Despite the Slytherins' rum-fueled ramblings, life across the pond had not yet diminished to ash. Diagon Alley welcomed Lily with a bombastic post-Christmas cheer: rainbow lights, chiming shop bells, and a concerto of contented chatter. She sneezed at the utter garishness, scurrying through the narrow streets as if nothing else mattered. Yet, with each step, her resolve dithered as families, friends, and more — rosy-cheeked and high-spirited — meandered about without rhyme or reason.
'Thank goodness we have a witch in the family,' her mother beamed, spotting the first-course dishes washing themselves. After which, and once gone, Petunia — clenching a bottle of wine with quaking limbs — hissed: 'You're a freak! Lying to Granny that you're normal when you're not— liar, liar, liar!'
Lily's chest swelled momentarily before she locked the ache behind a simulated giddiness as Mr Mulpepper's Apothecary came into view. Its ineradicable purple sign crookedly swung over murky windows, which obscured its interior in a permanent dust-laden grease. Though most gravitated to the brighter Slug & Jiggers next door, here, Lily had always returned since her very first potions kit— on an old friend's recommendation.
Shit.
With painfully practiced cheer, Lily stepped up and—
WHACK!
"FUCK!"
The door burst open, squarely slamming into her forehead. It sent the witch a meter backward, tears welling up as she instinctively raised a mittened palm to the throbbing spot.
"Merlin's beard, are you— Evans!"
No, no, no. Lily's eyes ballooned as stars dotted her vision. "Fuck."
"Fuck?" James repeated, brows raising. "Friendly greeting." He dared a sunny smile, which flatlined at once under her withering glare. His mouth pruned up as he restlessly scratched his jaw. Why couldn't it have been someone he disliked? James' chin jutted toward her forehead. "All right there? Apologies—"
"You assaulted me with a door!"
"The door did," he wisecracked, thumbing at it. "Reckon it wanted to properly acquaint us, eh?"
"No!" Lily spat. "It never knew which way to go — in or out — like you!"
"Depends which side you're on," he chaffed, but the lighthearted attempt to conciliate shriveled— again. "I am sorry—"
"Oh, put a sock in it, Potter!"
"Right."
Clamped into a rabbit hole, they held out even as the cold picked up, yet simultaneously avoided one another. Lily relentlessly rubbed the growing lump while James' tongue rammed into his cheeks. Both debated whether to slip off unobtrusively or pretend the encounter hadn't been that disastrous. Still, someone had to make the call, and they had to make it fast.
"So, what brings you to Monty's?"
One second, she had been dodging pangs from internal wounds; now, she was cradling an actual wound. Viciously disoriented, Lily glimpsed at the apothecary, the sign beginning to creak against the wind. Its mourning dealt a chilling finality— there would be no refuge here.
"Uh, studies." The mittened hand fell. "You?"
"Asian Dragon Hair—"
"—Chinese Fireball—"
"Sure," James acknowledged. "Monty's latest, but it's tricky— wants a second opinion. Dad's the expert. Sleekeazy's uses it as a main ingredient, you see." He ran a hand through his hair. "Can't say much else, lost track halfway through."
"Fascinating," she deadpanned.
"Yeah," he returned with a languid shrug, dismissing or oblivious to her disinterest. "Were you meaning to pop in, then?"
Lily froze— admit or run? But another side-eye at the acid-etched windows ardently confirmed a need to change course.
"No."
"No?" James' head subtly flinched. "You just said—"
"I'm off to the pub."
Mute, Lily skirted past, abandoning the wizard at the shop's doorstep. But overthinking had never been in James' repertoire. Instinctively, he rotated to trail the waning presence. The picture was askew, something amiss. Spurred on by autopilot, he wove through the crowd, skillfully maneuvering between the plodding pedestrians, to close in on Lily.
"Evans!"
"What now!?" Lily barked, immobilized as he slid, barricading the passageway. "MOVE!"
"Wait…" James squinted, for acting without thinking bestowed its own set of consequences. "I was headed for The Leaky Cauldron myself," he improvised. The slight flick of her brow did not deter him— he rolled his shoulders back, chest out, almost daring her to doubt him.
"What a coincidence."
"Isn't it?"
"And!?"
"And, I figured we'd go together…" His eyes briefly lifted, then returned to her. "Unless you're meeting someone?"
"No," she replied flatly.
"So, what'd you say? Reckon it'd be a tad less sad, yeah?" James suggested, sheepishly grinning.
His stance being as unyielding as his offer, Lily was in no position to rise to it. Even so, where to find fault in truth? With no counterargument, she smiled fleetingly, as meaningless as accompanying James for a drink. In truth, she yearned for the childhood comforts of Cokeworth, but Cokeworth sickened her. It meant confronting the ghosts in every corner of that town— the nightmare that had brought her to London. If not for that paradox, where return meant home and hell, she would have outright rejected the invitation.
Also, being alone with her thoughts sounded unbearable.
"Fine," Lily relented, shoulders slumping. "One drink."
"Grand," James chirped, hands smacking together. "Shall we?"
As they trudged side by side through the forthcoming night, a stony barrier separated them to opposite ends. James hid fidgeting fingers by shoving them into pockets, clawing at the coarse fabric. To him, each step felt like navigating a minefield of words forced into hiding. Meanwhile, Lily concentrated on the rhythmic slops beneath her boots to drown out the awkwardness that smothered them. To make matters worse, the pub's dim light amidst the darkness burdened them with self-doubt.
"What's the story with the Chinese Fireball Hair?" Lily posed to ease the gathering misgiving.
"My father…" James jerked back. "Wait, did you agree to this over some bloody potion ingredient?"
"Are you mad?" The witch scoffed, pausing before The Leaky Cauldron's nondescript, weathered door. The condescending assessment struck James as her hallmark— a provoking fire that invigorated rather than detonated. Finally, he thought. His mouth quirked upwards, noticing Lily bracing for what came next.
"Relax, Evans."
Effortlessly, James nudged the door open with his shoulder. Lily's face slackened. It was an eyesore. The Leaky Cauldron was overflowing— people even taking to the stairs and railings for space. She stopped an inch from the now closed door, repulsed by the gust of sweaty dampness. James, however, was utterly unfazed. He strode further inside while yapping in a way that left her no choice but to keep up.
"Dad can't bear London," he canvassed the pub, "but Monty's, uh, wary 'cause of the war."
Paranoid, Lily thought.
"There!" He gestured towards a secluded table tucked behind a thick pillar. The witch's nose crinkled as she surveyed the dusty corner but quickly relented to follow James, who marched forward, managing to clear a trail by carelessly shoving aside bottleneckers. "Right," he said, knocking twice on its worn edges. And suddenly, all traces of earlier patrons disappeared. "What'll it be, then?" He shifted toward Lily, who apprehensively hung a few inches away from the table.
"Oh, I'll order—"
"Next round," he interjected instantly.
"Oh, okay, then, whatever you're having," Lily concurred, too immersed in the backdrop's kinetic symphony to deduce whether her independence was being undermined.
"Positive?" James challenged, smirking.
"Potter."
"Fine, fine," he chuckled, raising both palms in playful surrender before diving once more into the crowd's bedlam buzz. In the meantime, Lily began to rid herself of all winter layers to quell the heightening dissociation, hoping it would steady her nerves. With a sigh, she lapsed into the chair, wobbling precariously for one leg refused to find solid ground.
Unsure what to do, Lily combed through the pub's blur to the bar, latching onto James as he ordered. She tracked every move, eyes thinning as he approached an obscured figure and patted their back with casual affection. She edged closer, the table digging into her midriff. Without formality or notice, the elusive profile reoriented towards James.
The blur stopped.
