Horace slowly and delibertately poured a drink out for Phineas. He offered and Phineas graciously accepted it, the two clinking their respective glass in a toast before settling back down.
A comfortable silence brewed between the two as they enjoyed their respective. Unfortunately, the calm and peace grew too loud for Slughorn who couldn't hold it any longer. Like a bloated cow, he had to expell or he'd blow apart from the inside.
"Its not that I have any particular issue with Albus, you know." Slughorn began and Phineas gently placed his drink down. "On the contrary, I have always found him to be a brilliant fellow albeit odd."
Slughorn swirled his drink, discreetly trying to see Phineas's face in the reflection to gauge if he should continue.
"I'm not saying remove him," Slughorn said, voice syrup-smooth. "But it may be time for a… quieter hand at the tiller."
Phineas snorted. "You mean yours."
"I mean someone who won't let children play vigilante under the stars while Dementors feed on their lungs."
"How thoughtful of you," Phineas said. "However, I don't ever recall Albus saying that this was his stated policy."
"Albus has his brilliance," Slughorn continued as if he didn't hear him. "But brilliance unchecked becomes… wild. And Hogwarts is no place for wild men."
Horace swirled his drink, eyes darting to the glass's surface, hoping for a reflection of his companion's expression. "I'm not calling for his removal, Merlin forbid," he continued, voice turning syrup-smooth. "But perhaps… it's time for a quieter hand at the tiller."
Phineas snorted into his whisky. "You mean yours."
"I mean someone," Horace said with a forced laugh, "who won't let students form… militias under the guise of extracurriculars."
A pause. Then—
"He's radicalizing them, Phineas."
Phineas finally set his drink down. "Radicalizing?"
"You think I'm joking?" Horace leaned in, puffed with sudden righteous outrage. "These so-called 'student clubs'—they're turning into fiefdoms. Armed with philosophy, rhetoric, and gods-know-what else. And whispers have reached me—whispers, mind—that he trained that Valemont boy. Trained him. In speechcraft, in oratory. He's crafting him like some little statesman."
Phineas's eyes glinted with something like amusement. "Why would Dumbledore do that?"
Horace sputtered. "Isn't it obvious? He's seeding influence. He wants to rule the Ministry without holding office. He plants his little champions in every corridor of power, filling it with loyal little philosophers, radicals, and sycophants. No elections. No scrutiny. A shadow lord."
"And how, pray tell, is that any different from the vaunted Slug Club?"
Horace turned a violent shade of crimson. "That's entirely—entirely—beside the point! I've never interfered in governance. The Club is a network, a bridge, a helping hand for promising minds. Not a bloody cabal!"
"Mm," Phineas murmured, sipping. "But I'm sure the distinction is very clear to those outside your wine cellar."
Horace ignored him and surged forward. "What Hogwarts needs now is stability. Not moral revolution. If the Board of Governors wants this institution to still be standing by year's end, they'll vote against confirming Albus as Headmaster."
"Strong words."
"They're necessary words," Horace growled. "We need a return to traditional values. To the stern but fair conservatism that's made Hogwarts the finest magical academy in the world these past eighty years. Ranking above Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, even Mahoutokoro in every international survey! That's not coincidence. That's discipline. And it's slipping."
He jabbed a thick finger into the air, punctuating each word. "Hogwarts doesn't need a philosopher-king. It needs a headmaster."
Phineas chuckled, deep and low. "Then you'd best hope governors still believe in such quaint things as tradition."
Ministry of Magic
Millicent Bagnold's heels struck the stone floor with manic rhythm.
She paced in front of the assembled: Foreign Minister Ogden, with his owl-feather quill and polished cane; DMLE Head Ursula, her mouth set like an axe blade; and the newly minted Lead Auror Captain, Callum Vane, a man who looked as though he'd rather be facing giants than paperwork.
"They attacked children," Bagnold hissed, spinning mid-stride. Her face was pale with fury, or fear. "Children, Eustace. At Hogwarts. Our most sacred institution. And they drifted through the gates like mist. Don't speak. Don't speak yet. I'm not done!"
"This is not a scandal," she went on, voice growing louder, more brittle. "This is damnation. The worst disaster since Grindelwald's fall. No—since the goblin massacres. And it happened on my watch. They were supposed to be ours. Bound. Chained. That prison was our black heart, beating steady for two bloody centuries, and now it's bleeding into the sea."
"Explain it to me," she hissed, not to any one man, but to the room itself. "How—how does the Ministry lose control of the Dementors?"
Foreign Minister Ogden Whitehall adjusted his sleeve, "Minister, I share your alarm. We've already received owls from the Confederation. The Bulgarian ambassador is demanding assurance that none of the creatures have crossed the Black Sea."
Bagnold rounded on him. "And what assurance did you give them, Ogden? Lies? Platitudes?"
The Foreign Minister gave a practiced shrug, all silk and smugness. "What would you prefer, Minister? War with the continent? Do forgive me, but I was under the impression my role was diplomatic—not damage control for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Ursula Flint's nostrils flared. She rose from her chair like a battering ram on legs.
"You smug little peacock—"
"Enough!" Bagnold shrieked, pointing a trembling hand at her DMLE head. "He's right, Ursula. As much as I detest the way he simpers, he's right. This is on us. The world is watching. Britain, the so-called cradle of magical civility, has loosed demons on schoolchildren. Hogwarts, for Merlin's sake!"
Flint squared her shoulders. "The magic that binds the Dementors to Azkaban is ancient, Minister. Carved into the basalt of the island when the Ministry was still a table in a tavern. It's beyond any DMLE protocol. It's not enforcement. It's something older. Deeper."
"Don't give me that mystic rot," Bagnold snapped. "If it's older than us, then someone should have known it was cracking. Someone should have warned me."
"It falls under the remit of the Department of Mysteries," Flint said grimly. "Their wardens inspect the foundation runes. They study the ethereal currents. They keep the bindings alive. We report anomalies. They nod or vanish."
All eyes turned to the far corner.
The fourth chair sat empty.
It was meant for the Unspeakable.
Bagnold's lip curled. "They didn't even bother to show."
Vane coughed gently. "We owled them. Three times."
"Of course you did," she whispered, voice tightening. "And they'll file your owls away with the rest. Into some dusty drawer labeled 'apocalypse.'"
She turned to face the hearth, back rigid with rage. "They think themselves above this. Above me. Fucking deep state ghouls. Shadowy fucking cabals…. Never did an honest's day work a moment in their life.. unelected bureaucrats… Think they can pull my strings?! I will give them something to think about!"
No one spoke.
Millicent Bagnold straightened her robes and stared into the blue fire. "If this administration falls," she said, "it will not fall alone. If I am to drown in shame, I will drag every last one of you into the abyss with me."
"Now. Find me the Unspeakable. Drag him here if you must. And someone—anyone—get me Albus Dumbledore. If this is the end of this administration, then I would at least like to face it beside a man who knows what the end looks like."
.
..
Millicent stood behind her desk like a general behind ramparts, her eyes locked on the old wizard before her. Dumbledore, for his part, appeared entirely at ease — hands folded neatly, robes immaculate, eyes unreadable behind their half-moon spectacles.
"You've failed," Millicent said flatly, her voice low and cold. "We entrusted you with the safety of the most important magical site in Britain, and your wards let Dementors through. Children were harmed, Albus."
Dumbledore inclined his head gently. "And the Ministry entrusted Azkaban to its guardians, and those guardians flew screaming into the night. If we are assigning blame, Minister, I fear your scales may grow heavy as well. Also, I might add, none of the children were truly harmed beyond a mild fever."
Millicent's jaw clenched. "Don't turn this back on me. Hogwarts was your responsibility, and now you've let monsters through your gates."
"The security of Hogwarts," Dumbledore replied evenly, "has stood for centuries, woven by founders whose magic we barely comprehend. What has not stood is the Ministry's ability to hold the prison it so proudly runs. And if I may add—Hogwarts has not seen an increase in its budget since the Goblin Reforms of 1911. We have survived off the patronage of our noble families and prestigious alumni network. If more security is to be added, we will need to call in specialists to study the wards. And said speciliasts, I might add, charge by the hour."
Millicent's eyes narrowed. "If you want more funding, Albus, then Hogwarts will need to allow greater government oversight. Real oversight. Not just the occasional owl and a seat at Board meetings. Full auditing power. The right to place our own inspectors, spellcrafters, curriculum experts."
