Perseus
Perseus
(The Hero)
One of the forty-eight ancient constellations, located in the northern sky; protector of Andromeda.
Symbolizes heroism, protection of loved ones and overcoming the impossible.
A champion rises to defend what they hold dearest.
James’ worn Converse slap loudly against the flagstone, echoing noisily off the walls as he keeps a steady pace toward Gryffindor Tower—more specifically to McGonagall’s office.
He carelessly turns the corner, just narrowly avoiding a collision with some second-year Ravenclaws. He throws a half-arsed apology over his shoulder, making it all the way to the moving staircase before skidding to a sudden stop.
What was he doing? Did he even have a plan? Was he just going to find her and say—hey, Lily, did you know your eyes are at least three different shades of green?
He lets out a frustrated sigh, pivoting to return to the Great Hall.
This was absolutely barmy.
But then he feels that—the unexplainable feeling coming over him.
His gut pangs, a pull deep in his abdomen, urging him to do something. It’s an undeniable, transcendent kind of feeling. The kind of thing divination twits wax poetry about.
Stars aligning, destiny calling, fate—whatever it is.
Normally James—level headed, mostly reasonable—would brush it off.
But he can’t seem to shake this.
It’s a force as strong as a bludger to the head, knocking you dozens of feet from your broom. The difference is, no potion in the world is strong enough to remedy this feeling.
A feeling he’s unsure he even wants to be rid of himself, not when he barely understands it.
It’s too much. Too intense.
All consuming.
Merlin, he really fucking hates divination.
He squashes the thoughts with a shake of his head. Trying to will himself to focus. He’s James Bloody Potter, after all. He’ll figure something out—he always does.
He takes a breath and leaps from the staircase, starting down the corridor to McGonagall's with a renewed sense of determination.
And any half-formed assurance of ‘figuring something out,’ disappears the moment he lays eyes on her.
He feels that again, the clenching deep in his stomach, the flutter of his heart. But as he nears, it turns into something different, something sharper—painful, even.
Because as she comes into view, so does someone else.
Severus fucking Snape.
And he’s standing too close for James’ liking. Talking to Lily—or trying to, at least.
Somehow, Lily looks even smaller now than she did in the Great Hall. Her back is pressed against the cold stone wall. One arm wraps protectively across her abdomen, the other clutching desperately at her robes. Her chin is tucked into her chest, head downturned as she uses her hair as a curtain to hide behind.
Snape looms across from her, maintaining what would be perceived as a ‘respectable’ distance—still too close, if you ask James—but still clearly having the advantage as Lily’s backed into a corner. Literally.
The Slytherin is a mess of dark hair, dark robes and even darker eyes. His gaunt face and beak-like nose cast a shadow over Lily’s face. He leans in closer, his thin, cracked lips saying something in a failed attempt to catch her gaze.
She doesn’t look up, but he can see Lily move, ever so slightly, bobbing her head in what could just barely be considered a nod.
But he can’t hear what Snape’s saying—doesn’t care too. He can’t even focus as something comes over him. An animalistic protectiveness surges through him. It’s only comparable to how he feels in his stag form, saving Remus from the others and himself.
But such a feeling stems from years of friendship—brotherhood—but this, this is just instinctual, raw. Completely out of his control.
He can feel his resolve harden as each second goes by. He forces himself to take a breath before walking swiftly to the pair, hoping to remain some semblance of calm, on behalf of Lily. Clearly, he’s not as composed as he hoped, because as soon as his shoes scuff against the stone, Lily’s eyes find his own, causing him to grimace.
Her green eyes are wide, doe-like, in what looks like fear. But as he draws nearer, he swears, they soften into something else—relief? He hopes so.
He offers her a small reassuring smile, before turning his attention to Snape.
“Long way from the dungeons, aren’t we Snivellus?” James calls out, cutting through the thick tension. Snape’s eyes roll in irritation at his presence—but much to James’ delight, his presence also causes Snape to take a step back.
“Potter.” He says, dripping with venom—name spat like an Unforgivable curse. “Impeccable timing as always.” His monotonous voice drones.
James brushes off his insult, an art he’s mastered over the years. “Alright, Lily?” He asks while turning to her, in what he hopes is a softer tone, though he can’t help the anxiety from bleeding its way in there.
Her limpid eyes seer into his own and he sees them flicker with something. Whatever it is, he can’t be sure, not when he can’t help but notice the sublet hues of blue rounding her irises.
He has to wonder if she feels it too—that pressing, nagging feeling.
Cataclysmic, prophetic happenstance unfolding.
Bloody fucking Divination.
“I was just introducing myself,” Snape interjects, breaking the moment. “I hear Lily is quite proficient at Potions.”