Rufus Fudge.
Just two years older, and somehow, had already secured a position in the prestigious Department of Magical Law— or so she had learned through the grapevine. Someone who had spent more time breaking curfew than attending lessons thriving in such an esteemed role brewed pure fury. And their blatant camaraderie, existing solely because they were purebloods, dispensed a taunting reminder of who James was.
Her nostrils flared.
'People believe anything if you have enough power to make them.'
A nail dug into her collarbone, vision drifting to the unseen.
It was like a bolt from the blue that startled her into hypnosis. Among the racket of voices that muddled her brain, Alexander Sykes's could not be the one that materialized to soothe the jagged ends of her vexation. That voice – with that evening's haze – resurfacing at a time like this? Yet, it flooded back— his chortle, slurred speech, cocky grin. While the liquor's influence disjointed his intentions, the Slytherin's impact had apparently dialed in. No, Lily thought. A short, baffled chuckle rejected such an assumption. No, Alexander Sykes was no high priest; he was a flawed drunk.
'No one even knows who's on it.'
A persistent drunk.
Entrenched in catatonic apathy, Lily failed to notice James' return until his weight tipped the chair, rocking it against the warped floorboards. Meeting his watchful gaze, she mustered an uneven smile— a vacant gesture, burdened. It fell immediately as a realization triggered goosebumps across her: James Potter and Alexander Sykes had identical eye colors.
"All right there, Evans?"
"And this is?" Lily diverted to the drinks.
"My special," he responded slowly. They briefly exchanged glances. "It won't make you sick…" Lily fixated on the liquid, grounding herself in it, or else she would end up calling him Sykes. "Right away." But the humor crashed out.
Craving anything to quench the thirst — or subdue the rest — Lily lifted the glass, gulping heartily. The concoction swiftly surged to the back of her throat, deferring into a violent cough. She teared up, causing the wizard to burst into a fit of chuckles.
"Shut up," she wheezed.
"I warned you." Lily used her sleeve to conceal any leftovers of the drink that may have tinted her upper lip, abandoning all decorum in the process. But the heated spice could not bestir her. A palpable cast that even James could not overlook— despite his glasses slipping down his nose. With a sharp inhale, he fisted his hair– what was happening? "So, why're you really here?"
Lily avoided his face, scoping out the contents of the glass. "Cokeworth." The admission poured out as if Alexander Sykes was seated there, not James. Because, for whatever reason, caving in and revitalizing that evening made the truth bearable, acceptable. "I needed to be around magic," she continued without wavering, "muggles, they're… It's not the same."
"What?" James reclined. "But you're—"
"A witch," she declared as a flicker of disquiet dotted his features. "You're judging me." But his eyes steadied, posture lifting as a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"On what grounds?" James countered. "You're a witch."
"Mhm."
"Never claimed otherwise."
"Some would."
"Who? The Death Eaters?" James asked mockingly, a clipped yet sincere laugh breaking through to cut the tension. "Please, they're barking mad. Stuck in the old ways." His words flowed with authoritative conviction— an official ruling. A gentle quiver warmed her; the small joy of being invited to play with the other children, the tiny thrill of a birthday remembered. After years of erecting barriers, she found her defenses cracking, one brick at a time— and from the most unlikely people.
"Thanks," she whispered. Then, the drink hit. "You know, you're different when you're not putting on a show."
"Thanks?" James returned. "That a compliment, or just being cheeky?"
"And it's incredibly kind of you to help Mr Mulpepper and all," Lily continued, grounding her elbows onto the table.
"Monty again," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "If you're so interested, why don't you figure it out with my father?"
"What?" She stared wide-eyed. "You're having a laugh?"
"Am I laughing?" His fingers drummed against his thigh before settling, her enthusiasm flushing his face.
"I wouldn't want to impose—"
"You wouldn't," James assured. "He's getting on in years. He'd do well with some help. I try, but..." He took another sip, lamentably draining the glass faster than the spirited witch to hamper the burgeoning heat flooding over him. "We see things differently, let's say."
"I'm free tomorrow or anytime this week," Lily said, a rosy hue returning to her cheeks.
"Sure, tomorrow…" James trailed off. But with no drink left, he rifled through his hair, gripping it as if to anchor himself.
"Godric's Hollow, is it?"
"The cottage, sure." He nodded. "But the manor's in Somerset, near Godric's Hollow. It'll be easiest to apparate to if you know it as Uphill Manor, not Potter."
"Is noon okay?"
"Noon, sure," James confirmed. He observed absently as Lily hid a grin behind the glass' rim. "Why're you here, then?" This time, it was clear that the question hinted at more than the spontaneous trip to Diagon Alley.
"Because," she said, swaying the liquid, "you're not my sister." The words lingered in the sticky air until James erupted into a peal of robust laughter. The shadows from the towering pillar cleverly hid the blush creeping up her neck.
"Thanks... I think?" He grinned, raking through his hair to contain the mirth. "You're not bad company yourself, Evans."
Lily's heartbeat eased into a steadier rhythm, and the knot in her chest loosened. They talked for hours, the conversation random but engaging. There was no desire to bicker with James— instead, his company reassured her. In that bustling pub, tucked away at a secluded table behind a crumbling pillar, belonging blanketed her. For the first time in ages, Lily felt she was precisely where she wanted to be.
The evening's tokens intoxicated every gait as James stumbled through the entrance of Potter Manor. One shoe was kicked off; the other hurdled into an untraceable corner— unconcerned and indifferent. His destination was set: the atrium, the foremost place to find Sirius at that hour. And sure enough, there he was, sprawled on the floor with arms folded behind his head, staring at the glass ceiling as if contemplating the universe. To anyone else, it screamed tragic hero. However, James knew Sirius was probably waiting for a bird to crap on the roof.
Without so much as a hum, James plopped onto the marble surface beside him, placing his palms against it for balance. Serendipitously, the stone's chill nourished a much-needed contrast to the heated inebriation.
Sirius side-eyed the entire display, his lips twitching, waiting in quiet while mentally betting on whether James would vomit first or topple sideways. When neither happened, he decidedly sprang into James' bubble.
"Thought you'd died in Diagon Alley."
"Never let me die in Diagon Alley," James pleaded.
"Me? Never," Sirius responded. "You alone? No promises." A beat passed, then another, and another. "You go this long without talking only when you're asleep. Don't tell me Monty slipped you something."
"Monty?" James blinked sluggishly. "Oh, Monty."
Sirius rolled his neck back and peered up at him with a cocked brow. "Dragon hair did this to you? Thought you could handle your potions ingredients, Prongs." He released a spoofed humph. "Should've come along."
"No, Lily," James revealed, teetering on a giggle. Sirius propped himself on his elbows, the hard ground clobbering his bones.
"Evans did this?" His face pinched in all directions as James succumbed to the giggle fit. "Rubbish!"
"Nope," James replied, gaping open-mouthed at the stars— or, at least, where stars would be if it weren't cloudy and they had actually gotten around to enchanting the ceiling. "She's coming by tomorrow to help Dad."
"Evans. Coming here. Voluntarily?" Sirius emitted a low whistle. "Mate, you sure dragon hair was all you nicked off Monty?"
James swatted the back of his head.
"Fuck you, I'll remember that!"
"She asked about the dragon hair, that's how! We ran into each other, had a drink at The Leaky Cauldron—"
"A drink?" Sirius interrupted with a scoff.
James waved a hand vaguely. "She agreed to help Dad."
"Because nothing says romance like dragon hair," Sirius quipped. "Nothing like a sprinkle of magical lizard to set the blood coursing."
This resulted in a harsher punch to the shoulder.
"Another one, and it'll be your pretty face," he snarled, clutching the spot of impact.