Dumbledore raised a single brow, as though mildly disappointed by a student's short-sightedness. "The Accord of Mutual Autonomy, signed by Headmaster Henry the Luminous and Minister Fortescue the Grim in the year 1213, grants Hogwarts a private charter to operate with educational independence in exchange for limited state funding. A precedent, I believe, etched in both ink and magic. Even the Wizengamot fears to tamper with it."
Looky here folks….The most powerful wizard of our age, hiding behind the skirts of an ancient parchment. You, of all people. Hiding behind ink." Milicent sighed.
"I have never thought of myself as powerful, Minister. That title was assigned by overzealous journalists with far too little to do," Dumbledore said.
Her lip curled. "So modest. So very polite. But we both know modesty is a form of strategy, and politeness a kind of armor."
"And yet," Dumbledore said, meeting her eyes at last, "both are preferable to ambition cloaked in fear."
.
..
Both fell into silence, brittle and uneven.
The fire in the hearth cracked weakly, throwing flickers of light across the Ministry's seals etched into the wall. Outside, somewhere in the corridors beyond, someone was shouting. Inside, the only sound was the soft, shuddering thud of Millicent Bagnold's forehead striking the desk.
"Bloody hell," she muttered into the polished wood. "It's a disaster. It's a bloody disaster."
Dumbledore stood quietly, hands still folded in front of him. "You are not alone in your bewilderment, Minister. We are all grasping at shadows. But let us at least grasp them properly, with eyes open and without yielding to politics."
She turned her face halfway to him, cheek still pressed to the desk. Her voice was hoarse. "You're still preaching even now. Still so calm. I'd scream, if I thought it would help."
"I find silence serves better, when words are exhausted."
Millicent exhaled a long breath and sat up, her hair slightly disheveled. "Fine," she said. "I'll authorize a cash injection to Hogwarts. Emergency budgetary powers. Get your specialists. Curse-breakers, wardmasters, retired Hit-Wizards, bloody centaurs if you must. Fix the wards. Fix the walls. I want that castle tighter than Gringotts."
Dumbledore gave a gentle bow. "You have my thanks, Minister. I will begin assembling the necessary minds immediately. And should the Ministry require any aid in parallel investigations, I will of course provide what I can."
Millicent offered a ghost of a smile, dry and flickering. "Tell me something, Albus. Does the venerable Archmage of Britain have any knowledge or pull with the Unspeakables?"
Dumbledore's expression did not change, but something old and uncertain passed behind his eyes.
"Only that they do not answer to titles," he said quietly. "And they rarely answer at all."
Hogwarts
The Great Hall had been stripped bare of its usual grandeur. No banners. No floating candles. No enchanted sky mimicking the summer light. Just long rows of desks spaced with military precision, the air thick with dust, ink, and the briny stench of adolescent sweat.
Harry sat at the front, hands folded, quill untouched.
Around him, dozens of students bent their heads to parchment as if in prayer. The scratching of quills was a tide, rising and falling, interrupted only by the occasional sigh, cough, or stifled whimper.
I've been to quietter cemeteries, Harry thought grimly.
He glanced up.
3 proctors patrolled the hall. Two from the prefects. And at the back, watching him like a hawk eyeing a sick lamb, sat Rufus.
The old man had said nothing when Harry walked in. Had only inclined his head, eyes inscrutable.
He turned back to the exam.
Question 1: Define and evaluate the use of the Shield Charm in a high-casualty zone. Include limitations.
Question 2: Define, in perfect spelling, the spell and intent required to overcome a Boggart.
Question 3: What distinguishes a vampire from a day walker?
Harry read each one carefully. His answers weren't long, but they were clear. He cited examples—Flanders, the Czech border standoff, one dry mention of a duel in a residential hallway during a war he wasn't supposed to have lived through.
He didn't bother decorating the page. Scrimgeour wouldn't care.
When time was called, Harry rolled up his parchment, placed his wand flat on the table as instructed, and stood.
Scrimgeour dismissed them without ceremony. Just a brief glance down the line and a sharp, "You'll be contacted if your performance is substandard. Otherwise, enjoy your break."
As they filed out, Tonks bumped her shoulder lightly against Harry's.
"You looked like you were back on the job in there," she said, not quite joking.
Harry gave a small smile. "Habit."
Scrimgeour's voice called out behind them.
"Valemont."
Harry turned.
Scrimgeour looked at him levelly. "You ever want to do real work, my door's open. Just don't waste time on dueling clubs and speeches."
"I'll think about it, sir."
"Don't," Scrimgeour said. "Just be ready."
Harry nodded once and left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Madam Gristwold's nostrils flared like a warhorse as she stormed down the central aisle, wand out, spritzing clouds of lilac-scented air freshener potion into the dim corners. The effect was worse than the original stench—burnt ink, cold sweat, rotting socks, and now fake flowers.
"Filth!" she muttered under her breath. "Absolute filth! Half these students smell like they've rolled in dragon bile and death. Merlin's mercy, that one's growing mushrooms—OUT!" She jabbed her wand at a trembling Third Year who squeaked and bolted from the room.
In the far annex, behind a makeshift barricade of books, Harry and Tonks were tangled together on a faded beanbag that was not school property. Her head rested lazily against his chest, legs sprawled across his lap like she owned the entire hemisphere. Harry was half-reading from a battered potions guide, the other half of him thoroughly occupied with her.
Tonks groaned dramatically and thrust her hand in his face. "Rub it."
Harry raised a brow, unmoved. "What exactly happened to your hand?"
"Scribbled too hard." Tonks gave him the most exaggerated pout in human history, morphing her face into a wide-eyed, glistening-lipped parody of toddlerhood. "Scrimgeour made me write three pages of essay—three, Harry—and then fight a dummy that threw bombs. I am but a humble child. A baby. Who assigns a war zone to teenagers?"
Harry didn't look up from the potions text. "You'll survive."
"But my hand hurts," she whined, drawing out the words until they drooped. "It's broken. Like emotionally and physically. And academically. All at once."
"I'm revising," he said, flipping a page. "Slughorn's exam is going to be half trick questions and half traps. I need—"
She poked him in the ribs. Hard.
He twitched.
"I need tenderness, Ghostie," she said, poking again. "I need healing. I need nurturing. This is child cruelty."
"I am studying."
Another poke, this one accompanied by a squeaky voice: "Make it betterrrr. Rub my boo-boo hand. Please, mister nice boy. I wrote sooo many letters and now my bones are soup."
Harry groaned. "Your bones are not soup."
"Are too."
He looked up. She had morphed her face again—eyes the size of saucers, chin trembling, nose upturned like a begging pup.
It was unfair.
Deeply, tragically unfair.
He closed the book with a resigned thump and reached for her hand.
"Thank you," Tonks cooed, victorious. "I'll put you in my will. You get my socks."
"Lucky me."
He took her hand and began to massage it gently, thumb tracing the sore points in practiced circles.
She sighed like she'd just been handed a blanket and cocoa. "There we go. That's the good stuff. Mmm. Oh, don't forget the kiss—"
"Don't push it."
She grinned.
He kissed her knuckles anyway.
He sighed, setting the book aside with an air of theatrical resignation. "You know this is emotional manipulation."
"Yes," she said cheerfully, wiggling her fingers at him. "And it's working."
He took her hand and began massaging her fingers one by one, thumb brushing across her knuckles in slow, practiced circles. She let out a delighted hum and melted further into his side, nuzzling his ribs like a sleepy kneazle.
Madam Gristwold rounded the corner and stopped dead.
"What in Merlin's name—"
She flicked her wand at the ceiling. A tangle of multicolored bunting and what was unmistakably a magical camping tent popped into view above the study alcove.
"Oh absolutely not!"
Harry didn't even flinch. "We're revising."
Tonks peeked over his shoulder with a grin. "The tent's for emotional support."
"You'll be evicted," the librarian snapped. "This is a library, not a den of iniquity!"
She fired off another burst of floral mist for good measure and stormed off, shrieking at a nearby Hufflepuff who had dared to remove their shoes. And another Gryffindor who dared to exist.
Tonks sighed into his shoulder. "She's so mean."
"She's doing her job."
"She's doing too much." Tonks pouted again. "Back to the massage. And don't skimp on the kisses this time. I nearly died."
Harry leaned down and kissed her hand, brushing his lips softly against the spot between her fingers.
Then again.
And again.
"I have Potions next," he muttered, between kisses. "If I fail, it's your fault."
"I'll take full responsibility," she whispered, smug and sleepy. "But only if you fail handsomely."
Administrative Biases
McGonagall's door opened without ceremony.
"Come in, both of you," she said sharply, and turned without waiting.
They followed in, dumping their books in the corner chairs, but neither sat.