James narrows his hazel eyes suspiciously. His demeanor is way too casual, nonchalant, very non Snape-like. Not to mention the sound of her name on his slimy tongue does nothing but grate his nerves further.
“And why would that matter?“ He snaps back. It’s not particularly his most clever retort but it serves as a valid question.
Because why would it matter?—Snape isn’t exactly lacking in the Potions department, if Slughorn’s praise is anything to go off of.
Whether he wishes it or not, he knows him. Knows he’s not one to go out of his way to speak to anyone , never mind anyone outside of his own House—never mind a Muggle-born.
Horrible thoughts of Snape and his merry band of idiots pop into his head unwillingly. His traitorous mind tortures him with horrible scenarios of them teasing Lily, calling her names, or worse.
As if to not make it obvious, he slowly drags the hand not tangled in his hair, down to his side and into the pocket of his jeans. Instinctively, his fingers curl tightly around the familiar feeling of his wand, letting the weight ground him.
“Anyway, I wasn’t asking you.” James adds, diverting his attention back to Lily, who seems to be watching the exchange with confused—but keen—interest.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Potter.” Snape responds dully, voice dripping with disdain. He lets his small eyes slide back to Lily. “Goodbye.” He offers her, though there’s an edge to his words.
“Yeah, bye.” She mutters hastily and flustered, voice just above a whisper.
Snape gives the pair a once-over, flicking his withering glare precariously between two before disappearing down the corridor, dark robes billowing behind him.
As soon as he rounds the corner, Lily’s body uncurls. Her posture unwinds considerably, as her back becomes a bit straighter. One of her hands drops from where it was clutched tightly at her chest, coming to rest more loosely against her stomach.
“Hey,” James calls softly, “alright?”
He’s relieved to see her tense body language slacken, but he hates to see traces of the tension still there—hates that there was ever any at all.
This time, when he watches her nod, it’s more certain. Her lips press into a line as her eyes soften gratefully.
“Yeah,” she finally responds, peeling herself from against the wall to step out into the corridor.
“He didn’t hurt you or say anything untoward did he?”
She’s quick to shake her head, helping his shoulders ease from where they sat taught level with his ears.
“No, nothing like that.” She assures him, though her eyes are downcast. Intently focused on her fingers as they nervously fiddle with a button on her cardigan. “He just said he heard I was new. About the Potions. He was curious is all. Reckon lots of people are.” She shrugs as if it’s nothing at all, though her demeanor betrays her.
James can’t help but frown, the lines in his forehead deepening with thought.
Curious, she said.
When has Severus fucking Snape ever been curious about anything?—Nevertheless, something that goes against his marginal world of pureblood hypocrisy.
“Curious,” he repeats skeptically under his breath. Taking mental note to file the information away for later.
His eyes hone back in on Lily. The way her shaking, nimble fingers work at the button he’s sure is a few tugs from popping off. Her eyes are downcast again, returning to that far-off daze. He watches her shoulders begin to fold again, trying to shrink back into some invisible place. He faintly hears a small shaking breath escape her mouth as she tugs her lip in between her teeth.
“Why would you think he’d hurt me?” She asks suddenly. Her voice is small as her wide-eyes peer up at him.
And—fuck.
A hand shoots up into his hair, raking his fingers through his black curls nervously.
How could he say this? How can he stand here and explain to her on top of everything else going on—that people
already think she doesn’t belong based on blood status alone?
How could he tell this to her? The most beautiful and captivating girl he’s ever seen.
How could he add to the unmistakable pain in her eyes?
“I mean,” she begins again nervously, “I thought Hogwarts was meant to be safe.”
And Lily isn’t naive to what’s going on in the Wizarding World—regardless of how new she is to it. She spent her summer intently reading through The Prophet with her morning tea. Obsessively reading about the attacks on Muggle-borns and their families. Even prying McGonagall on any information about Tom Riddle.
Minerva assumed Lily’s deep interest was in fear—a lame attempt to find an out, to justify her sense of not belonging. The old woman was quick to assure things were different at Hogwarts and people like her and Dumbledore and all the other professors know how important it is to teach students against prejudice. Something they pride themselves on.
Ashamedly, a small exhale of relief bubbles past James’ lips at the implications of her words. The clear indication she has some knowledge about what’s going on.
Doesn’t make it any more fair. The thought cuts deep against the dread pounding in his chest.
“It is,” he promises, voice steady, “it’s just, some people here—Slytherins mostly—spend too much time reading the papers and listening to their parents.”
“But not you?”
“I—What?” He stammers taken aback by the question. Her words feeling like a jinx to his chest.