"You should be happy for me," James scowled.
"Except here we are again," he retorted. "You're aware she's coming for Fleamont, right? Actual potions work, not an afternoon in your bedroom." Sirius tossed him a look reserved for a puppy struggling to chase its own tail. "Prongs, mate, remind me of The Great School Unity Proposal." James groaned. "How'd that turn out for you?"
"She pummelled us for half an hour, yeah," he meagerly acknowledged.
"Correction— she pummelled you, called you a stunted numskull," Sirius reminded him. "I was innocent collateral. But, honestly, mate— you're lucky she didn't transfigure you into a toad." Sirius shook his head, voice toughening. "With the greatest respect, Lily isn't going to swoon into your arms because you happen to be lurking about while she's brewing potions with Fleamont."
"You know, I was happy," James pointed out. "Now, I feel hopeless."
"You've got hope, all right," Sirius snorted. "Misplaced hope, wildly unrealistic hope, the kind that's fun for the rest of us to watch."
"OI!" James barked, instinctively drawing back. "What the fuck, Padfoot?"
"Take it or leave it." Sirius shrugged, rolling his eyes. "Spare us the tears when she chooses a heap of dung beetles over you, won't you?" Then, he snickered, "Mate, reckon you should try and transfigure yourself into a dung beetle?"
"This is different," James charged.
"It's different? How many times has it 'been different' this semester alone?" Sirius held out his fist. "Let's count." A single finger popped out. "Halloween: snogged you, nearly shagged, pretended it didn't happen." A second finger. "The prank on the train: promised you a date, nothing." A third finger. "Ran into one another, grabbed a pint, but is coming here for Fleamont." His brows raised. "You can't be a slave to this. She's stringing you along."
James bristled. "She's not!"
"Right," Sirius retorted dryly. "She's just keeping you on your toes for sport, yeah?"
"Fuck you." A vein jumped James' neck, a warning shot of someone ready to strike— and this time, it wouldn't be playtime. "You weren't there, you prick! You didn't see her tonight. She called me different— after I hit her with a door!" His chest heaved, glowering as Sirius' rapid blinks led to blatant staring. The force in James' comportment left no room for humor or doubt, and Sirius could smell that he was half a bottle of Giant's Delirium in. If the melody didn't shift, he'd be hexed into oblivion.
"You hit her with a door?"
"Yes!"
"And then asked her on a date to the Leaky Cauldron?"
"For a pint..."
A chuckle crawled out but felt mismatched: too boisterous and a tad hollow.
"Merlin, Prongs, maybe this is different." He withdrew a fraction, wary that the sharpness of his cultivated chuckle might expose the strain behind its carefree act. "Wish I'd been there."
"THANK YOU!"
With a flourish, James triumphantly tossed his arms skyward, nearly rocking backside. Sirius instantly gripped his shoulder, forcing his hand back down to regain stability. The intemperate wizard fired a caged breath, foraging fingers through his hair as the smoldering rage backpedaled. Sirius mustered another laugh, easier this time, as the atmosphere grew somewhat painless. But it tapered, his sanity shuffling, striving for words that wouldn't rocket him through the ceiling but might salvage his friend from another setback.
"Mate, when Lily's here tomorrow, helping Fleamont, don't butt in."
"What?" James frowned. "But Lily's coming. Why wouldn't I—"
"You're pissed, but think, yeah?" Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "First, you'll be in the way. Second, let her come to you for once— you can't keep chasing her."
It's pathetic— he wanted to add but kept it to himself.
James became rigid but slumped as soon as it sank in. No matter his desire to contend, he was a convenient target — intoxicated and drained.
"So… I just do nothing tomorrow?"
"Exactly." Sirius nudged James' side with an elbow. "Let her chase; don't be the lovesick fool; play hard to get."
"Lovesick fool," he mumbled. The thrill from earlier drained away, superseded by a morbid emptiness. James never liked sitting on the sidelines, but, as he had promised himself, he wouldn't be a laughingstock, either. "I'm off to bed."
Remus woke much later than intended. Arching his neck about, he glimpsed at the bedside clock. Too early for comfort, too late to remain in bed. The full moon's sap was more emphatic than he had grown accustomed to— a disheartening reminder of how dependent he had become. But that morning, it wasn't the expected aches that troubled him. Another gloom lurked, denser than the fog rolling in. His father's words from that night lingered, too: 'No innocent, lost person would happen upon this place for shelter. It's out of the way and far from any path. They're here for a reason.' His parents presumably had waited until dawn to return to bed. Yet, it was well past noon, and the silence was unsettling. He lifted forward, holding his breath despite protesting muscles, striving to concentrate on the surroundings.
Where was everyone?
Throwing on the first threadbare sweater he could find, Remus swung his legs off the bed and stood, swaying slightly but determined to seek out the rest. Unlocking the door directly revealed that the house was not just quiet but imbued with a sense of confinement. Every door, customarily left ajar, was shut. Even padding around barefoot caused a racket. Without delay, he headed for the kitchen— opening a closed door that undoubtedly held no sense being shut. Upon entering, the niceties of tea and radio chatter were absent. Rather, the tang of cigarette smoke hit him, curling in viscous tendrils from his mother at the stove, who hastily fried eggs in a rusted cast-iron skillet.
The sound of sizzling butter was the lone thing that made sense.
Still, who were the eggs for?
"Mam," he greeted hesitantly. "Smells… interesting?"
Hope glanced over her shoulder, a cigarette perched between her fingers.
"Ain't been an easy night, like," she inhaled on the stick, "your dad ain't been easy, neither."
Remus frowned as he settled at the small round table, inspecting the kitchen. Everything felt off-kilter: his mother slumped over, a blue smoke cloud hovering stagnantly from the chain-smoking, his father's absence despite her cooking for an entire Quidditch team, and cups scattered across the countertop— far too many for a three-person household.
"Because of last night?" He examined the kitchen light— why was it on?
"If only."
"If only?" Remus repeated.
"Y'could say tha', couldn' ya?" Hope muttered, flipping the egg mindlessly. It landed with a splat, the yolk bursting. "Guess you're havin' scrambled, then."
"He's packed half the house already, has he?"
"Y'alright with scrambled, Remus?"
"Sure?" His gaze narrowed on the back of her head. "Mam, what's happening?" Silence and smoke. "I'm not a child— I know he's rushing us off again because of me." Remus' heart lurched. "I'll go back to Hogwarts today—"
The spatula rattled against the pan, stomping out his stammered sentences.
"Mam, you all right?"
"Just a bit sleep-deprived, like."
"A bit?" Remus' posture caved over. "It's my fault."
"Remus!" Hope's body trembled. "Nuff o' that, now!"
"Bloody burden," he mumbled, bowing down, forehead against the scratched tabletop to combat the pending nausea— a quarter hunger, the rest knowing he had driven his mother to her limits.
"It's sorted, and you're no burden," she reassured while scrapping the eggs. "Not to me, never."
Sorted. It reeked of false security. A portrait of dismay could be painted every time the family had to flee because of him— the pall that drenched their lives, ever searching for another cave. And now, this morning's image would gnaw him forever, too: sealed doors, chain-smoking, shuddering limbs.
"How's it sorted?"
"I told him to find somethin' to keep himself busy that didn't concern me. He'll be out for the day, maybe tomorrow," she replied, pivoting with a cigarette pointed like an accusatory finger. "I'd suggest you do the same."
He briefly glimpsed at her, then returned to stare at the floor, struggling to comprehend the turmoil. Last night's events wrestled against the daylight but could not be written off as a raccoon scuttling about, either. How could she act like they hadn't huddled on the top floor, pulse-pounding in the darkness, grappling with the cloaked figure attempting to enter amid a raging winter storm?
