that's one way to put it, she wanted to say, but Evan was also full of shite because Evan Rosier had never stepped foot in Ireland, nor had he ever shown any interest in the country before. So, really, her concerns could be better explained with a more general what the fuck? Eve reached her hand up to pinch and tug at her ear as she glanced at Cyrus.
"Is that so? Impressive," Cyrus mused, catching her glance. But something told her that Cyrus Baddok cared more about the perfectly tailored shirt on his back than the blood in her veins. "Hard to keep a bloodline pure for so long."
Because it's not, she wanted to tell him, but it seemed the younger Slytherin was playing along and, at most, entertaining the other two for sheer amusement. She almost wanted to buy him a drink for it, too. Of course, Nigerian-born Cyrus and Irish-born Eve were both on the same cruise, it seemed, but of course. So, she sent him a look that almost wrote it all out for him: the only reason everyone thinks the family line is pure is cause those without magic get different variations of the last name. Same family, though, you know? But how was Eve supposed to break the news that every Murphy and Morrow were her family, too. There was a boat load of Murphys, too.
"We have different, you know," she attempted to play along, no longer cordial but now indifferent to the little charade. "Different ways of doing things."
"It's an oligarchy," Evan filled him in, smirking. "The Ancient Five hold the top positions and vote amongst themselves— Master of this, that, and Minister. They don't just let anybody vote, you see?"
Bastardized, Eve commented, except the matter of voting in Ireland was far more complicated than just five people voting. Yes, the top positions were voted and approved by the Ancient Five, but even being selected as an applicant for the role required voting from the, well, from a shit ton of people— the entire kinship, clan, all its septs, and branches had to vote first. Her father was born Chief of the Kavanagh Clan with all the responsibilities that came with it, sure, but he was not born Master of Coin. He had gone through the arduous process of proving himself the most worthy of their kinship to their kinship. Then proving his potential, once more, to the other Ancient Five. Honestly, it was hell on Earth, and rumor had it that the process could take years. Anyway, that was only scratching the surface. She would need an entire canvas to draw out how they conducted such matters in Ireland, and honestly, she didn't have the time. No one did; that's why no one had a fucking clue.
The watered-down version would have to do.
"Is that so?" Cyrus inquired, leaning back against the couch with an all too bored expression.
"Mhm," was all she let on, nodding slightly.
Her eyes fluttered once again to the two at fault for putting her there — Edmund and Evan — both inspecting her. But it had been a mistake, for the entire atmosphere flipped in mere seconds. She was no hen but a mouse in a lion's den. And it was not Evan that put her on edge, it was Edmund and the absolute poison leaking out of his eyes as he glared at her.
"Hm," Cyrus mused from opposite her. "I suppose you have a point, Rosier. Maybe, that makes more sense for Britain. Someone's got to clean up this mess."
Even though Cyrus was now addressing Evan, Edmund continued to pick at her face. His fingers were rubbing at his chin, obviously pondering on something she had not witnessed. And for some reason, she did not think it had anything to do with whoever the fuck was the Head of the Department of Magical Education.
"Politically, it's all possible. We just need to want it," Edmund informed them, still fixated on Eve. "We vote in the right people, endorse the right people." He finally turned to glance at Cyrus. "Nigeria has a lot of say. We could really benefit from your help."
"Benefit? You mean have my father announce it?" Cyrus inquired, having to hold back an eye roll. "The right people?" His eyes began to narrow as he tried to understand Edmund's words. "And may I ask— who are the right people?"
"You know, those who are most qualified," Edmund clarified. "With a history of magic, being raised in it and all— those like you and me, Baddok."
"Purebloods," Evan inserted.
"That'll never happen," Cyrus scoffed. "The world's changing. There are more half-bloods now than purebloods— in Britain, at least."
I fucking hate politics, Eve concluded for herself.
"Half-bloods will do," Edmund amended quickly as he caught on to Cyrus' loosening grip.
"Yes, it will happen," Evan countered, ignoring Edmund. Each word separated by a breath of air. Eve warily watched him flex his fingers from the corner of her eye. They were goading the wizard— trying to either convince him or interrogate him on something.
Why?
"It's a fine line though, don't want to be one of those blood supremacists," Cyrus chuckled but immediately faltered, his face dropping as no one else made a sound. "What? You don't actually believe…" His words never did reach a finale.
"There are people who believe in it," Evan began in an ominously low voice. "As you said, we need to retake control."
"It's not about blood, it's about restructure," Edmund fabricated with caution, eyeing Evan to ensure he followed his lead. "And we react properly. Voting, advocation, endorsement. Proper political alleys."