He watches intently as she shifts uncomfortably. Balancing her weight from one leg to the other as focuses thoughtfully on a tapestry behind his head—eyes unfocused and vacant.
“You and Sirius… you’re Purebloods, aren’t you?”
Sirius Black’s name was not the only one she recognized this morning.
When catching up on her Wizarding Education, Lily had taken a quick liking to Potions. It reminded her of Muggle cooking. Of helping her Mum prepare chicken soup in the Winters. Baking a two-layered cake for her Dad’s birthday.
Her hand roughly clutches at the necklace around her throat, anchoring her thoughts.
Mostly, she liked the certainty of it all. The arithmetic. The measurements. No room for error.
Zygmunt Budge. Parry Pippin. Fleamont Potter. Horace Slughorn.
Their names were practically unavoidable in all the textbooks she read on the subject. Infamous potioneers, all commended for pioneering the art in one way or another.
All notable pureblooded men, the text was sure to mention.
The implications weren’t lost on her, especially when reading names like: Black. Prewett. Lestrange. Malfoy.
And twenty-four other pureblooded families all important enough to warrant their own chapters in magical history books.
“Yeah.” James answers dumbly, brow scrunched and voice uncertain as it cuts through her thoughts.
He can’t understand why that would be important .
Lily tugs harder at the button on her cardigan.
James seems sweet—if his eyes were anything to go off, the way they seem to soften, the way they draw her in. He seemed genuinely worried when Severus was talking to her, too. Going out of his way to come over, seeming sincere in asking if she was alright.
Remus must not have told them. She decides quickly, the only thing that makes sense.
“I’m the only witch in my family. A muggle-born.”
Pop.
Her button flings from the end of her sweater, bouncing and rolling along the stones before settling itself flat in one of the cracks.
She clenches her hands into fists now empty and trembling.
And It's not that she’s embarrassed to be a Muggles-born—far from it. All the people she’s ever loved, two of the greatest people she’ll ever know—Muggles.
It was all she knew until five months ago.
It’s ingrained in her. A fundamental part of who she is and how she sees the world—both magical and not.
So, why is she scared to tell him?
James seems sweet. But there’s something else—something more to him.
She’d hate to never find out what that might be if he’s as close-minded as the families printed about in The Prophet.
He watches her closely. The way she tugs her sleeves over her knuckles, tightening her hands against her sides. Hugging herself close for security. He sees the way her lip is turning white at the pressure from her teeth. The way she can’t seem to meet her eyes.
And it dawns on him quickly, comes over him like a bucket of cold water—a flush of ice through his veins.
And he hates it.
Hates how nervous she seems telling him who she is.
Hates himself for making her feel like he’d ever care about such a thing.
He bends down slowly, swooping the tiny button from the ground and pinching it between his fingers. “Oh, Trouble,” he whispers, the name slipping out unbidden. “Me, Sirius, Peter—we don’t care about that.”
Her eyes snap up, finally meeting his, they’re wide and surprised. And there—he swears he sees it again— relief .
“No, I mean—yeah of course I do. No.” He stops his ramblings, brain too scattered to say what he needs.
Instead, he takes a deep, calming breath and extends a hand to her. Presenting the small black button like it’s some precious, invaluable object.
“What I mean to say is,” he begins slowly, more certain, “is of course it matters that you’re a Muggle-born. It matters to who you are and how you were raised, but it doesn’t make you any less of a witch. Anyone who makes you think otherwise is dead wrong, Lily.” He tells her, a fire behind his eyes. “Snape of all people too, he’s a half-blood, went to Muggle school too.”
“He is?” Lily asks in surprise.
And James looks at her strangely. He sees something behind her eyes. Like she’s solving some sort of puzzle. Trying to fit the pieces into how that would make any bloody sense.
It doesn’t.
“Bigots like Severus Snape and all the rest of them are just scared that Muggle-borns don’t need to chalk up their talents to old magical blood like they do.”
Lily shoves aside any thoughts of Severus Snape and looks at James—really looks at him. The way his hair is sticking up in all directions, seemingly sparking with energy. His glasses are askew against his nose. There’s true passion in his tone. The fire burning behind his eyes.
“You really mean that?” She thinks she already knows the answer.
“Of course I do.” He says softly, pushing the button closer to her.
James is sweet —she decides then, the easiest decision she’s made in a while.
Her small hand reaches out, fingers brushing his own. The touch is brief, featherlight, but somehow scorching. She leaves him tingling in her wake as she gently takes the small button from him. As her hand leaves his, he can’t help but clench and unclench his hand into a fist at the loss, as if trying to shake the feeling.
“Thank you, James.” She says tenderly.
First, his heart does a leap at the sound of his name past her lips. Her voice is sweet and melodic, warming the tips of his ears as the syllables float over.