His mother bucked as the toast popped, quickly clipping their crisp edges and pitching them on floral-patterned plates. Before she could pick it up, Remus raised himself and his wand to levitate the food and steaming cup of tea from the countertop to the table. Hope, however, remained by the sink, assuming lengthy drags from the cigarette. He watched her, then eyed the untouched plate on the counter.
"Are you eating…?"
She stiffened momentarily, the inquiry tied like a taut wire. Instead of reaching for what was assumed to be her plate, she brought the ashtray and settled across from him, spreading out as if she hadn't sat in ages. Her stare appeared far yet fixated on Remus as he sipped his tea— an ill-advised move, as it scalded his mouth. Nevertheless, it provided a distraction amidst the standstill. An unspoken interrogation already fermenting somewhere.
"I mean it," Hope rehashed. "No questions today, right? There's things goin' on that're my business— I don't need you or your dad snoopin', or givin' me grief, like."
"What!?" Remus practically choked. "What're you on about?"
"I mean it," she maintained, inhaling long enough to finish the cigarette.
"No one's coming back," he postulated.
"Oh, that's for sure!"
Remus opened his mouth to pin down his mother's delirium but stopped short, ripping at the burnt bread instead. It tasted like sandpaper, as void of flavor as the chasm between them, which was his fault, too. Guilt. It clawed over him, reduced the food to dust, and tore the very notion of home asunder. The hysterics consumed him into the depths of his own doing, consequently drowning out all else: the art of logical reasoning, his mother's humming, and the kitchen door squeak.
Yet, despite what Remus believed, Hope was in no delirium. Ever present, her attention immediately lifted, a delicate smile spreading as she caught the young girl peeking in.
"Hey, dear," she said, rising. The scrape of a chair and the swift flow of movements snapped Remus out of his neurosis. His fork slipped and clattered onto the plate as he tipped back, straining to see the stranger shrouded in the curve of Hope's frame. "You manage a bit more rest?" she asked gently. Remus squinted, his brows knitting together. The figure was shorter than his mother—who was already quite petite—so all he could see was a shock of pitch-black hair and a jumper that hung loosely like a dress. Beyond that, their identity remained maddeningly elusive.
"Mam?"
"Come, I've got lunch prepared." His mother stepped aside.
The color bled from his cheeks.
Paralysis ensued.
His lungs gave up.
The girl, too, halted mid-motion, stare expanding and unblinking, tethered helplessly to his.
"WHAT!?"
"Oh, you know each other?" Hope blurted, vision zipping between them. But as Remus shot up, finger pointed, she stepped ahead to shield Eve.
"She," he snuffed, "what the fuck's she doing here!?"
Eve fared no better. How had she died, and Remus Lupin – of all people – was the one to meet her? In the tales of old, one met death by a Kavanagh ancestor, a guiding fairy— not Remus Lupin. And if she was in his kitchen, was he dead too? Was he the guide to the other side? Otherwise, what the fuck was Remus Lupin doing there?
"That's Eve!" An abrupt pause hung daftly between the three. "I tutor her!"
Hope's chin rose in acknowledgment, finding herself calmer despite the cliffhanging energy coursing between the other two. On that note, the matter wasn't worth another second, and having been suspended into holding a plate for far too long, she brushed beyond them to unwind with another cigarette at the round table.
Remus briefly trailed his mother before snapping back to Eve— Eve, who hadn't lodged a single word. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, scrabbling for an ounce of rationality.
"Why're you here!?"
"I'm not dead," Eve whispered, tugging at tangled strands of hair. "Am I?"
"Dead!?" Remus returned harshly. He paused, reading over his mother— her lips pressed into a thin line but composed as though she'd confronted this before. Without a comment, she kicked a chair out for Eve, signaling with the unlit cigarette for her to sit. Eve's face revealed nothing, a closed book framed by the unperceptive rhythm of her breathing. She obeyed with no other cues to pursue and crept to the chair, perching on its edge as if prepared to be sent off without notice.
"She reckons she's dead, an' I'm her angel," his mother clarified. She patted Eve's head, which angled toward the woman. The witch now saw the toll that human life exacted on the flesh. Alone, it was a verdict, ramming like a stone in her throat. With a snort, Hope added, "I'm real glad I ignored your dad— last thing we'd need is findin' your friend lyin' dead outside."
"What!?" Remus briskly shook his head, brows threading tightly. "It was you… It was you last night?" He saw it instantly— Eve's glazed expression, stiffened posture, cheeks mangled between teeth. "Why?"
Why had she shown up in the dead of night, unannounced? Any normal person would have sent a letter. Then, again, Eve wasn't all there, either. Despite being a so-called pureblood noble, she lacked any sense of nobility, existing in a world of her own rules. Her quietness passed as politeness, yet beneath it, she did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. But what on earth had possessed her to nearly propel them out of Penmon?
Meanwhile, Eve had more than Remus to agonize over. Suspended between left and right— was she better or worse off? She'd accepted and embraced death— or so she'd thought. Except, she wasn't. Instead, she was alive in Remus Lupin's kitchen, which meant her life was rolling ahead at full throttle– just where she'd left it. Eve shifted to sit on her palms, knees pinched together, with thoughts that kept returning to the worst possible outcome.
"EVE!"
"She hasn't been able to say much, like," Hope intervened pointedly. "Love, eat while it's warm— it'll help get yer strength back." She plucked a match from a tattered box, scraping the stick against the edge and setting it on fire. Remus monitored as Eve's eyes enlarged, dissecting the flame.
"Eve," he rasped. "EVE!"'
"Jesus," Hope couldn't help but chuckle— life was dull, and this was undoubtedly the most excitement Penmon had experienced since they moved in. "Show some manners, will ya? The poor girl was frozen solid when I found 'er."
Remus turned ghostly white.
"You went outside?"
"I couldn't help it! I spent hours in the kitchen goin' over it, but I had to make sure. You saw what it was like!"
"Mam, you could've been killed!"
"When I found 'er, she was barely conscious— she'd have died out there!"
"You shouldn't—" He stopped short, downing the rest of that thought. "I would've gone with you!"
"In the state you were in, was it?"
"In any state!" Using both hands, he mashed into his hair, causing his skin to stretch upward. He gawked at the two, mouth parted. Hope rolled her eyes and sighed deeply— without the aid of a cigarette.
"I've heard enough from your dad, like."
"And what'd he have to say about this?"
"Who cares?" Hope retorted. "You know who she is— that's more than I could explain to 'im."
"This is your home," Eve spoke inaudibly, but it was merely a focal lens, for her memory was just like the eggs— scrambled. Quietly excavating to salvage a shred of clarity from the wreckage, she steered about, canvassing the kitchen, detailing what she hadn't noticed in last night's disoriented state. It was a plain, unremarkable drawer that unearthed a vivid recollection into life.
"Your address was on the parchment," she remarked distantly, remembering the words Penmon, Wales while placing the apple on top.
"Thank God," Hope remarked, palm over heart. "You gave 'er the address, then—"
"Doesn't mean she can be here!" Remus cut in sharply, causing Eve to flinch. "You can't be here!"
"Remus!"
"No, Mam," he cold-shouldered. "She came in the middle of the night entirely unannounced and uninvited!" His voice quaked, hands fisted by his sides. Eve's gaze dropped, using her hair to avoid his watch. Hope dangled the cigarette on the ashtray's edge.
"She can stay as long as she bloody well pleases," she declared, thundering over him. For, in the end, it had not been him who had braved the storm to find her nor held her steady through the long night until warmth returned to her trembling frame. "Now, apologize an' eat!"
"She can't stay," Remus fought, jaw tightening. "I'm going to James's in two days! What, then?"