"We need to talk about Lily," Dorcas said before the door even clicked shut.
"I expected as much," said McGonagall.
Marlene looked like she hadn't slept in a day—because she hadn't. Her robes were rumpled, her braid fraying. Dorcas was little better, hair pinned in a haphazard bun, ink stains trailing from her wrist to her elbow like battle scars. Both clutched armfuls of scrolls and textbooks and looked ready to duel the next person who so much as breathed wrong.
"She hasn't woken up," Marlene said. Her voice cracked. "And her Defense OWL is the day after tomorrow."
"I am aware."
Dorcas stepped forward, eyes flaring. "So do something."
McGonagall gave her a look. "I am not Healer Brandt. Nor am I the Ministry."
"You're Deputy to the headmaster," Dorcas snapped. "You can reschedule exams."
"No," McGonagall said crisply. "I cannot. Not for standardized Ministry evaluations. The date is set, and the law is explicit."
Marlene slammed her fist down on the edge of the desk, making a stack of scrolls jump. "She was attacked, Professor!"
"And not within school boundaries," McGonagall said, her voice lowered now. "The attack occurred in the outer forest. That places it beyond Hogwarts' perimeter protections, and—" she paused, visibly collecting herself, "—that puts her, by Ministry definition, beyond institutional liability."
Dorcas stared at her. "That's it? That's your reasoning?"
McGonagall's mouth thinned. "I have already contacted the Board. I have already filed two letters to the Office of Magical Education requesting emergency re-evaluation. I have tried. But if Lily does not present herself at the exam table tomorrow, she will be marked absent. And yes—she will have to retake the year for Defense."
Marlene was pale with rage. "She nearly died. That thing nearly crushed her lungs."
"I am not unsympathetic," McGonagall said, voice rising at last. "Don't think this has cost me nothing."
"Then why not make an exception?"
McGonagall hesitated.
Her eyes flicked toward the window.
"I don't make the rules," she said quietly. "But you both know as well as I do that exceptions are… unevenly granted."
A long silence followed.
Dorcas stepped back, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Say it."
"I have said all I can," McGonagall said, eyes weary. "But you know what's being said behind doors. I fought to reschedule Lily's exam. It was blocked."
Marlene's voice was low. "Because she's Muggle-born."
McGonagall didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
.
..
Dorcas gathered her books wordlessly. Marlene stood a moment longer, then said, "If she fails because of this—because of them—"
"She will," Dorcas muttered as they stepped into the corridor. "They'll make sure of it. It's all stacked, and we're supposed to just play along."
"This school's a bloody joke sometimes," Marlene said, voice low and bitter. "We fight off monsters, we train harder than Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, and the second something real happens—some Ministry gremlin pulls a rule out of a scroll from three centuries ago and says, 'Oh, sorry, doesn't apply to her.'"
Dorcas let out a snort. "But heaven forbid a muggleborn doesn't put the right date on their essay scroll, then it's a disciplinary summons."
"Wish we could do something," Marlene said, shoving open the library doors with a little too much force. "Instead we're stuck revising for an exam they'll rig anyway."
They marched toward an empty table in the back, dumped their books down like they were throwing luggage into a fire, and dropped into the seats with identical scowls.
From behind a nearby shelf, Madam Gristwold let out an unmistakable shhhhhh.
Marlene didn't even look up. "Up yours, you old bitch," she hissed under her breath as the librarian clomped away muttering about "savages in uniform."
Dorcas pulled out her notes but wasn't reading them. Her eyes, like Marlene's, had drifted across the room—toward a quiet alcove near the back.
Harry and Tonks.
He was rubbing her hand like some tragic poet, head bent, eyes soft, muttering something Tonks clearly found funny. She was snuggled up against him like she hadn't a care in the world, her hair shifting pink every few seconds like a heartbeat.
"Look at him," Dorcas muttered. "The Hero Boy. Saved the school. Broke all the rules. Gets a cutie and kisses for it."
"Gets results," Marlene said, tapping a quill against her chin.
Dorcas turned. "Don't."
Marlene grinned.
"No," Dorcas said, already seeing the madness bloom behind Marlene's eyes.
But Marlene's grin widened. "He knows how to twist things. Get exceptions. Win sympathy. You saw how Scrimgeour looks at him. Like he's some war relic."
Dorcas looked over at Harry again. "He's trouble. So is she."
"All the best people are."
"Absolutely not," Dorcas said, flipping open her textbook like it might shield her from whatever scheme Marlene was already cooking.
But Marlene was already on her feet, walking with purpose—and a touch too much sway in her hips—toward the alcove where Harry and Tonks sat in their stolen corner of peace.
Dorcas groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Why is she like this," she muttered, knowing full well she'd be dragged into it anyway.
Harry didn't look up at first. Hoping to ignore another teasing session from the sultry Gryffindor.
"Valemont," Marlene greeted, her voice velvet-laced and casual, like they were old friends and not casual acquaintances who occasionally passed each other in corridors.
He didn't answer. Tonks arched a brow at the interruption, not moving from his side.
But Marlene didn't miss a beat. She stepped in closer, leaned just enough to cast a shadow on his book.
"It's about Lily."
That snapped his attention.
Harry's posture shifted. All comfort gone.
"Is she awake?" he asked, quickly. "Is she—has something happened?"
"She's still out," Marlene said, more serious now, the teasing edge dropping from her voice. "They're saying she won't make her Defense OWL tomorrow. Rules say if she misses it, she has to redo the whole year."
Harry stared at her, the lines around his mouth tightening. "That's idiotic. She was attacked."
"Not within school bounds," Marlene said, quietly. "That's the loophole they're using."
He stood. Tonks sat up straighter beside him, already catching on.
Dorcas had finally walked over, arms folded like she wanted to hex someone but wasn't sure who yet. "We talked to McGonagall," she said, glaring at Marlene. "It was a disaster."
"So," Marlene said, tilting her head at Harry. "You coming, or what?"
Harry didn't hesitate.
"Lead the way."
.
..
The room reeked faintly of butterbeer, ink, and regret. Somewhere in the corner, someone was snoring into a Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. But at the center of the chaos, a cabal had formed—loud, animated, and teetering on the edge of criminal behavior.
Marlene McKinnon was three bottles deep into something that had started life as butterbeer and been "gently enhanced" by a contraband hip flask. Her eyes were glassy, her braid unraveling down one shoulder. Dorcas was laughing with the loose-limbed recklessness of someone who hadn't stood up in a while, and Tonks—goblet in one hand, legs draped over the arm of a squashy armchair—was egging them on like the chaos gremlin she was.
"I'm telling you," Dorcas slurred, waving a scroll like a sword, "we send it—right to the Ministry. To the Office of Magical Exam—Exambimations."
"Examinations," Marlene corrected, giggling.
"Exactly. We send it in a box, right? With a fake scroll on top—make it look very official. Maybe some glitter. Everyone loves glitter."
Tonks leaned forward, grinning like a hyena. "And inside—BOOM! A Howler that SCREAMS at them. No, like, really screams. Proper lung-ripping, banshee-volume rage."
Marlene clutched her sides, wheezing. "She was attacked by a DEMENTOR, you WIZARDING NITWITS!"
Dorcas doubled over. "Yes! And it loops! On a delay! So the archive staff can't silence it—because it starts again."
"Six hours," Tonks cackled. "A six-hour shame symphony."
Harry, seated on the far end of the room with a parchment full of notes and a scowl stitched into his brow, looked up slowly.
"You're all drunk."
Marlene raised her bottle. "Correct!"
Harry blinked. "And your plan is to declare war on the Ministry using... noise."
"Weaponized moral indignation," Dorcas corrected. "It's activism."
"It's felony howling," Harry muttered. "Which you'll commit from inside the school, in front of witnesses, with no disguise, while drunk."
Tonks leaned over the side of her chair, upside-down, and grinned at him. "C'mon, Hero Boy. Just one Howler. You can even write it. Make it all serious and scary and full of those fancy speech words you use."
"No."
"Pretty please?" Tonks morphed her face into a literal cherub's. Halo, dimples, the works.
"No," Harry said again, flatly. "I'm going to think of something more tactical. Something that doesn't involve violating seven education laws, two assault statutes, and whatever obscure rule governs enchanted glitter."
Dorcas hiccupped. "You're no fun."
"I'm trying to keep you out of Azkaban."
Marlene waved him off, already rooting through her bag for a spare Howler parchment. "If we end up in Azkaban, we'll just send another Howler."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please stop saying that like it's a solution."