A moment later, it squeezes a little at the gratitude and sincerity behind her tone. The thought of her being thankful for him doing nothing but the bare minimum. Something as basic as acceptance.
James shakes his head, “it’s true.” He says earnestly, “I mean, just ask my Dad. I’m absolute shite at Potions. Not a drop of that talent in my blood.” He jokes lightly, hoping to ease the tension.
He watches as her shoulders shake a little, a small smile stretching across her lips as she lets out a giggle.
His heart does a leap at the noise. It’s light and tinkling and warm and—and it’s the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard.
They soon fade into silence as the sound carries somewhere else down the corridor. Briefly, her green eyes catch his hazel ones. She feels the intensity and pull behind them like a magnet. The new and strange feeling makes her blush. She quickly diverts her attention back to the button in her palm, still warm in her hand.
He watches her blush prettily as she ducks her head to focus on her fingers. Her crimson bow swishes as she moves, the sides cascading against her porcelain cheek.
“Your ribbon.” It tumbles out of his mouth clumsily, before he even knows what he’s saying.
Instantly, her hand flies up to it, tugging at the silk fabric, as if to unknot it.
“No, no, no,” he protests, reaching his hands out to stop her, but thinking better of it, “I was just gonna say I like it—the color, Gryffindor—it’s nice. Suits you.”
Smooth, Potter.
He can practically hear Sirius laughing from here.
“Oh.” Lily says, a bit shocked, dropping her hands, “oh—thank you.” She says kindly, the pink even deeper now on her cheeks. “Something my Mum used to do for me when I was young. A habit I never quite kicked.” She rambles nervously.
“Like I said, it’s nice.” He says sincerely as he offers her a soft smile.
She peers up at him through her dark lashes when her eyes suddenly go wide in what he thinks is fear, “oh I’m so sorry! Here I am keeping you—rambling about Muggles and my hair ribbon of all things. I’m sure you have somewhere to be.” She says apologetically, the traitorous blush now creeping up her neck.
“No,” He quickly soothes. “I have nowhere to be.”
I was looking for you.
“Oh,” she says, something unreadable behind her eyes. “Okay.”
“Do you?“ he asks abruptly, stepping a hair closer to her, “have somewhere to be, I mean.”
She shakes her head, “Min—McGonagall said Dumbledore wants to see me and introduce me to the Charms Professor, but he’s busy for the next hour. I wasn’t sure if I should wait here or—”
“Let me take you on a tour.” He offers eagerly, quickly swiping a hand through his hair nervously. He curses his mouth for being so out of sync with his brain around her.
“Remus already—”
“I know,” he assures, “but that was the Head Boy tour.” He clicks his tongue, “That badge, it changes people.” He finishes sarcastically.
She bites her lip to conceal a smile, before briefly peering at the stone statue outside of Dumbledore’s office.
“I’m not sure, what if Dumbledore finishes early?” She reasons hesitantly.
He shakes his head, “that man knows where everyone is, he’ll find you. Besides, Remus gave you some proper poncey tour. I’m offering the real thing.”
“Oh?” She asks, cocking her brow, “and what is the real thing?” She teases.
And he finds he quite likes this side of her—the ease, the lightheartedness.
“Well you know, some could argue I know this place better than anyone, even could draw a map on it, I reckon.” He smirks at the hidden meaning, “and I don’t just mean all the classrooms, but the secret ones too, passageways—which portraits tattle, which can be bribed.” He tells, his signature James Potter cockiness seeping into his words.
She laughs lightly, but continues to contemplate the offer. He watches her tug her lip between her teeth in deep thought, “I don’t know…” she hesitates.
James throws his hands up and shrugs dramatically, “hey I get it, you’re scared, that’s alright.”
“I’m not scared!” She retorts, eyes narrowing playfully. “I just can’t imagine myself in a situation needing to duck into hidden passageways and bribe portraits not to tell on me.” She teases.
“I dunno.” He responds, scratching his head thoughtfully, “seems to me like you’re scared of a bit of trouble.” He teases, tilting his head with a mischievous smirk.
Lily turns again, fixing her gaze on the stone phoenix as if willing it to twirl open. After a moment, when it doesn’t move, she sighs, turning back to James.
“Lead the way.” She whispers back, a small secret smile barely evident on her lips.
And James—he makes no move to hide the face splitting grin that slides over his features, crinkling his kind eyes as he does.
“I knew you’d come around, Trouble.” He beams, voice softer than before.
She ducks her head, but this time it’s not in embarrassment or as a means to disappear. It’s an attempt to hide the flush of her cheeks. The warmth working its way through her body. The way her heart skips at the nickname.