"You invite her?" Hope offered, eyebrows crinkling.
"She's not invited!"
"REMUS! That's no way to talk to a friend—"
"Friend?" He scoffed. "I tutor her!" Bereft of speech, Remus abruptly reeled out of the kitchen. His heated footsteps battered up the staircase and through the halls, punctuated by the purposive slam of his bedroom door.
The two stalled as though etched in stone. Frowning, Hope lifted the abandoned cigarette to pinched lips. She took a drag, held it a second longer than usual, and freed it. As the smoke wafted, she peered at Eve– chiseled into a statue that might shatter if brushed.
"Don't mind 'im," Hope said, flicking and waving her cigarette casually.
"Sometimes, I think he hates me," she mused, trailing the spiraling vapor.
To Hope, Eve appeared more inquisitive than overwhelmed by her son's foul demeanor. Her eyes drew in, observing a young girl conversing with herself, who somehow had been given their address yet appeared only once in Remus' letters.
"He's nervous," Hope countered. "Far from hate, I'd say." And so, a fragile but undeniable hook took root. Through its prism, Remus' theatrics carried a wholly unexplored connotation. "I'll go have a word with 'im—"
"Think it's worth me going to explain?" Eve wondered tentatively.
"Only if you're up to it, love," Hope replied. "You need rest, too. No need to be dealin' with angry men— Lord knows Lyall wasn't a ray of sunshine this mornin', either." The smoke dampened her words. "Men, they get angry when they're scared."
"Scared?" Eve echoed. "Why?"
"Different reasons... You'd be surprised, love." She tapped the ash into the tray, her sights pulsing like the ember's tiny flame. "But best it comes from 'im." Eve blanked but inclined her head with resolve. "At least you don't think you're dead anymore," Hope jested. "But it was nice, you thinkin' I was an angel."
She methodically scavenged the corridor, pressing against each whitewashed door, straining for any hint of life beyond. The quest seemed boundless until, at the very last door, a faint shuffle betrayed someone's presence. With bated breath, she rapped lightly, the sound carrying farther than intended. Eve tightened her lips, retreated a step, and exhaled slowly. On the other side, Remus, mid-pace, pivoted at breakneck speed. With a groan, his hands shot up, shaking with upward fists, as if to ward off the intrusion before it could occur.
"NOT NOW, MAM!"
Remus was dead set on unlocking the trunk's lid, tossing whatever was in view, and escaping to James's. Nothing — absolutely nothing — would keep him under the same roof as Eve Kavanagh. He had to leave before his mother's circus recruited him altogether.
Another tap.
This time, he lunged for the doorknob, yanking it open before his feet even stopped moving. A backlash already brimmed his tongue, only to peter out when he found her there. At once, his gaze hurled skyward, seeking divine intervention.
Great, now what?
Eve's pupils dilated, mouth parting soundlessly. The rehearsed lines slipped like sand into the ocean. Swallowing, too, became impossible. Why had he opened the door? Facing this frigid tension, these inevitable questions, this torrent of brutal truths was far more than either could endure.
"I didn't know," she ad-libbed hastily. "It was your house."
"Well, it is," he said flatly, arms folding in a guarded stance.
"I know." She nodded once. "But I'll be leaving for Hogwarts today."
"Hogwarts?" He repeated, coupled with a rapid, tentative look downward. "Why not home?"
Eve's nose wrinkled— 'So, you claim your nose is as dull as a rock, yet you're convinced something's amiss? Quite the curious dilemma, wouldn't you say?'
"I can't," she admitted reluctantly.
Though the two-syllable answer sliced through his feigned indifference, the chasm between them widened. He lowered his guard inconspicuously, scrutinizing her. Each avoided detail crystallized, so awfully glaring that it dwarfed all else. How had he missed them? Cuts along the jaw, bruises blooming, bloodshot eyes— Eve wasn't here on a whim.
"Are you going to tell me why you're here?" Remus rebid, crouching further to chase her drifting attention. His scrutiny loomed large as she worked out a decision. Every part resisted, but again, she nodded once with measured but fragile compliance.
Wordlessly, he stepped aside.
Eve entered with ease, scoping out the uncharted territory. Once planted in its center, the unornamented room, though offering little diversion, distracted her. Craning her neck back, she admired the inconspicuous, dangling lampshade as the door clicked shut, sealing them in. To reclaim a sense of separation, Remus rested against it, arms crossing over again.
"Eve!" he huffed. Like a ringing bell, the name summoned her back. Her fingers clamped into the borrowed wool, one wringing with the other. Remus caught every side-long flit towards him and back, never settling for too long. Merlin, he thought.
"I was supposed to be at the Blacks'," she finally broke, wavering. The words were cherry-picked; tested before speaking. "The portkey— it was tampered with. I ended up in Knockturn Alley."
"Tampered?" His brows furrowed. "You're sure?" But with each pause she carved out, Remus grew increasingly aware that she was deliberately concealing something. Pursing his lips, he shut his eyes, skull hitting the door. "That's all?"
"I don't know why or who..." Her shoulders caved in. "Hogwarts might be the only place…" She could speak but not articulate. Each word dragged the next, unspooling endlessly until the chaos of it rendered her mute. Then, the heaviest truth struck her. "It was in my house — the portkey." Her pulse dangerously rang, deafening her. "What do I do?" The pitch of her question rose with her heartbeat. "I don't know what to do," she yielded, fixating on him.
He inched off the wall just so, concern softening the sharp lines of his face. He'd seen Eve endure a great deal, but this — directly asking for directions, scratching at skin until raw — was enough to unsettle him. He moved to the desk chair and sank into it, his fingers steepled against his mouth. She turned with him, her regard unblinking.
"You turn up in Knockturn Alley," he reviewed carefully. "Still London, and you're certain it wasn't a faulty portkey…" He scanned over the visible wounds before settling on her hollow stare. He sighed— it wasn't just a tampered portkey. "Are portkeys regulated in Ireland like here?"
"The O'Briens log them." She subtly shook her head. "Regulated? Not until recently. Now, the O'Conors grant permission because of the closures."
"So, it could've been either of them?"
"No. Never." It was instant, but the supposition compelled her to peg away. "They wouldn't."
He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling impatiently. "And why not?"
"We don't do that to each other." From her sleeve, she played a card of unforeseen vigor, as if it belonged to a different deck altogether. "We have guided Ireland since the beginning of time. Here, we are witches and wizards. In Ireland, we are the Tuath Dé, like gods." A muscle twitched in his cheek. He fought the urge to retort, direly wanting to hone in on the absolute arrogance of such a claim. But there was nothing divine about the bedraggled witch, especially then and there. Sure, it was ridiculous— but, for Eve, it was holy.
"So, you don't fight?"
"Fight, yes; harm, no."
"Right," he said, leaning back with a small smirk, letting her dig deeper into the story. "But let's say you—"
"Never."
"Never?"
"It's forbidden."
"Forbidden?" He tilted his head, unsure whether she believed what she was saying or had simply been told to believe it. "How so?"
"I can't tell you—"
"—Naturally—"
"—but it's true," she insisted, chin dipping as she zeroed in on his devil-may-care slant. A brow lifted, inviting her to continue. "Five families. Each assigned to protect our homeland. These treaties are ancient, sacred— they keep the peace. When you're born an Ancient—" Unbidden, a snort escaped him. He buried a fist against his mouth, trying to smother the laugh, but it was too late. What could he do, though? It was too soon after the full moon to sit through her fairytales. It sounded fanatical, absurd— particularly against her battered appearance. "It's true," she repeated faintly.