Tonks raised her goblet. "To Lily."
"To Lily!" Dorcas and Marlene chorused.
.
..
"We'll make the walls of the Ministry shake," she declared, raising a Howler scroll above her head. "They'll remember the name Lily Evans!"
"Do you even hear yourself?" Harry snapped, arms crossed, voice sharp as ice.
Marlene froze mid-speech and turned, squinting at him. "Yes, Dad?"
Dorcas and Tonks cackled from the corner, surrounded by floating quills and half-recorded scrolls that occasionally let out test yells like "EXAM INJUSTICE!" and "BIGOTRY! UNACCEPTABLE!"
"I'm serious," Harry said, stepping closer. "You're all too drunk to spell your own names, let alone launch a coordinated magical protest."
Marlene hopped down from the chair, her boots thudding against the carpet. "We're doing something. Which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Tactical Genius."
"I am thinking," Harry growled. "Strategizing. Trying to solve this without dragging Lily's name into a public farce and turning the Ministry against her."
"Strategizing?" Marlene laughed, but there was no joy in it—only frustration and drink-fueled bitterness. "That's code for doing nothing, isn't it? You sit there with your books and your 'hmm let me think,' and we're the stupid ones for caring out loud."
Harry's jaw clenched. "No, you're the stupid ones for recording illegal Howlers while intoxicated in front of twenty witnesses and calling it activism."
Dorcas hiccupped. "We're calling it The Campaign for Exam Justice and Equal Blood Protections."
Tonks nodded solemnly. "It's got a logo and everything."
Harry stared at Marlene. "You're going to get her banned. You think the Ministry will reschedule her OWL because of some drunken screaming scrolls? They'll double down. They'll mark her as disruptive. And if she wakes up and finds out what you idiots did in her name—"
Marlene's face hardened. "She wouldn't be surprised. She knows how this place works."
"Then you're doing this for you," Harry said. "Not for her."
A beat of silence.
Marlene's smile dropped. "You know what? Fine. Go. Go strategize. Go be quiet and clever in a corner. The rest of us will keep fighting."
Harry turned without another word, fury tight in his shoulders, and stormed up the dormitory stairs. The door slammed shut behind him.
Back downstairs, Tonks let out a long breath. "That went well."
"Record it again," Dorcas mumbled, prodding the floating Howler with her wand. "This time with more righteous rage and less... nose whistle."
Marlene rolled her shoulders and picked up another scroll. Her hands were shaking.
"Fine," she muttered. "Let's make the bastards listen."
.
..
He scowled as he walked outside the stone walls.
Behind him, the muffled echoes of drunken rebellion still bounced around the common room—Dorcas and Tonks chanting "Howler War!" while Marlene threatened to transfigure all the Ministry's ink wells into dungbombs.
He needed air. Or clarity. Or just a moment where people weren't yelling spells into enchanted scrolls.
As he turned the corner into the stairwell that led to the boys' dorms, Harry nearly collided with someone descending from above.
James Potter.
He looked wrecked.
Hair messier than usual, eyes sunken behind tired lids, his sleeves rolled up and ink stains trailing along his forearm like veins. He moved like someone who'd argued with every prefect in the building and lost.
They stopped.
For a moment, the world paused with them.
James scowled. "Look who finally graces us with his presence," he muttered, voice low and sharp. "The Hero Himself. I should feel honored."
Harry blinked, momentarily stunned. It was always strange, seeing him like this—not the man he remembered from old stories, but a seventeen-year-old with callouses and a chip on his shoulder.
"Forget the nonsense," Harry said quickly, voice taut. "I need your help."
James raised an eyebrow. "Pass."
Harry stepped closer. "Lily might be in trouble."
That changed everything.
The shrug James had halfway formed froze. His jaw tensed. "What kind of trouble?"
Harry spoke fast. "She's still unconscious. She missed the Defense OWL. They're saying she'll have to retake the entire year. McGonagall tried. The Ministry won't budge."
James was fully alert now, every trace of drowsiness wiped clean. "You're serious?"
"I wouldn't come to you otherwise," Harry said. "I know we haven't—look, just help me. Please."
James stared at him for a long second.
Then he sighed through his nose.
"Tell me everything," he said, voice suddenly very calm. "And don't leave out a single bloody thing."
.
..
The wooden door slammed shut behind them. Dust swirled in the torchlight as James stalked into the disused classroom, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight with something older than anger.
Harry had barely opened his mouth when the punch came.
It landed hard—square in the jaw. He hit the floor with a grunt, back colliding with a desk leg, wand halfway drawn before—
"Stupefy."
Red light snapped through the air. Harry's muscles locked, breath caught mid-shout. He was frozen, stunned but conscious, as James stepped over him and grabbed his collar, dragging him upright against the desk edge with clenched fists and shaking fury.
"You smug bastard," James hissed, breath hot against his face. "Dumbledore told Remus tonight. Told him he can't use the Shack anymore. Someone leaked his condition. Someone got the idea in their head that there was a 'danger' to the students."
His grip tightened. "Funny, isn't it? How that happened just after you and I had our little midnight chat. Just after you slinked around the corridors like a bloody ghost."
Harry growled, fingers twitching around his wand. "Let me go. Now. Or there'll be hell to pay."
"Oh, I know there will," James spat. "Because you're a walking disaster with a halo. Preaching morality, whining about bloodlines and war, all while you sell out a bloke who never hurt anyone."
Harry snarled, struggling to move through the lingering paralysis. "I didn't sell him out."
"No?" James sneered. "Because that's not what it looks like from where I'm standing. From where Remus is sitting, wondering why he's being treated like a rabid dog by the only school that ever gave him a bloody chance."
Harry's fingers twitched again—close, so close. "It wasn't me."
"Sure," James spat. "Maybe you'll cry next. Say it was all a misunderstanding. Play the tragic hero."
Harry didn't answer.
He just stared.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he rasped, "It was Narcissa."
That stopped James cold. His fingers remained curled in Harry's collar, but the rage had gone still.
"She didn't hear it from me," Harry said, panting. "Narcissa and Tonks were there. That night. Under an invisibility spell."
James's brow furrowed, his mouth curling in skepticism.
"She smelled it," Harry pressed on. "The potion. The new one Dumbledore gave Remus to manage the transformation. It's not like anything we've brewed in class—it's volatile, subtle, damn near alchemical."
James didn't move. But Harry could feel it: the crack in the anger. Just a sliver.
"She's brilliant at potions," Harry added. "She recognized the scent. Put it together from that alone."
James's grip didn't loosen. "Bullshit. Nobody recognizes a prototype stabilizing draught just from a whiff in a corridor."
Harry hesitated—then lied.
"She investigated further. Tracked you. She followed you all the way to the Shack."
James's jaw flexed.
"She used it to reverse my expulsion," Harry said, voice hoarse. "That was the trade. She didn't want to out him—just to leverage something. That's how she works."
The silence stretched.
Slowly, slowly, James's fingers began to slacken, just enough—
Harry's wand was already angled in his sleeve.
"Depulso."
The spell blasted James backward in a sudden burst of force. His body smashed into the far wall with a heavy thud, a desk splintering beneath him as he hit and crumpled to the floor.
Harry scrambled to his feet, wand raised, breathing hard.
James groaned, not unconscious—but stunned.
"Stay down," he said. "I'm all out of fucks to give anymore."
James didn't stay down.
With a grunt, he shoved himself to his feet, fury flashing wild behind his glasses. A flick of his wand turned a desk into a snarling wooden wolf, jaws snapping. Another gesture, and a nearby cabinet warped mid-air, reshaping into a wheeled golem with battering-ram arms that charged straight for Harry.
"Stay down?" James spat. "I'm not one of your followers, Valemont!"
Harry didn't flinch.
He marched to the center of the ruined classroom, boots crunching over splinters and ink-soaked parchment, and planted himself there—back straight, wand loose at his side. He marked the floor beneath him with a slow, deliberate line of spellfire. A duelist's ring.
"Fine," he said. "Let's end it here."
The golem roared forward.
"Depulso."
It exploded in a burst of shattered wood and brass hinges.
The wolf lunged.
"Bombarda."
The spell hit like a hammer. Splinters rained down in a wide arc as the transfigured creature ceased to exist.
James wasn't deterred. He ducked behind a flipped table and jabbed his wand at the floor beneath Harry. The stone tiles twisted and shimmered, transfiguring into a spiraling pattern of glyphs meant to lull, to pull consciousness inward—a hypnotic trap masquerading as defense.
Harry didn't blink.
"Confringo."