He turns, shoving his hands into his pockets, gesturing to her to follow with a tilt of his head. And as soon as she turns to fall into step beside him, a figure waits for them—seemingly materializing from thin air.
Staring at them—or Lily, more like—is Sybil Trelawney, the new Divination professor hired at the beginning of this year.
James can’t even be bothered to conceal his eye roll at the sight of her.
He dropped Divination—thank, Merlin—as soon as he could. However, his interactions with the last Divination professor, Professor Onai, were seemingly positive.
When looking past the fact her entire class was a crock of shite, she was a nice woman.
She was older, wispy—a bit cooky. He remembers her wild gray curls always thrown up in a knot on her head, always dressed in loose colorful robes. She was lenient with marks, he remembers that most of all.
And despite her joke of a job, at least her claims of being a Master of Divination seemed grounded in something—whether you believed it or not. She had this thing, where anytime you made physical contact with her it would send the witch into some sort of trance.
Always short lived. Never anything dramatic. Just a spouting of words, seemingly out of place.
It was usually meaningless.
“Ravenclaw will lose the match today.”
“There will be no mashed potatoes at dinner.”
James fondly remembers the entire week before their OWLs, Sirius kept trying to bump into her to find out if he’d pass History of Magic or not.
And though his interactions with Trelawney have been few and far between, he’s able to deduce from the exchanges and Peter—a devoted Divination student—that she’s a fake.
Always walking around, beads tinkling beneath the dozens of layers of loudly patterned shawls. Her glasses make her eyes the size of a Hippogriff as she spouts about things like tea leaves and moon cycles.
She’s a fraud, no other way to pit it.
Not one single prophecy, premonition, prediction—whatever.
Nothing on something as simple as if it’ll rain this week or anticipated Quidditch results.
She was a sham and James wonders every time he sees her what someone as brilliant as Dumbledore ever saw in her.
“Professor—” he starts impatiently.
“You!” She shouts, voice deep, cracked and rumbled. She points a long bony finger right between Lily’s eyes, who visibly startles at the action.
James looks at the woman, wondering what in the bloody hell has gotten into her. But what he sees is not what he’s come to expect, but something different. Almost scary.
Her pupils have seemingly disappeared, milky white eyes fogged over and blurred beneath her round glasses. Her shaking finger quivers in front of Lily, jabbing closer until it’s poking her right in the chest.
“It’s you!” The woman cries out—practically wailing.
Lily stumbles back both at the physical pressure and shock. Instinctively, James’ large hands wrap around her trembling shoulders both as a form of stability and comfort.
“You’re scaring her.” He snaps, a dangerous edge to his voice.
She jolts her hand from its place at Lily’s chest, moving to wrap her long fingers tightly around both of Lily’s wrists.
“The Forgotten Witch,” she says brokenly, “they have found you.” As she speaks she sounds frightened—terrified.
Lily’s eyes widened at her words. Though she doesn’t understand what’s happening, the terror behind this woman’s actions are palpable in the now thick air. The urge to disappear grows by each passing second. The only thing keeping her grounded are the warm, steady hands anchoring her shoulders. The barely evident feeling of hot breath skimming above her head.
Trelawney leans in, invading Lily’s space even further. The movement causes her to stumble back and collide with James’ solid chest. Her trembling lips then move closer to the side of Lily‘s head, her breaths skittering and blowing wisps of her hair.
As her lips brush the shell of Lily’s ear, the woman speaks one word. Her voice—trembling with fear.
“Run.”
Lily pulls back, twisting her wrists in an effort to get away but the woman’s grip is vice-like and unrelenting, much like her pursuits. She tugs her hands, knocking further into the warm chest behind her.
“Run. You must run.” She insists, tears sliding down her gaunt face as she tightens her hands. “Run. Run. Run…” She begins whispering over and over hysterically.
“I don’t—” Lily begins, throat tightening at its own accord, she turns swiftly, best she can to meet James’ eyes. “I don’t understand.” She all but whimpers.
James begins to shake his head fervently at Lily, trying to remain calm but letting her know—he doesn’t understand either.
She turns back. “Let me go.” Lily whispers, perhaps steadying her voice will have a better effect but her shuddering breath betrays her, “please let me go.” She pleads.
Nothing. The woman’s whispers continue, over and over again like a mantra.
“Run. Run. Run.”
“Hey,” James says firmly as he reaches around, grasping at one of the hands on her wrist, “she said let her—”
“Sybil!” A voice roars from the other end of the hallway.
Both James’ and Lily’s eyes snap to find Dumbledore, who seemingly has also materialized from thin air. James watches the old man curiously as he rushes down the corridor. Normally so composed and impassive, but James hears the edge in his voice. Sees the way his brow is furrowed deeper than usual.