"I can see what I can do," Cyrus half-assed promised, shrugging. "I'll speak with my father when I return home for Holiday, but he works for the Nigerian Ministry— not the British. So, I can't be certain."
"And you, Baddok?" Evan questioned, staring him directly in the eye.
"And me?"
A tense silence ensued, informing them that Cyrus would not budge past what his family had told him.
"If you could," Edmund intervened, his gaze darting between them. "We — my father, grandmother — we'd be very pleased to know we have your family's endorsement." Cyrus finished with a curt nod.
Eve blinked and wondered how long they would repeat ancient tales, the same stories for centuries. Except, this was not an ancient tale or a story. As she had known since she walked into it, this was something entirely different. But, another part of her was denying the truth— even though her blood curdled as it dawned. Eventually, she would have to come to terms with the fact that Evan Rosier had summoned her to a recruitment of sorts. There had been rumors and whispers in the darkness that meant nothing to many people. Her father, who worked between Ireland and England, denied them to her kin when they inquired, calling them myths.
But what if they aren't just rumors? Eve asked herself, still observing their faces as they looked upon one another.
"Um," she began, all of them going quiet to look at her. "I think—"
"Excuse us, Kavanagh, we're being so rude. Did you have something else to attend to?" Edmund interrupted. She focused on him as she realized her attempt to excuse herself turned into her being kicked out. Well, no, Edmund was kicking her out. Cyrus and Evan did not seem the least bit perturbed by her presence, but they said nothing. Of course not, Evan had used her to achieve his means, to probe what he wanted of Cyrus, and then she had become useless. As it went.
"I have a meeting," she responded, smiling pathetically.
"With who?" Evan blurted out. All of a sudden, any proper talk of politics was thrown into the rubbish as he interrogated his pawn. The other two turned with twisted faces, completely jarred by the unexpected roughness.
"Go on, then," Edmund said, waving his hand as if to nudge her away.
"She can stay," Evan asserted, turning to look at Edmund.
"She can go," Edmund returned.
There was something else beyond Cyrus Baddok's interrogation going on.
"I'll leave you three to it, then," she told them, standing up and not bothering to look at them anymore.
"Kavanagh," Cyrus saluted her. He was the only one to say anything as she departed.
Although he had made it seem like he was ignoring her, Evan watched as she traversed the room and disappeared through the wall. He leaned against the armrest, his elbow pressed against it as he rubbed his fingers over his lips.
"Lovely witch," Cyrus commented. "Very polite, well-mannered." He went utterly ignored as Edmund studied Evan.
"Yes, she's a proper pureblood witch," Evan mused. "I just wish I knew where it is she's running off to."
"Why? She's not off to war," Edmund tantalized, scowling. "Not any of your business, I reckon."
"Ouf, Nott," Cyrus said, almost chuckling. "Easy, mate." His' head flinched back slightly, puzzled by Edmund's sudden agitation. "He's clearly taken by her."
"I'm going to make her my wife," Evan announced proudly as if it was a fact set in stone.
"You're going to make her your wife?" Cyrus repeated, and then a grin broke out on his face. "That's brilliant— we should celebrate!" Now, this was the kind of thing those like Cyrus Baddok liked to hear.
"He hasn't even proposed," Edmund spewed, shaking his head. "Hasn't asked her father, hasn't done anything to make it official. It's all in his head."
Evan licked his lips but took a deep breath and lifted his chin.
"I'm waiting for Christmas."
"Lovely time for an engagement," Cyrus agreed.
"Except, they could say no," Edmund inserted.
"They won't reject, not Eve," Evan bit back.
"I wouldn't be so certain," Edmund disagreed, a finger drumming against his thigh as he clenched his jaw. Cyrus sat back in his seat slowly, eyes scanning the two in front of him. Now, he felt like he had walked into a lion's den. "They could reject."
"I am certain they won't," Evan insisted, leaning forward.
"There may be other suitors."
"Like who?"
"I don't know," Edmund riddled, shrugging. "Maybe, Regulus."
He could've taken a knife and driven it straight into Evan's stomach.
"Regulus?" Evan spat out. "But he's a child— he still has another year at school."
"I think—" but Cyrus was cut off quickly. He glanced around the room, searching, prying for a way out. This was no longer politics. Something else was amiss among these two.
"They wouldn't be married for another two years," Evan growled, his teeth grinding as the thought dug further and further.
"Narcissa Black was married to Malfoy in her seventh year— and he had graduated," Edmund reminded him.