"Right," Remus affirmed with a curt nod. "But you're not telling the truth, either." His sharpened stare locked onto hers, cutting through the façade. "So, what are you willing to tell me?" He tapped his foot. "Someone tried to harm you—that much is obvious. If it wasn't the O'Briens or O'Conors, then who?" Her lips pursed as his finger gestured toward the cuts on her face. "Because someone was waiting for you, weren't they? That's how you know the portkey was tampered with, why you ended up like this." Eve stood motionless. "So, who was it?"
"I don't know," she lied.
"You do," he countered, sitting up straight. "You're lying to protect them. Eve, you can't expect me—"
"If anyone finds out," she interrupted, barely audible, "it could mean war."
Her testament landed with a conviction that flattened the air between them. Inwardly, Remus moved to echo them, testing their finality. His expression changed rapidly. First, his eyes narrowed as the meaning surfaced. Then, he paled.
"A Death Eater attacked you?"
Silence answered.
Remus rose abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. "But why? Why target you?" He sputtered incessantly, spitting out whatever crossed his mind at that moment. "You're everything— you're a pureblood!" Eve could only wait and watch. "And how did you end up here?"
"I ran through half of London," Eve replied lifelessly, shrugging. "Some bus came, and… here I am." Their eyes interlocked. In the end, Remus was right— it would be easier if she could supply more than mere breadcrumbs. But she couldn't; she wouldn't. "No one followed me. No one knows I'm here. But I know I can't stay— it's too risky."
"And you couldn't go to Hogwarts because the gates were closed. You were afraid they'd find you there." He sighed, the lines around his mouth creasing. "You were trapped." Eve didn't even blink. Somehow, Remus had pieced it together. "Well," he concluded, "you're right. You can't stay here." His regard surveyed the marks on her face. "Not like that." A smirk rounded out as she tripped, catching her mid-stride. "Let me heal those— at least."
Her dazed look was permission enough.
He approached cautiously, gulping, before reaching to lift the loose strands that obscured the bruises along her collarbone. The proximity, although precedented, felt different. Heat simmered and colored his body, as his wand quivered subtly over the first scrape. With a prolonged inhale, he suppressed all else and anchored himself, determined to mend solely what was broken. One wrong move, and he would slice her face in half.
"Episkey," he attempted, following the soft glow entering and knitting the injury closed. Then, it faded. "These weren't caused by magic."
"Sticks and stones."
"Easier to heal." He concentrated hard and continued, but the tension in the room thickened with each healed mark. But with unresolved sentiments buried deep down, other revelations surfaced. When the last of the injuries faded, he stepped back, studying her with renewed intensity. "If what you're saying is true, they've infiltrated Ireland."
"You don't know that," she countered immediately.
"It's not just Ireland at stake," he pressed, though her face closed off like a curtain. "You need to think," he urged on. "Think, Eve. It could've been anyone—even the O'Briens. Maybe it wasn't an Irish portkey. Our Ministry—"
"I don't know!" The dewy-eyed sheen and pallor weren't just from having been stuck and trapped last night— she was trapped. Remus wanted to reach for her, but he held back. Still, if anyone understood what it meant to be trapped, it was him.
"It's not safe to go back, you know," he said gently.
"I know," she replied, her gaze dropping.
"Then you'll stay here," he stated, the crisp authority surprised even himself— but not enough to miss her intent gum biting, as if expecting a trap. "My mother… She'd be thrilled if you stayed for a day or so. I solemnly swear—"
"I know, she's very kind," Eve interjected, returning her attention to his. "But it's safer at Hogwarts."
"Right." His breath hitched. "You'll stay tonight; decide tomorrow." Was he speaking for his mother or himself? In truth, he was in no condition to apparate them both — or even himself — to Hogwarts. Even so, given what he knew, he wouldn't sleep easy unless he personally ensured her safe return. For both their sakes, she would have to wait for him to recover.
Eve angled her head subtly. "And your obligations?"
"Obligations?" Remus recited, eyes thinning.
"Your friends," she clarified, her tone hinting at amusement.
"James?" He flippantly flicked his hand. Though it felt smooth, it struck back. How easy it was to betray himself, as though he could mop it all away. James and Sirius would sniff out the truth until every detail unraveled in broad daylight— and the thought of sharing this with them hardened his stomach. "That's for New Year's— still some days away." He cleared his throat. "But my mother— we'll sort it out. You can stay longer if need be." No flinch, no pause. The same skill he'd wielded a dozen times before to dissolve McGonagall's supreme skepticism. "I'll apparate you there myself. Yeah?"
"Okay."
"Okay?" He echoed, blinking as if unsure he'd heard correctly. "Okay— yeah. Okay. I'll tell my mother and… we'll, right, okay. That's nice."
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For?"
"For helping me." Her eyes fell on the worn fabric of his Aran sweater, tracing its intricate patterns.
"Sure," he returned, hesitant, undoing what he had buried moments ago. Remus let his gaze drift to the side of her face, regarding her despite knowing better. Their time together wouldn't be long, but it was enough to assemble the fragments of who she was. With the right questions, the proper observations, maybe he could prove his theory. Who — what — was she, really? She caught him staring, her expression unreadable, but the hard edge that usually shielded her thawed. And in that moment, something shifted. She would let herself stay. The distance between them was dissolving, closed by a secret they now shared— a fragile bond tethered to silence, certainty, and the unspoken promise of safety.
The following day, Lily arrived at Potter Manor, landing on gravel-covered pavement — oddly devoid of snow — precisely at noon. After smoothing out the wrinkles brought on by the apparition, she looked up, stilling immediately, capturing the expanse of the monstrosity before her in sections. A grand manor decorated by sprawling, perfectly manicured gardens with questionable topiaries lining its pathway — dragons, phoenixes, and fantastical beasts — so lifelike they seemed prepared to pounce. Lily veered about to spot a massive glass conservatory that arched out from either side. The domed structure glinted like a jewel in the noon light.
It screamed wealth and status, but it was undeniably quirky.
James Potter lived here?
A squeal and thunk resounded as the sky-high wooden doors opened. Though she had expected James, it was a man poking out with an enormous pair of reading glasses perched atop his head and another set dangling around his neck, as if undecided which he liked best.
Fleamont Potter, she concluded inwardly.
A somewhat wonky glint — that crinkled the corners of his eyes — granted her welcome.
"I've been waiting for you, Lily," he announced, beaming as if reuniting with a friend. "Top of your class in potions, is it? Do you have a nose for it? A real potioneer's nose is half the work, you know."
Lily rapidly blinked, rushing to keep pace with the wizard's tune. "Um— yes, sir. Potions is my passion, I suppose. My nose…"
"Modest, too? Modesty doesn't suit a Gryffindor," he chortled, swinging his arm wide in a grand, inviting motion. "Let's see what you're made of, shall we?"
A tentative smile built, but a sudden shiver hit as she stepped into the entrance hall. The polished floors glazed, and a palatial staircase with ornately carved banisters led toward the upper floor. Yet, she had no time to goggle. Fleamont promptly beelined through a series of rooms that grew stranger the further they dived— a library, then an office, a portrait room where wizards with smoke curling out of their ears hung proudly. They ducked into a berth dedicated to cauldrons simultaneously exploding off sparks and, eventually, ascended into what could only be a madman's lair.
"Welcome, welcome!"
Fleamont spread his arms as if unveiling an epic exhibit. Except it was a cluttered, fervidly overdecorated greenhouse. Every surface was overwrought with flasks, plants, and instruments that suited a medieval weapons shop more than a laboratory. Overhead, glass globes dangled from the ceiling, radiating shades of pink while occasionally pendulating against themselves.
Lily did a double-take of everything.