“Sybil.” Dumbledore repeats as he grows closer, not quite as loud but the firmness remains.
James watches as his large weathered hand, decorated with rings finds its way atop the Divination’s professors’ shoulder.
And as if his touch grounds her—she snaps back to reality.
Her eyes suddenly defog, green and large, magnified like an owls under her large lenses. Her grip loosens until it becomes completely slack on Lily’s wrists. She’s stopped shaking, too, stepping back she looks around the corridor in confusion.
“Where am I?” She asks first, voice steady but bewildered. “How did I get here?”
Lily seizes the opportunity to create some distance between herself and the woman. James’ hands fall from where they were cupped atop her shoulders but he remains close. A calming presence in this rather unusual situation.
“Potter?” Trelawney says confused, before turning to the looming presence behind her, “Albus.” Her voice is calmer.
She then focuses her attention back on Lily, who is rubbing at her sore wrists, “I’m sorry, dear, I don’t think we have met.” She pauses, as if taking in the scene again, “wait how did I get here?” She asks again, “I was resting in my—”
“Sybil,” Dumbledore cuts her off, “why don’t you take a walk? Drink some tea. I’ll find you shortly in your wing.” He says kindly, though he leaves no room for protest.
She gazes around one more time before slowly nodding, “yes,” she says, “yes, tea sounds nice right now.”
This time when she walks, it’s calm, like a bird gliding above a still lake. James can hear the tinkling of the beads on her shawl as she hums quietly the entire way to the staircase.
James does another once-over on Lily, making sure she’s alright. She seems okay—physically at least. He can still see her trembling ever so slightly as one hand reaches to clutch at her chest. After getting a good look, he turns his attention to Dumbledore. James’ face is serious with an eyebrow cocked as if to ask: what the fuck was that?
“I am so sorry about that, Miss Evans, that was our Divination professor, Professor Trelawney.” He says, voice calm—too calm. “I’ll be sure to speak with her, but I assure you she intended no harm. Divination is a complex art and oftentimes open to interpretation, these things are not as unusual as you may think. I would not give it much thought.”
James opens his mouth to protest the claim—the lie. It is unusual. The twit hasn’t made a single prediction since she started here, never droning on about anything other than astronomy charts.
And Dumbledore of all people knows that.
He's swift to cut James off. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Potter, but Miss Evans and I must be off. I do not wish to keep Professor Flitwick waiting.”
Dumbledore places a hand on her back, beckoning her forward and leaving no room for argument.
He watches as she turns to James, something almost desperate behind her eyes, as she opens and closes her mouth as if to speak, gaze flicking between him and Dumbledore.
He wants to protest. Wants to demand answers on Lily’s behalf but the old Headmaster sends a look over his shoulder that leaves James no other choice as he scoots Lily down the hall, her feet dragging against the stone hesitantly.
James watches as she curls into herself, Dumbledore speaking in hushed tones beside her while she supplies what is just barely passable as a nod in acknowledgment.
He stands at the edge of the corridor, watching them go—frustrated and confused.
James takes a breath in attempts to ground himself as he runs a hand roughly through his hair.
Yeah—he decides quickly, no room for argument.
Fuck Divination.
James makes it back to Gryffindor tower in a daze. Dragging his feet up the steps to his dorm with little effort, moving as if he had stones in his shoes.
It was with great reluctance that he even decided to head back to the dorms in the first place. For what felt like ages, he remained rooted in front of the stone phoenix perched outside Dumbledore’s office, willing—hoping—for Lily to return.
She hadn’t. And for reasons he doesn’t quite understand yet, hundreds of awful scenarios ran through his head. Thoughts of Dumbledore sending Lily back to the Muggle world. Snape slithering after her. Trelawney appearing from the shadows, making work to scare her off with dark words. Each scene played over and over, flickering like a terrible photograph he could not look away from.
And some rational part of his brain was screaming at him about how ridiculous it all was. But it was like somewhere between the Great Hall and the corridor, he had lost all sense. The only thing stopping him from charging into Dumbledore’s office like a madman was the knowledge that one very handy piece of parchment could ease all his anxieties.
He soon meets his dormitory, unsurprised to find the door wide open, familiar voices floating out.
Sirius was laid back in his bed, reapplying a sticking charm to the rubber fluorescent stars that glow above his bed at night—a gag gift from Remus he liked a little too much.
Remus was hunched over his desk, scratching his quill away in a leather-bound sketch pad. Eyes crinkled in focus, tongue poking beneath his lips in concentration as he worked.
Peter was curled up atop his blankets, still engrossed in the same comic book from the morning. Small fingers flipping the pages anxiously, eager for what was to come next.