The floor ruptured in a bloom of fire and flying stone, the entire spellform obliterated in a single, merciless blast. Dust clouded the air. Heat licked the walls.
And then Harry moved.
He advanced with purpose, wand crackling with contained force.
A slashing gust knocked James's shield askew—followed by a volley of magical pressure that forced him to retreat, stumbling over broken desks as ward after ward shattered under the sheer weight of Harry's strikes.
"Expulso. Bombarda Maxima. Reducto."
Every spell screamed with intention, not flair. Destruction without arrogance. Violence with discipline.
James threw up a desperate conjured wall—books, stone, and chair legs woven together—but Harry's next spell tore through it like parchment.
They clashed again at the center, fists and fury and ragged breath.
Blood on both their brows. Bruises blooming along ribs and forearms. Neither yielding.
But eventually James stumbled back, panting, wand sagging in his grip. He looked at the burns smoking at the edge of his sleeve, the faint crack along his wand's handle, and then back at the boy before him.
The boy who had not broken stance once.
James let out a bitter breath and dropped his wand to his side.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You don't fight like a student."
Harry stood still in the haze of dust and ruin, chest heaving.
"I'm not."
The silence that followed Harry's words was heavy.
ames stood still, eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling as the weight of it settled. He looked like he wanted to say something.
And then—
"STUDENTS DUELLING IN THE HAAAALLS!" came the shriek of Peeves, somewhere above and to the left, followed by the unmistakable clang of a suit of armor diving off its pedestal.
Portraits along the walls were screaming bloody murder.
"SIXTH-YEAR BOY BLEW UP A FLOORBOARD, I SAW IT WITH MY VERY OWN FRAME!"
Both boys turned toward the doorway at the same time.
Harry bolted.
James lunged and caught him by the collar, dragging him back with one arm.
"Nope," he muttered, still wheezing from bruised ribs. "We're in this together now."
Before Harry could protest, James jabbed his wand at him. In a shimmer of magic, Harry's torn and soot-stained robes transformed—Slytherin green and silver, polished and clean. James flicked again, changing his own into matching colors.
Then, with a bloodied grin, he shoved a black balaclava into Harry's hand.
Harry stared at it. "You're kidding."
James winked through a split lip. "You think Slytherins have a monopoly on deception?"
Voices were closing in now. Peeves cackled down the stairwell, launching ink bombs at whoever was foolish enough to chase him.
"NAUGHTY SLYTHERINS IN THE NORTH TOWER!" he howled. "DARK ARTS CLUB? MORE LIKE DARK FARTS CLUB!"
Boots echoed behind them—prefects, probably, maybe a patrolling professor.
Harry yanked the balaclava on with a growl. "You are insane."
"Welcome to the club, sonny," James said, and they sprinted off together, robes whipping behind them like flags of a lost cause.
Boys Will Be Boys
They ran through the corridor like hunted animals, breath ragged, limbs burning, laughter still crackling in their throats from the madness of it all. Somewhere behind them, Peeves was shrieking about "naughty dueling boys"
"I know a spot!" James shouted over his shoulder.
Harry skidded to a halt as James suddenly stopped by a massive brass-rimmed clock set into the stone wall.
"You what?" Harry snapped, scowling. "What do you mean, you—"
James was already fiddling with the hands of the clock. One twist, two flicks, and the second hand stopped mid-tick. With a faint grinding, the face split open.
A dark, narrow passage yawned behind it.
"Oh for—this better not be some Marauder prank tunnel to Filch's sock drawer—"
"Move it, Valemont," James muttered, rolling his eyes, and shoved Harry bodily into the passage before stepping in and slamming the clock closed behind them.
They marched forward through pitch-black stone, the sound of their footfalls echoing. The air was thick with dust and the dry stink of forgotten places. Somewhere to the left, something skittered.
Harry let out a sharp, undignified yelp.
James nearly collapsed from laughing.
"You screamed like a girl!"
"It jumped! On my face!"
"It was probably smaller than your eyebrow!"
"It had legs, Potter. Eight."
They stumbled out onto a patch of grass moments later, coughing, blinking, disheveled. They'd emerged on a raised lawn several floors above ground level, right beneath the Astronomy Tower's lower ledge.
That was when they saw them.
The baby Death Eaters.
Lucius Malfoy was lounging on a conjured divan like a Slytherin godfather, cane in hand, surrounded by Thassius Nott and Ignatius Flint, each with goblets of firewhisky in hand and smirks on their faces. A few other purebloods sat in a lazy circle, lounging on picnic blankets and cushions, clearly deep into their "private gathering."
"Well," Lucius said smoothly, "what do we have here? A bit far from Gryffindor's jungle, aren't we, boys?"
James groaned. "Oh bloody hell."
Lucius stood, brushing invisible dust from his robes. "I would say we could overlook this intrusion if... say... you left a modest donation for our trouble. Something gold. Or rare. Or both."
Flint grinned and cracked his knuckles. "Or you can stay. We haven't tested new curses in a while."
Harry scanned the lawn—edges sealed with casual warding lines, no teachers, no allies.
Outnumbered. Again.
He tensed.
But James just grinned—bloodied lip, torn robes, eyes wild with leftover adrenaline.
"Lucius," he said, voice loud and clear. "Go fuck yourself."
Lucius's smile faded.
"Twice," James added cheerfully. "And try not to cry this time."
Lucius's smile froze on his face, glassy and wide. Flint's grin was already slipping into a snarl, and Nott's wand was halfway up.
Harry moved first.
Before anyone could blink, he reached out—not with his wand, but with will. His eyes locked on Lucius's, and the spell took hold with all the practiced weight of experience far beyond his years.
The world around Lucius faded behind a warm fog. His posture slackened just enough to be unnoticeable. He waited, frozen in that half-aristocratic sneer, as Harry mentally gave the order: Don't intervene. Don't speak. When I say, run.
Then Harry flicked his wand low—quick, silent.
"Depulso."
The blast caught Flint square in the ribs, sending him skidding back into their conjured wine goblet pile. He landed in a heap, sputtering curses and broken glass.
James blinked once—then smirked.
"Well, hell."
His wand snapped forward, firing a rapid-fire jinx that had Nott backpedaling fast, tripping over his own goblet. James charged after him, wild and laughing.
Harry sent one last command to Lucius—Run. Run now. Don't stop till you hit the dungeons.
Lucius blinked, face blank. Then turned on his heel and jogged off, muttering something about "reorganizing the guest list" as he vanished behind the stone arch.
By the time James returned, breathless and triumphant, wand still crackling with residual spellfire, Harry had already turned away.
"You," James said between gasps, "are crazier than a pixie on soda."
James pretended to grab Harry's groin and laughed as the boy shireked away.
"And despite looking like a right little femboy, you're a man's man, Valemont."
Harry shoved him in the shoulder. "Shut up."
James laughed, deep and unbothered, wiping blood from his mouth.
"You have to be," he said, still chuckling, "considering you've got Tonks wrapped around your finger like a lovestruck housecat."
Harry rolled his eyes and conjured two towels with a flick. He tossed one at James, who caught it against his face and groaned.
Together, they wiped the worst of the grime and blood off, breath slowing, adrenaline ebbing.
"Y'know," James said, towel still draped over his neck, "you're all right. Little fucked in the head, but not bad."
Harry nodded, still scanning the dark lawn. "We'll talk about Remus later."
"Yeah," James muttered. "We will."
.
..
James groaned as he lowered himself onto the lawn, back cracking audibly. "I think Malfoy's divan gave me a spinal injury."
Harry grunted in reply, pressing a hand to his ribs as he sat beside him, eyes tilted upward to the sky. The stars were absurdly peaceful. Distant. Unbothered by duels or purebloods or prefect reports.
James reached into his inner robe pocket and fished out a crumpled cigarette box with all the nonchalance of someone about to start a war. He popped one between his lips, lit it with the tip of his wand, then extended the pack toward Harry.
Harry looked at it like it might bite him. "Seriously?"
James smirked past the smoke curling from his mouth. "I won't tell Lily."
Harry scowled. "You're unbelievable."
James winked, offering the pack again.
Harry hesitated, then winced and took one like it physically pained him. "Fine. Just one. I'm not making this a—"
"Oh, Merlin," James said, rolling his eyes, "you really do treat her like your mum."
Harry stiffened, a quiet flash of pain flickering across his face—but he covered it with an awkward puff that immediately turned into a choking fit.
James roared with laughter, doubling over.
Harry sputtered and waved the smoke away. "Bloody hell. You're trying to kill me."