"Remarkable, isn't it? My experimental conservatory," Fleamont declared proudly. "Hogwarts has potions rooms, of course, but none like this. Keeps the temperature regulated, you see— like a tropical island! Essential for some of the rarer ingredients growing here. Shed your cloak, gloves, hat, whatever you like— won't need them in here!"
It was no joke, either— as if she'd traveled into the humid hearth of a tropical jungle. Her pulse quickened with the extreme warmth, which held a dozen strange fragrances: ginger, rose, and burning rubber?
"Drop them anywhere," Fleamont instructed cheerfully, moving toward a desk cluttered with jars containing preserved eyeballs, glittering scales, and tiny squids floating in brine— maybe.
"Today's mystery ingredient: this!" He presented a shimmering red-golden thread. "Chinese Fireball Dragon Hair— supposedly," he explained, laying it under the massive magnifying glass attached to another table. "But it doesn't smell quite right. You'll see, you'll see— but first!" He swiveled about and thrust the thread at her, nearly shoving it up her nose. "Go on! Smell it!"
Lily briefly retracted but did as told, inhaling reluctantly. Bit by bit, her nose waggled, and the wizard's oddities momentarily disappeared. She dipped in for a second sniff.
"It's… fruity?"
"Aha! Exactly, sweet! Isn't it? Lovely smell," Fleamont crowed, an inner light exuding off him. "But it shouldn't be. Chinese Fireball has a metallic tang like rusted chains." He winked. "You're catching on, Miss Lily!" Fleamont returned the thread to the magnifying glass and, with his back to her, spouted off an explosive amount of commentary. "A proper potioneer," he lectured, tapping his skull, "doesn't just know ingredients. They live them— the smell, the feel, the texture, the taste—"
"Taste?" she interrupted, eyebrows shooting up.
"Yes! Taste is essential!" He declared with a finger pointed upward. "Some ingredients can kill you, of course, but that's pettifogging."
"Pettifogging, sir?"
"What can we do? We're all going to die," he chuckled, showing no contempt for it. Again, he swung back to Lily, who hadn't budged an inch. "So," Fleamont resumed, adjusting both of his glasses, "what do you make of it?"
Assuming that was a signal to approach, Lily came to his side. But the wizard seemed oblivious as she awkwardly strained to study the strands under the magnifying glass. The breathtaking sight of an extremely rare ingredient's hues — fiery reds and golds — viewed under such precision unleashed a torrent of thoughts.
"They're beautiful, like watercolors," she commented, stepping back with a squint. "Watercolors... Chinese Fireball is rougher, though."
"Precisely! Not a single crack here." He jerkily patted his thighs and then, with sparkling eyes, lifted his wand and charmed the strands alight. The hair burned, but as the flames died, the strand remained unchanged.
"It's behaving like Fireball hair."
"Uh-huh," he nodded, "odd, isn't it?" He beamed, clapping her on the shoulder. "This is the sort of mystery that keeps me up at night. Whoever created this went to great lengths to make it appear and act authentic. But if you taste it—"
"It's sweet," she finished for him.
"EXACTLY!" Fleamont practically bounced on his heels. "So, it isn't Chinese Fireball hair at all! But what is it?"
They moved through the deliberation like dancers who had rehearsed a thousand times. As if synchronized, Lily drifted over to the ancient texts Fleamont had most likely unshelved from God knew where. Several were on the verge of disintegrating. At once, he passed her a musty scroll, her mouth dropping as she skimmed over it.
"But, sir, I don't know Chinese," she mentioned.
"Well, you're not going to learn about dragons from a country that hates them," Fleamont gibed. Flicking his wand, he whispered a spell over the scroll— and its foreign characters transformed into English.
For an eternity, Lily labored through every scrap of information on dragons. The sun was long gone, and her skin crawled with pins and needles. Nothing clicked, not until she stumbled upon some palm or bark-lead manuscript depicting dragons from the Pacific. Racing, she reached for the Chinese scrolls— cross-examining the two side by side. It pierced like an arrow— yanking her focus to Fleamont, who was attempting to split a single hair into segments.
"The Rainbow Serpent… its colors blend!"
"Red, orange, yellow!" Fleamont boomed, startling Lily so badly she nearly toppled off the stool. He dashed over, presenting the strand to one of the globes that flashed into a highly fluorescent white light on cue. With bated breath, they squinted as Fleamont rolled the thread between his fingers. "Ingenious. It's cut so precise, so perfectly to match the exact hue of Fireball hair— marvelous."
By now, Lily no longer shied away from the eccentricity but tagged along, even absorbing and applying herself to parallel it. Together, their minds surged — the silence full — as if words were an unnecessary formality.
"Why sell Rainbow Serpent scales as Fireball hair?" She glanced at Fleamont. "Why not steal the real stuff and sell to the black market? It'd be easier than having to split each scale, no?
"That's the brain-twister," Fleamont muttered, stroking his chin. "Mancel — head of Palancher Imports, you know, supplier of Rainbow Serpent — could be unwittingly peddling fakes here. But the who doesn't concern us yet. The what and why are what matters."
Fleamont apportioned Lily a vial, an eclipse dimming the seemingly unshakeable light that she had taken for granted.
"Take a sample, prove it's Rainbow Serpent. Run as many tests as you can think of— if you need more, write me directly." He leaned forward, almost nose to nose. "Tell no one." Lily's heart thudded as she pocketed the vial. "We'll get to the bottom of this." Feverish eyes darted restlessly. "I'll write to Mancel, but," a subtle tic tugged at one corner of his mouth, "he doesn't like foxes snooping around the henhouse."
Lily smiled tautly. Under the encroaching gloom that befell the wizard, the vial became a thousand times heavier. She swallowed, lids dropping for a fraction of a second— this was far more than she'd bargained for, but standing solidly at the ready, she refixed Fleamont with an alert focus.
"I'll prove it, sir," she promised.
Mancel Palancher tilted the chair back a notch; its bang once landing back down garnered the attention of those gathered around the long dining table. The scent of fried food mingled with the tang of sea salt entering through the louvered windows. The high ceilings crisscrossed with beams that framed elaborate chandeliers— ironwork of copper vines. An ethereal strum from the spell-induced harp in the corner flowered the feast, and the faded rugs underfoot muffled the scraping chair when Mancel's sister edged closer to read the letter that had just flown in with a long-eared owl— an English bird.
Mancel's calloused grip unconsciously crumpled its edges. His pitch-black eyes swept the page once before clearing his throat and tossing it to Marisha, his eldest sister. The room's azure walls darkened in hue as the atmosphere toughened; the harp ceased. Alex canvassed one end to the other, assessing whether the house beckoned to Mancel Palancher's call or was merely conditioned to the time of day.
Impressive, he thought as everyone else mechanically braced for whatever ensued. The family patriarch stretched his legs, grabbed the rum, and finished the drink. He licked his lips, tilting his head back and forth as Marisha, too, sized up the message scrawled in the foreign letter.
"Wah yuh think, sista?"
"Mi nuh know. Potter seh him find sup'm off wid a batch a fake Chinese Fireball. Him seh it split, like dem a try fake Rainbow Serpent, an' him wan' fi know if wi see anyting strange wid wi supply," she responded, summarizing the letter for all.
A fleeting pause. Alex's vision meandered lazily over his hosts, observing without purpose. He circled back to Moira, who shifted, torso dipping against the table's edge, focused on her father. With that, Alex woke up, turning to the source of everyone's attention: Mancel, who stared a straight line across and out the window to the sea that stretched beyond. Marisha and Zora — Moira's mother — exchanged a glance before looking back at Mancel.
What the fuck was in that letter? he wondered. Stay out of it, Sykes. But the root was firm. No matter how much he wanted to drown it with drink or distraction, knowing was the Sykes way.