James stepped a bit further into the room, just as Sirius redirected his sticking charm from the ceiling to Peter’s hand. The latter now shaking where his palm was stuck to the vibrant pages.
“Padfoot!” James could hear Peter whine, “Unstick me! The Green Goblin was just about to—”
Sirius cuts off Peter’s musings—whatever they meant—the moment he hears the door click shut and sees James lingering beside it.
“Well, well, well,” Sirius began smugly, “look what the dog dragged in.”
“It’s cat, Pads—look what the cat dragged in.” Remus corrects, placing his quill down as he pushes back, his chair scratching against the wooden planks with the movement.
Sirius rolls his eyes, “So what? I can’t have preferences these days.” He tuts.
Despite their light banter, James doesn’t miss the way Remus pulls back from his desk to meet James’ eyes wearily. His gaze scolding, like he’s done something wrong. James shifts uncomfortably, but ignores it, walking hastily to Sirius’ corner of the room, wordlessly yanking open his bedside drawer.
“Oi! Can’t a bloke have some privacy?” Sirius sits up now, a frown plastered across his face.
James ignores him, tearing through his drawer, emptying the wrappers of his not-so-secret Honeydukes stash onto the carpet as he rifles through the mess.
“What in the bloody hell—Prongs!” He shouts indignantly as James shifts to shove his hand beneath one of Sirius’ pillows.
“You had it last night.” He says, rucking up his sheets. “Where is it?” He asks, tugging his blankets back as his hands eagerly search for it.
Realization strikes Sirius’ as he sits back, arms crossing his chest, back propped against his headboard. A smug grin comes over his face as James fixes him with an impatient glare, just serving to bring his blood to a scalding simmer.
“I don’t have it.” Sirius states, satisfaction evident in his tone.
Though his grey eyes betray him, briefly flicking to the end of Remus’ bed.
James nearly groans aloud as memories from the morning begin to surface. Flashes of a very agitated, tired Sirius insisting Remus take it playing through his foggy mind.
Turning swiftly, he swipes the familiar parchment from the foot of Remus’ bed—ignoring Sirius’ groan—he mumbles the incantation and taps it with his wand. Soon, the map springs to life, maroon ink bleeding into its center as he hurriedly flicks it open. He sees the familiar banners whizzing about the map. He ignores them all, as he opens the right-hand flap, sights set on one corridor—one name.
He takes a breath of relief when he finds it.
Lily Evans.
She was exactly where she needed to be—smack between Dumbledore and Flitwick, McGonagall flanking from behind.
Now that he feels he can breathe a bit easier, he goes on to check two other names—Severus Snape and Sybil Trelawney.
The former is in the Slytherin Dungeons, while the latter is tucked away in Ravenclaw Tower.
Everyone is right where they should be.
He exhales.
For now—a dark part of his mind adds.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist, mate?” Sirius asks, having made way from his bed to peer over James’ shoulder.
“Mischief managed.” He says hurriedly, as he drops the map back onto Remus’ bed.
But Sirius’ grin was a little too wide, a little too knowing. Clearly, James hadn’t closed it fast enough. His mate was beaming as bright as the sun as he caught exactly what or rather who James was looking for.
“Yeah, everything alright, Prongs?” Peter pipes up from his bed, seemingly having given up on un-sticking his hand—suddenly more interested in whatever was going on.
James anxiously swiped a hand through his messy hair, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Even with his eyes shut tight, he could feel Remus’ penetrating gaze still fixed on him.
“Those bloody Quidditch plays, eh? Tell me, did you get lost on your way from the Great Hall to here?” Sirius questioned knowingly as he sauntered back to drape himself at the edge of Remus’ bed, dangerously close to the map.
James popped his eyes open, successfully averting the piercing looks from his mates as he scratched the back of his head and looked to the floor. He took a deep breath, still struggling to process what had happened in the corridor himself.
“Look,” he starts shakily, “when I left the Great Hall—”
“—to draw up quidditch plays,” Sirius interjects with air quotes.
“I ran into Lily—”
“—ran into." Sirius tuts with a knowing smirk.
James ignores him, Remus now standing from his desk and coming closer.
“—except she wasn’t alone.”
“I would think not, once you found her, youdog.” Sirius winks.
“Sirius.” Remus chides, not liking what Sirius was implying and sensing the sudden urgency in James’ tone.
He ignores them both and finishes. “She was with Snape.”
The room falls into a tense silence. Any quips Sirius had formed died on his tongue as the grin slid off his face. Peter had gasped from his place across the room—sticking charms long forgotten as his small eyes widened. And Remus—calm and composed Remus—went as stiff as a board, his jaw clenching until his teeth ached.