"Best part of my night," James wheezed. "The Hero of Hogwarts getting taken out by a cigarette."
"You've got a messed up sense of socialization," Harry muttered, trying another puff and still coughing like he'd swallowed a cauldron.
"Shuwushulization," James repeated in a whiny, sing-song voice. "Ugh, Merlin, listen to you. What are you, a career counselor? Dork."
Harry side-eyed him. "You fight people to make friends, then hand them lung poison."
"And you use words like 'socialization' and walk around acting like you're forty. You're a dork, Valemont."
Harry muttered into his hand, "You punched me in the face and changed my House colors."
James grinned, took another drag, and exhaled into the starlight. "Yeah, and now you're smoking on the grass with me. Funny how that works, huh?"
James stretched his legs out, wincing as something cracked. "All right, then," he said, voice rasped and low. "What the hell was all that about Lily? You said she might be in trouble."
Harry glanced over, then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Dorcas and Marlene," he said like he was naming a curse. "They've got this brilliant idea—recording enchanted Howlers and sending them to the Ministry. Yelling about blood discrimination and exam injustice. In her name."
James stared at him, blinking.
Harry continued, voice getting more incredulous as he spoke. "They were already halfway through enchanting the scrolls when I left. Glitter, rage, the whole lot. Marlene wanted to curse the postage."
James muttered, "Fucking hell."
He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the stars in dismay. "Lily makes fun of me constantly for hanging out with Sirius. Says he's a walking hormone with no brain cells. And she chooses those two bimbos as her backup dancers?"
Harry turned to him with a scowl. "Don't call them that."
James held up a hand, grinning. "All right, all right. No offense to your glitter terrorists."
"They care," Harry said, quietly. "Just… maybe not with any actual strategy."
James snorted. "Which is why you came to me."
Harry raised a brow. "Not like I had other options."
James sat up, brushing grass from his robes. "Well. You do now. I've got a few ideas—better ones. No yelling scrolls, I promise."
Harry nodded slowly.
"Let's meet in the morning," James said, already pulling himself to his feet. "Figure out what we're doing. Before your friends blow up the Department of Education."
Harry stood too, sore and stiff. "Fine. Early."
"Not too early," James warned. "I'm still technically a teenager."
Harry gave him a sideways glance. "We just blew up a classroom and fled a crime scene."
Also, my dad just gave me cigarettes and told me he won't tell mum.
James grinned, blood still on his lip. "Yeah. You're welcome."
True Love Conquers All
James stood at the front of the room, wand behind his ear, leaning against the teacher's desk like it was a podium at the Wizengamot. The moment Harry arrived, he clapped his hands and grinned.
"Right, everyone. Welcome to what may be the stupidest, most glorious disaster any of us ever attempt. And I say that with full Marauder authority."
Marlene rolled her eyes. "Here we go."
"In the centuries-long history of Hogwarts," James said, beginning to pace dramatically, "not once—not once—has the Ministry's examination system ever been cracked. Not by student. Not by staff. Not even by—" he paused for effect, turning toward the room, "—yours truly."
The collective groan was loud enough to rattle the windows.
"I knew he was going to say that," Dorcas muttered.
"Every bloody time," Harry sighed.
Tonks made gagging noises and conjured a floating sock to throw at him.
But James pressed on, undeterred.
"The OWL system is impenetrable. The wards are layered like goblin vaults. The schedules are locked by time-stamped charms. Even the examiners have anti-tampering charms up their robes. It is, in short—"
"A nightmare?" Marlene offered.
"A bureaucratic hellscape?" added Dorcas.
"An exam?" Harry deadpanned.
James grinned. "—an obstacle of the highest order. But."
He turned, raising a finger.
"When love is involved…"
"Oh, Merlin," Dorcas groaned.
"…when the heart is aflame…"
"No, please no," Marlene muttered, stuffing her fingers in her ears.
"…when it's Lily Evans in peril—"
Tonks collapsed into a chair, dramatically fake-crying. "Make it stoooop."
James clutched his chest with mock sorrow. "I would cross the seven hells for her. And today, my friends… we're going to crack the OWLs. For love."
The groans that followed were louder than the school bell.
Harry rubbed his temples. "Can we skip the soliloquy next time and get to the part where we commit minor academic treason?"
"Absolutely," James said, eyes twinkling. "But you had to feel it first."
He raised his wand, drew a chalk circle on the floor, and declared, "Operation Evans has officially begun."
Operations Evans
Marlene was already pacing by the back wall, arms crossed, boots tapping a slow rhythm against cracked stone.
"We force a postponement," she declared. "Blow up the sewer pipes under the third-floor exam wing. Flood the corridor with stink. No one writes an OWL when the floor smells like troll armpits."
James leaned back against the desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. "Creative," he said. "But not original. 1947. Same stunt. Back when Professor Harkensnout taught Charms and refused to update his syllabus."
The others turned to look at him.
"Ministry still forced the students to take the exam," James continued. "But—" he grinned, "—while under bubblehead charms. Couldn't keep their necks straight. Students vomiting everywhere. But the exams went on."
Marlene scowled. "Gods, they're sick."
Dorcas snapped her fingers. "Fine. New idea. I kidnap one of the examiners."
James blinked. Then slowly grinned.
"That... might be the best thing anyone's said all night."
Dorcas puffed up like a smug cat. "Exactly. See? This is the difference between me and the losers in this room."
Tonks gave her a slow thumbs-up. "Queen of crime, we love to see it."
James tilted his head. "All right then, Dorcas. Who are we kidnapping?"
Dorcas opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Uh."
James raised his eyebrows. "You don't know who the examiner is."
Dorcas scowled. "We can find out."
Harry cut in. "The Ministry doesn't release the name until an hour before the exam. Security protocol."
Dorcas stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed her. "That's stupid. Cowardly. Anti-progress."
James clapped her on the shoulder. "Welcome to educational reform."
Tonks raised her hand, eyes bright. "I still have the Howlers ready."
Everyone in the room turned to look at her in synchronized dread.
"No," they all said in unison.
Tonks lowered her hand with a sheepish grin. "I'm just saying... they're really glittery."
.
..
"So, tell us then, dumbass—since all our ideas are apparently too glittery or too illegal. What's your genius plan, oh great Marauder?"
James grinned, the kind of grin that usually preceded a disciplinary hearing or a minor explosion.
"I have," he said with a wink, "a secret weapon."
They all stared at him.
He turned toward Tonks, who blinked, looked around, then pointed at herself. "Me?"
"Exactly," James said, triumphant. "Look, I'm not under any delusion that we can sneak into the exam hall, swap scrolls, or flood the school with troll stench and get away with it. At best—at absolute best—we can do one thing."
He leaned forward, hands on the desk.
"We make Lily Potter take her exam."
Marlene raised both brows. "Oh, brilliant. Why didn't we think of that? Let's just wake her up. Maybe slap her with a resurrection draught and shout Wingardium Conscia until she walks."
But Tonks sat up straighter, eyes narrowing slightly.
Then, with the slow shimmer of her skin rippling like water, her pink hair darkened, straightened, and morphed into a vibrant copper red. Her face restructured, eyes shifting to a familiar bright green. In moments, Lily Evans sat where Tonks had been—twirling her wand between her fingers and raising an unimpressed brow.
Dorcas jumped. "Holy shit."
Marlene reeled back in her seat. "You absolute lunatic—warn a girl!"
James beamed, completely unfazed.
"See? Not just glitter bombs. Themed identity fraud."
Marlene shoved a hand through her hair. "Great. So you've got a fake Lily. That solves nothing. The Ministry does a pre-exam magical tamper check on every student. They'll sniff her out in seconds."
"Ah," James said, tapping his wand gently against his palm. "Which is why we break in and tamper with the Ministry's tamper-check tools before the exam."
He patted his robe pocket, smugness radiating off him in waves.
"I've got a few things figured out."
Only Harry caught the flicker of motion under James's robes. The slight gleam of gossamer. The careful way James avoided showing the fabric too directly.
The Invisibility Cloak.
Harry's gaze sharpened. Of course.
No one else noticed.
Tonks, now still shaped as Lily, crossed her arms and smirked. "So… how's my hair?"
Marlene threw a cushion at her.
James just grinned wider. "Operation Evans is back on."
.
..
The sun had barely crested the towers of Hogwarts when James Potter strolled—no, swaggered—into the first-year Gryffindor dormitory, whistling a jaunty, off-key tune that immediately struck dread into the hearts of every upperclassman within earshot.
He had that look in his eyes. The look that meant trouble with a thesis.