"Di supply fi di United Kingdom get mash up?" Mancel asked his wife.
Marisha sucked her teeth as Zora shook her head. "Not since the last time m' checkt," she replied in a thick Haitian accent. "Sa was the first of the mwanth, as always."
Mancel fell forward, forearms resting on the polished wood.
"Marisha, go a Kingston," he ordered. "Find out if wi missin' anyting. An' if Kingston seh no, den go a Dublin. London cyaan know 'bout dis— not like wi even lookin'. Find out who a touch up wi tings."
"Mi nuh think a fi wi people, but anything yuh seh, bredda," his sister conceded. She dabbed a linen cloth against her mouth and then rose. But before she stepped away, her gaze lingered on Moira, who met her with an unspoken understanding. "Any trouble ova deh, yuh come back yah same time. Yuh nuh need dat school anyway, yuh hear?" The young witch responded with a single nod, a pact made with her aunt, who steeled herself before departing in long strides. Once out of sight, Moira's nostrils flared, shifting between her mother and father.
"A pure trouble ova deh. Mi a tell yuh."
"Your papa, he know," her mother affirmed.
Mancel's expression was unreadable, tending to the orange-tinted chandeliers. "Mi nuh know how long we'll be doing business with di English," he professed, rubbing his chin. "Dem a mek it harder an' harder fi do business. Dis war ago mek dem lose all di money."
"Dat bad business," Zora hummed.
The room seemed smaller than before, the scent of fried food cloying instead of comforting. The weight of their words thickened the already humid air. Alex's eyes dashed to the window, longing for the warmth that had brought him there. Now, with this spilled box of secrets, he felt like an imposter in a world he shouldn't have stepped into.
"How..." Alex faltered, his fingers blanketing the glass as though the rum could invite him back in. "Why?"
"Money," Moira chortled coldly.
Rolling her eyes, Zora angled towards the young wizard seated beside her. "But somebody take di Chinese Fireball Hairs an' switch dem out wit' Rainbow Serpent. It powerful. Not easy to get in big amount, but if somebody manage, an' it fall in di wrong hands, it can do real powerful tings." She straightened, her demeanor intense yet untroubled. "But dis not no big amount, 'cause if it was, we woulda know. Dis is mischief."
"So, mischief's the verdict, is it?" he ventured.
Mancel surveyed their faces, searching from one to another. "Zora right. If dis was bigger, we'd hear more." He grabbed at the letter, playing chess with the scrawled-out warnings. "But someone's using this for di wrong ting…" He poured himself more drink. "Dis nuh fi wi problem. Marisha wi find out fi sure."
"What's it used for?" Alex continued.
"What's it to you?" Moira retorted.
"Mi nuh know, wi nuh sell it," Mancel cut in, shrugging.
"Transformations, powerful ones," Zora interposed liltingly— unlike the others. "Can change yuh hair, can change yuh very mind— can transform everyting 'bout yuh."
"Fuck," Alex whispered, earning a kick from Moira under the table.
"It don't work so easy. Not by itself," she added. "Transformation dat powerful need help. Not dragon alone, but yuh mix it right…"
The clock was louder than ever. Alex focused on the table's carved spirals, tracing their loops as if the endless pattern could lead him anywhere but there.
"So, what now?" Moira inquired, leaning back into her seat with crossed arms. Her father studied her as if she held the answer herself. "Why not London? What's in Dublin?"
"Wah happen in di dark must stay in di dark, an' we nuh have no business deh, child. Our place deh inna di sun," Mancel lifted both palms in a wide display, then chuckled, "wi mek di shadow people dem figure out wah gwaan here— den mi can get dis wutless English nuisance off mi back." He flicked the yellowed piece of parchment off the table.
"It better dis way," Zora said.
"Money a serious ting, yuh know," her father stated.
Alex blinked, the entire conversation catching him off guard— and it had nothing to do with the mix and jumble of accents being tossed around.
"The shadow people?" he repeated, his words slurred but not from liquor. One look at Moira, though, and he realized everyone at that table knew precisely who Mancel was referring to— the only person who didn't was him. She smirked, watching his face fall as the ends untied.
Mancel nodded, tapping the table with his knuckles over and over and over again. The sound reverberated against the room's stillness.
"Not a gold coin pon dis green earth change hands weh dat Irish kingpin nuh know 'bout."
Irish kingpin? Alex thought.
"Right," he concluded with a strained smile. How could a family wield such immense power with such ease? The Prophet's influence was well known, yet the Palanchers schemed in hushed tones while he sat there, sipping like an oblivious tourist, casting the Sykes as a bunch of dunces. Who was this Irish kingpin, and why didn't the Sykes know?
"Sa not without a price, doh," Zora reminded him. All sights fell on Mancel, awaiting a response— to Alex, it seemed this man needed a lot of time to find an answer to just about anything.
"So wi pay," his jaw clenched, "wi a pirate fi near 500 years. Mi nuh plan fi end it now 'cause a some likkle fool-fool prank from some likkle man 5000-mile weh."
"And if the Irish cause trouble?" Moira questioned. Mancel grinned, then shook his wrist, showcasing faint lines running up against his skin.
"Den wi woulda know 'bout it."
A pit formed in Alex's stomach as he caught the smooth illustrations of those infamous symbols. There it was— his answer: oaths sworn in darkness, promises no one knew existed. Sure, his family held power too — they had built their empire on lies rather than trade — but even that was relatively respectable compared to this. The Palancher's empire, as he read between the lines, was forged in shadows and anchored by unbreakable bargains. Not ships, imports, or exports. How had this gone unnoticed? And how far did this web plunge? How much further would it go?
'SHADOW KING,' in all capitals, no-nonsense script, 'DIS A LETTER FROM POTTER. TOO MUCH TROUBLE IN LONDON. WI DON'T STEP IN NO MESSY TINGS. WI WANT TO KNOW WHAT GOING WITH THIS DRAGON BUSINESS. DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO. AND WI WANT SAFE HARBOR IN DUBLIN, TAKE SHIPS FROM LONDON, DOCK AT PIGEON HOUSE.ENGLISH DEAL WITH YOUR PEOPLE FROM THERE. LET MI KNOW QUICK. MARISHA WILL TALK PRICE.'
Dermot reclined the leather-clad chair, fixating on the faded crest of the Kavanagh clan embroidered on the wall. Mancel Palancher's brief letter was more than words— it was a request, a warning, and an offer all at once. His chest rose with a deep breath. More than that, it confirmed what he'd suspected all along: their dealings in London were being tampered with.
He sneered.
But a knock at the door broke his brooding.
"Enter!"
The heavy bolts groaned, releasing the door with a low, resonant clunk. Bridget, his daughter, stood in the doorway. Her emerald velvet cloak, trimmed with black and burgundy, cascaded behind her. The silver crest pin on her shoulder caught the light, the bright red lion of the Kavanaghs vivid against the dark fabric. Her brown eyes were glacial, matching the austere resolve that defined their bloodline.
"MacMurrough colors and Kavanagh crest?" Dermot quipped in Irish, smirking. "For a moment, I thought you might show up with O'Neill's colors."
Bridget stood tall, her posture like an arrow— neck exposed, shoulders squared, her presence commanding. She met his remark with a snort, brushing it off like dust.
"I'm your firstborn."
"That you are," Dermot honored. He held the two letters aloft, swinging them back and forth. She glanced at them for a second. "That's why I've called upon you, too."
"The others will be gathering," she said. "We should go."
Dermot pursed his lips, folding the letters neatly and tucking them into his suit's pocket. Rising to his feet, he paused before grabbing his own cloak, locking onto his daughter's unwavering stare.
"I always knew this day would come."