"Yes, I know, she's my fucking cousin," Evan spat at him. "I haven't heard a thing about this. Why are you— you're fucking lying!"
"You know the Blacks have always wanted to marry one of their own to the Irish. Orion Black already had his foot through the door when he learned of Eve years ago. She was supposed to be betrothed to the blood traitor."
"Wait," Cyrus interjected, holding his hands up to them. He grimaced as he tried to piece together this one. "Wait— that's not right." Edmund held his breath as Evan shifted to look at him. "Orion Black wanted Sirius Black to marry Sophia Blanchet or one of the Lestranges' daughters. He doesn't care for the Irish. He cares for the French."
"You fucking liar," Evan spewed at Edmund, standing up. If it hadn't been for their company, he would have his wand pointed straight at his neck. "You want to play games, do you? You want to play games with me?"
"Watch who you speak to," Edmund immediately returned, standing up. Cyrus' eyes widened, and he felt this was precisely why Eve Kavanagh had made the right move to excuse herself— maybe the Irish witch had seen too much of this drama and called it quits. He should have taken the chance to join her to wherever she had run off to.
"I'm not lying. They are a comparable and compatible family," Edmund argued.
"What, and we're not?" Evan flustered, his nostrils flaring.
"Well, your family is too social for Duncan's taste."
"Too social?" Evan repeated in a growl.
"They're more isolated, keep to themselves—"
"You do host the New Year's party every year," Cyrus intervened, immediately regretting his words as Evan's expression turned him to stone. He bit on his own tongue as he watched a vein popping on Evan's neck.
"Have you met Dervilia Kavanagh!? She bloody loves me!" Evan exclaimed, his entire face reddening. "All she does is dress up and go to parties and balls and dinners with my mother— the Kavanaghs may not be social, but the MacMahons certainly are. And Dervilia may be married to a Kavanagh, but she is still a MacMahon."
"Regulus is still the better match," Edmund drove the dagger even deeper.
"Say that again," Evan challenged him, his hand reaching for his pocket to lift out his wand. But Edmund only smirked as he looked down at it— for he wanted to hurt Evan the same way Evan had hurt him, by shredding his little plan into pieces.
"You know," Edmund mused, tilting his head. "Come to think of it, Baddok's right— Orion is more taken by the French…" He tapped his foot against the floor. "Reckon, I'd be a better match for Eve Kavanagh."
"I could be wrong," Cyrus said in a low voice, peering up at Evan.
"Enough," Evan demanded, a menacing pause ensuing his radiating words.
He turned away from them and looked deep into the green licks of the fire. The inside of his cheeks began to bleed as he bit down on them. The image of his cousin's head smashing against the fireplace's broad overmantle stained him. The image of Edmund Nott burning in those flames haunted him. He couldn't get it out, and despite knowing better, he felt the corner of his lip flip into an ominous half-smile. His company shared a look with one another as they watched a crazed, manic glimmer glow within the glaciers of Evan's eyes. And that was a look Edmund had seen before— that was a look when Evan had a plan to ensure things went his way.
Evan walked over to Edmund.
"You won't win," he whispered to him. "You already fucking lost."
Edmund froze, and Cyrus shifted in his seat, although he pretended not to hear most of what had transpired between them.
When Evan left, it was just Edmund and Cyrus left together.
"That was—"
"My sincerest apologies, Baddok," Edmund began, turning to look at him. "That was completely inappropriate. Evan has—"
"Evan is fucking crazy," Cyrus concluded for him.
And Edmund could not argue, nor could he help that his own envy had made something spin inside of Evan. He could also not help feeling like an utter failure— for both of them had been assigned the role to recruit, and they had just done a miserable job of doing just that. So far, they had nothing to offer of their promises. Nothing to show, and he didn't know where to look next. It was just before Holiday, and they had little time to bring anything else to the table, anything substantial. Three months of just dollying about. But mostly, he didn't know what to do next to change Evan's mind— for Evan, once he was on a path, there was no getting him off that path. All he could see was that. It flooded and blinded him— Edmund knew that better than anyone, for Edmund Nott knew Evan better than anyone did.
What the fuck had he done?
Hi everyone, not one of my favorite chapters that I've written, but it is setting the grounds for the next part of the story. It's quite important to the plot line or else the rest won't make sense. The next couple of chapters are probably some of my favorites for this story, so hopefully I will make it up if some of you weren't too fond of this one. Although, I have received quite a lot of lovely comments from a lot of you, so I just hope to keep that enthusiasm going.
Can't wait for the next one, love, M.