The seventh-years groaned audibly. A few ducked under blankets. One girl tried to slide under a bed and whispered, "It's happening again."
James paused just long enough at the entrance to flash a wink at a terrified first-year boy, then flicked his wand with casual elegance.
Thunk. Plop. Fzzzzt.
Three dung bombs hit the stone floor in rapid succession—one by the beds, one near the trunks, and one heroically lobbed into the fireplace for good measure.
The reaction was immediate and glorious.
Shrieks erupted. A girl climbed a curtain. Someone fell into a laundry basket. Two boys tried to hex the smell and only succeeded in setting their own sheets on fire.
James took a dramatic bow.
"Good morning, children."
"POTTER!" came the shrill, furious bellow from the stairwell.
Professor McGonagall stormed in, wand already sparking, hair escaping her bun in frizzled waves of wrath. Her tartan dressing gown billowed like a war banner.
"You vile, insufferable, infantile—"
James grinned and whipped out a slim, silver object from his pocket. The enchanted Marauder's Mirror.
He tapped it twice. "Execute."
.
..
Down the corridor, Tonks glanced down as her own mirror flared green.
"Showtime."
In a blink, her skin rippled, nose narrowing, eyes sharpening, hair vanishing into a tight gray bun. Wrinkles creased her face in all the right places. McGonagall's disapproving frown settled perfectly into place as if conjured by years of exposure.
Dorcas and Marlene flanked her like battlefield medics, hastily buttoning up the real McGonagall's spare robe—liberated from the laundry line half an hour earlier—and straightening her collar.
"Try not to walk like you just robbed a pub," Marlene hissed.
"Or giggle," Dorcas added. "Or swear. Or flirt."
"I never flirt in disguise," Tonks said, indignant.
"You flirt in every disguise," Dorcas muttered.
"Enough," Tonks grumbled in McGonagall's crisp accent. "Let's get this done."
She marched down the corridor and stopped at the heavy oak door to the Staff Room. It was warded by the enchanted Identity Mirror—a framed piece of glass enchanted by the Ministry to scan magical signatures and biometrics, keyed to each staff member.
She cleared her throat, steeled her spine, and stepped forward.
The mirror flickered for a beat.
Then glowed green.
Access granted.
The door clicked open with a soft hiss.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Tonks muttered under her breath, "the cat's in the staffroom."
.
..
The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her as Tonks—now McGonagall—stepped into the staff room with practiced austerity.
The smell hit first: tea, ink, toasted crumpets, and the faint chemical sting of enchanted parchment. The room was warm, lined with bookshelves, a self-cleaning hearth, and chairs that all faced just slightly away from one another. Designed for maximum mutual discomfort.
James's voice echoed in her skull via the mirror charm:
"Each student gets owled an ID pin before the OWLs. It's keyed to the scroll registry. You want Lily to take the exam, you need her bloody pin."
Tonks nodded subtly and advanced into the room, posture upright, chin stern. Her wand hand twitched slightly, fingers tensing with each step.
Professor Flitwick glanced up from his teacup.
"Ah, good morning, Minerva," he chirped, then blinked at her. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Is everything all right?"
Tonks stared him down, eyes hawkish. Her voice dropped an octave. "What?"
Flitwick blinked again, clearly off-balance, then grumbled something about "early nerves" and ducked back into his edition of Transfiguration Through Time.
Tonks exhaled silently. Her boots clicked across the stone floor as she strode toward what she hoped was McGonagall's desk. A sharp rectangular space with an overly tidy inkwell and six color-coded quills.
She began opening drawers as nonchalantly as one could while performing a state-level academic heist.
First drawer: cat treats.
Second drawer: parchment log of past detentions.
Third drawer—
There.
A tiny red satin pouch stamped with the Hogwarts crest and sealed with an embossed M: Evans, L. – ID Pin – DADA (Exam Code 81-E)
Tonks snatched it up and quickly pulled her wand.
"Replico Persona," she whispered, casting the identity-copy charm Harry had taught her. A glittering double of the pin shimmered into her palm—exact weight, same inscription, same Ministry spell matrix. A flawless fake.
She tucked the copy into her robe and was just about to close the drawer when—
"Well, well, well…"
Slughorn.
He waddled toward her from the buffet table, one hand holding a biscuit, the other twirling his mustache with unsettling precision. His eyes locked onto her with the fervor of a man who had read too many questionable romance scrolls.
"My dear Minerva," he crooned, "you're looking—radiant this morning. Positively dewy. Have you been experimenting with youth potions? I have a few in my private stock I could recommend. Discreetly, of course."
Tonks said nothing, already praying for the ground to open beneath her.
Slughorn stepped in closer. "And your complexion—so clear, so… tight," he added with a chuckle. "You must share your regimen. We old professors must look after ourselves."
Still silence.
He chuckled again, softer this time. "Of course, not even a touch of gray could dull your—ah—presence. But if you're ever tired of that silver streak, I know a potion or two to bring back the chestnut fire of your youth…"
Tonks sighed and bent over to retrieve a stray parchment she hadn't even dropped—desperate to end the conversation. As she did, Slughorn's eyes drifted downward. His smile grew lazier. His tongue ran along his bottom lip.
He didn't realize she could see his reflection perfectly in the polished brass kettle by the fire.
When Tonks—McGonagall—rose again, her voice sliced through the staff room like a glaive.
"Professor Slughorn," she snapped, in a flawless Highland burr laced with steel, "if your eyes stray one inch lower again, I will transfigure them into barnacles and affix them to the underside of your desk chair."
Slughorn froze. The biscuit trembled in his fingers. The entire staff room went dead silent.
The newly minted Vector choked on her scone.
Burbage snorted.
Slughorn's face turned a shade of boiled crimson. "I—Minerva—I only meant—just in good fun—"
"Your idea of 'fun,' Horace," Tonks-McGonagall said icily, "is precisely what forced me to rewrite the staff handbook in three languages."
As Slughorn sputtered like a punctured kettle, a few of the professors began snickering behind their hands. Flitwick chuckled aloud and muttered, "Told him…"
Tonks straightened, gave a regal sniff, and returned to her desk, pin tucked securely beneath her robes. She didn't say another word.
But as she turned, her reflection in the kettle smirked.
.
..
The gang reassembled in their usual hideout, their so-called war room.
Marlene was the first through the door, boots stomping with purpose. She didn't sit. She pointed.
"There's a glaring problem with this whole masterpiece of a plan!"
Everyone looked up from their seats around the conjured table. Tonks—still half-stuck as McGonagall, her cheekbones far too sharp—waved awkwardly.
"I think I nailed her walk," Tonks offered.
"You cannot take Lily's OWLs!" Marlene barked, throwing her arms up. "You're not even a fifth year! You think the practical is hard? Wait till you get asked the theoretical stuff—Dark object classification, intent calculus, layered hexes—"
"She's right," Dorcas added, chewing on the tip of her quill. "One wrong answer and it's a grade cratered. Or worse, Lily flays you. Alive. With a syllabus."
Tonks audibly gulped at that. "She would."
James, sprawled across two chairs with a stolen Honeydukes tin on his lap, shrugged. "All true. What's the backup plan, then?"
"Don't you have things to do?" Dorcas shot. James grinned as he threw the detectors towards her and winked.
"All tampered and taken care of, love." He said. Dorcas scowled at him in return.
Harry stood slowly, calm and certain. "I'll take care of the exam."
He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, oval object—flesh-colored and soft-looking, like a slightly translucent button.
He placed it on the table. It shimmered with a faint magical pulse.
"Custom spelltech. Disguised earpiece. Blends with the skin. Tonks wears it during the exam," Harry explained, tapping the side of his neck. "I'll be feeding her the answers as she writes. Spells, theory, references—all of it."
The room went still.
"Of course you have custom skin-melded spy gear," Dorcas muttered. "Of course you do."
Tonks picked up the piece and whistled. "Fancy. Won't it pick up the examiner's voice too?"
"I've tuned the enchantment to isolate frequencies," Harry said simply. "Only keyed to mine."
James raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about this? That exam's brutal."
Dorcas leaned forward. "You screw up even one section of the theoretical, Valemont, and when Lily wakes up and finds out—she will turn you into potion ingredients."
Harry just smiled.
"I won't screw up."
Marlene folded her arms. "You're a smug bastard, you know that?"
"Confident," Harry corrected.
"Same thing."
Tonks grinned. "Well, if I'm going to get fried for impersonating a baddie, might as well have a genius in my ear while doing it."
James raised his Honeydukes tin like a toast. "To high-stakes academic fraud."
They all raised invisible glasses. Even Dorcas. Begrudgingly.
High Stakes Academic Fraud
The makeshift dressing room stank of hair tonic, nervous sweat.
Tonks—already morphed into a flawless replica of Lily Evans—stood stiffly in front of a cracked mirror, arms raised as Dorcas and Marlene circled her like tailors at a royal fitting.
"Hold still," Marlene snapped, adjusting the collar of the regulation Hogwarts robes. "If you breathe too hard, the charm on the sleeves unravels."
"I'm trying," Tonks hissed. "But I'm pretty sure these robes are tighter than my actual skin."
Dorcas reached into her satchel and pulled out a compact charm-mirror. "Well, you look perfect," she said grudgingly. "Hair's the right shade. Cheekbones spot-on. Expression mildly annoyed and morally superior—very Lily."
Tonks offered a trembling smile. "Glad to know I'm radiating judgment."
Marlene squinted at her. "Remember, if you get caught—"
"You don't name names," Dorcas finished grimly, tying off Tonks's tie with a tight jerk. "Snitches get stitches. Or worse. Magical stitches. Permanent ones."
Tonks laughed weakly, tugging at the itchy collar. "This is wildly comforting, thank you."
Harry, leaning against the sink with arms crossed, offered her a calm nod. "You're doing something right, not wrong. Don't let the nerves get to you. And don't worry—it's not my first time breaking Ministerial law."
That made Tonks pause.
So did the sudden silence from Marlene and Dorcas as they slowly turned to stare at him.
Harry coughed. "I mean, theoretically."
"You wanna run that back, Valemont?" Dorcas asked, eyebrow climbing.
Before he could answer, the door slammed open with dramatic flair.
"Good morning, my academic criminals!" James Potter announced, sweeping in like a game show host with a wand holster and a stolen pastry in hand.
He caught sight of Tonks-in-Lily-form and blinked.
Then frowned.
Then tilted his head and said, "Your butt's too small."
Everyone turned.
James nodded seriously. "We need realism. Lily's got Quidditch thighs."
"Oh yeah, Tonks babe, form up." Dorcas nodded before screeching to a halt. "WAIT HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!"
"I hate that you know that," Marlene said instantly, face flattening.
James sputtered, mouth opening and closing like a fish caught in an ethical dilemma. "I—I don't—I observe things, all right?"
"You observe her ass?" Marlene drawled.
"No! I mean, not in a weird way!"
"Uh-huh," Dorcas said, arms crossed.
"I just—objectively—as her friend!"
Harry buried his face in his hand.
Before the interrogation could deepen, the corridor filled with the clipped, unmistakable voice of Professor McGonagall, magically amplified and cold as sleet.
"Fifth-year students: The Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL begins in fifteen minutes. Assemble outside the Great Hall."
A beat of silence.
Tonks inhaled shakily, eyes darting to each of them.
"Hey," Harry said softly. "You've got this."
Marlene patted her on the shoulder. "Fake it like your sentence depends on it."
Dorcas grinned. "Because it kind of does."
James clapped her on the back and grinned. "Break a leg, Red. Just… not literally. Ministry paperwork's hell."
Tonks adjusted the collar once more, straightened her posture, and exhaled.
"Let's go commit an exam."
.
..
The Great Hall had never felt more like a courtroom.
Long rows of desks stretched from one enchanted window to the other, each perfectly spaced, perfectly silent. Floating quills and exam scrolls hovered ominously above assigned seats, pulsing with Ministry-standard tamper-wards. The ceiling was enchanted with a calm, sunny sky—an illusion that absolutely no one was buying.
Tonks, currently shaped to perfection as Lily Evans, sat at her assigned desk, back straight, hands folded, trying desperately not to sweat through someone else's body.
A Ministry proctor paced slowly down the aisle. Another hovered near the exam scrolls, muttering detection charms like Gregorian curses.
Right, Tonks thought. Easy. Just write what Harry tells you. Breathe. Don't sneeze. Don't fart. Don't blow your cover by shrieking.
Harry's voice crackled, "You wrote your own name, dumbass."
Tonks almost shrieked at that before clasping hands over her mouth. The hall turned and looked at her in judgement.
"Please maintain discipline." The lead examiner announced.
"All right. All good." Tonks muttered.
The earpiece buzzed faintly in her ear.
Harry's voice, calm and low: All right, first question. Define the magical properties of a standard Shield Charm and its limitations under cursed ground.
Tonks nodded slightly.
Then panicked.
Can I nod?
Was that suspicious?
Oh god, what if I nodded like a Hufflepuff?
She grabbed her quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote with intense concentration.
"The Shield Charm is good for shielding things."
Harry's voice paused. Tonks.
She coughed lightly, crossing it out.
"The Shield Charm, known as Protego, creates a magical barrier—"
Better. Now describe its weakness to non-physical hexes—
She was halfway through the sentence when the student next to her sneezed. Tonks jumped so hard her wand clattered to the floor and she let out a yelp that was not very Lily.
One of the proctors glanced over.
Tonks cleared her throat and smiled primly, doing her best "my parents own land" expression.
The proctor moved on.
She reached for her wand—wrong wand. Not hers. Lily's wand.
She picked it up, turned it the wrong way around, and almost accidentally disarmed herself.
Harry's voice came again: Stay focused. Next question. How does intent factor into Unforgivable Curse classification?
Tonks blinked. Her brain did not compute.
"Unforgivable Curses are mean," she wrote before gasping and scribbling over it furiously.
She started over. Her quill snapped. She conjured another and immediately used the wrong ink bottle—now the essay was writing itself in shimmering glow-in-the-dark fuchsia.
Harry in her ear: Why is your essay glowing.
"I panicked," she whispered.
The proctor turned toward her.
She coughed politely and fake-smiled. "Just… enthusiastic calligraphy."
Another student raised a hand to report something. Tonks fixed them with such a dead-eyed Evans Stare they lowered their hand and pretended to eat their exam scroll.
Tonks dipped her quill again, this time writing with better focus. Her lips moved as Harry fed her phrasing, and she tried not to whisper it out loud.
Harry: List the defensive strategies for resisting magical possession—
She scrawled:
"Do not get possessed. It is bad."
She groaned. "Harry, I'm dying."
Harry: Stop writing like a pamphlet.
By the time the practical portion began, Tonks had managed to sweat through Lily's robes, transfigure her desk into a footstool by accident, and earn the suspicious ire of a Ministry examiner who swore she saw the girl's nose wiggle mid-answer.
But she smiled. Wiped her glowing ink fingers on the desk.
And muttered to herself: "Fake it till you graduate."
Marlene stood triumphantly on a coffee table, a butterbeer in one hand and a Defense OWL scroll replica in the other.
"To academic treason!" she declared.
"To Tonks!" Tonks added grinning as her own pink-haired glory—bowed dramatically and nearly fell into a beanbag chair.
"To the Ministry suckers who never had a bloody chance!" Marlene finished with glee, then chugged what was left of her bottle and belched with satisfaction.
The door slammed open.
They all froze mid-laugh.
And there, standing in the doorway, framed in cold torchlight like the wrath of Merlin incarnate—
Lily Evans.
Wide awake.
Still pale from her healing.
Wearing a hastily transfigured spaghetti-strap dress that did not scream "medical discharge."
And absolutely seething.
Her voice cut through the air, steel wrapped in satin.
"What. Did. You. Do."
Silence. Tonks' mouth fell open. Marlene looked around like there might be an escape tunnel behind the desk.
"I wake up," Lily continued, eyes sweeping over them, "in a stranger's bed, not the Hospital Wing, wearing this—" she yanked at the thin strap in disgust—"with a glamour enchantment sewn into the hem that makes my cheekbones sparkle and my eyes look bigger."
No one spoke.
"I felt myself casting. I remember the exam. Only I wasn't… me. I was watching someone else make my face blush when the examiner asked about infernal object resonance! Who was in my body?!"
Tonks raised her hand meekly. "Hi."
Lily's eyes narrowed.
James coughed. "Okay, hear us out—"
"No. Sit. All of you. Right now."
They scrambled for chairs like first-years caught in a banned dueling ring.
Lily strode to the center of the room, arms crossed, gaze scathing.
"I want everything. Every. Single. Detail. Who enchanted my socks. Who drugged me. Who—" her eyes landed on Dorcas, "—thought glittering runes of confidence were a good idea."
Dorcas muttered, "Snitches get stitches," under her breath.
Lily's head snapped around. "What was that?!"
Marlene groaned, hiding under her desk. James was conveniently absent.
The party was very, very over.