“Snape he didn’t—” Remus says first, voice deadly calm, scarily so.
And James knows what he’s asking, it was the very first thing he asked Lily once he knew she was alright. The word Mudblood is an unspoken heavy presence in the dorm suddenly.
“No,” James is quick to assure the room, the tension easing considerably at the single remark.
They all looked on imploringly, eyes demanding an explanation. Frustratedly, James tears a hand through his tangled hair, unsure how to explain what he saw when he doesn’t even understand it himself.
“Snape—he—I don’t know.” James began rambling. “He was just there. With Lily. And I nearly hexed him—”
“But you didn’t, right?” Remus interrupts, expression shifting to something akin to concern.
James reckons—like him—Remus’ concern is for Lily. Despite the pure unadulterated rage he felt seeing Snivellus doing whatever it was he was trying with Lily, he knew a duel in the corridor was anything but inviting for Hogwarts’ newest student.
He shakes his head, “I wasn’t trying to do anything irrational—”
“That’s a first.” Peter notes through a mumble, though not snarky.
“—no matter how hard it was. If Lily wasn’t there I might’ve—”
“You wouldn’t have.” Remus cuts off with a shake of his head. His words are firm but his eyes soften for the first time since James returned.
And the sentiment, though seemingly small, warms James from the inside out.
He can’t say for sure, but perhaps Remus is right. Sixth-year James would have certainly done it—not even hesitating for a second. Sixth-year James would’ve gone after Snape without thinking, whether Lily had been there or not, had she been at Hogwarts then. But things are different now, he's grown up—at least a little bit, he hopes.
He attributes these changes to three very important things: the uncertainty of the future, his parents and, oddly enough, Sirius, of all things.
It all started at the end of his sixth-year when boarding the train, the harsh realization hitting him like a bludger. He realized then that the following year, at the same time, he’d be boarding the train for the last time. No empty self-promises to do better the next year. No more pushing things off to a vague and nonexistent later. Next year, there wouldn’t be a later, just an end.
The realization was daunting and a bit depressing for a seventeen-year-old bloke looking forward to his summer.
But his summer was darker than expected. It felt that with each day brought more horrible news of vicious Muggle-born attacks. The realization and weight crept in on him slowly, filling all his quiet moments with dread.
The next blow came suddenly, when he loaded onto the platform to meet his parents—well just his Dad. His Mum, as it happened, had been bedridden for days, knocked out by a nasty cold.
And of course, his initial reaction was concern for his Mum, all his worry for her. But then he couldn’t help but notice the way his Dad didn’t offer to carry his trunk, like he always did. Instead, he watched how his gait was slowing down, how he nursed his left leg into a limp.
And he reckons he noticed it some time ago but it never hit him until then. The fact was, his parents weren’t getting any younger. They had James well into their fifties, now nearing their seventies. And now, something as simple as the common cold taking his Mum out for days. His dad barely went into the office anymore, just once or twice a week—and the potions lab even less. His Mum spent her days reading or cooking. Gone were the days she helped with Sleekeazy’s financial books.
So he decided, right then and there. He would step up for them. Make a name for himself outside of his father’s shadow—make them proud that he’s their son.
And with his future nearing closer, the desire to do his parents proud, it was all good and grand. He felt like he was on the right path, but he hadn’t quite overcome the how.
So, he started with little things—peeking at Ministry openings in the paper, running to Diagon Alley so his Mum didn’t have to. Hell—he even cut down on his Quidditch practice to catch up on a bit of reading. And surprisingly, he found he enjoyed it. Took pride in being helpful, in learning new things, learning what he may want to do.
However, his how presented itself one balmy night in early June.
His how was Sirius—unlike he’d ever seen him before. It was Sirius, in the middle of the night, at his doorstep, with nothing but a small leather duffle bag thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. He looked small. Fragile. He was practically swimming in his robes. His cheeks red and puffy, face soaking wet and streaked with tears.
But that wasn’t what startled James most—no it was his eyes.
There was no light in them. No twinkle. No gleam. No Sirius.
“I didn’t know where else to go.” James remembers his voice, broken and hoarse. It still haunts the depths of mind at night—keeping him awake and trembling.
James let him in without a second thought, his parents too.
He owled Remus and Peter as soon as he had settled Sirius for the night. The pair arrived early the next morning. They then spent a week holed in the Potter’s lavish attic, comforting Sirius.
They cried, they laughed, they talked about the future—their own, the worlds, how they intertwined, what it meant for the four of them together.
“It was Reg,” Sirius confessed in the dark one night. “I only ever stayed to protect him and then I saw—” he choked on his words, not able to bring himself to say it, “and then I realized, maybe it wasn’t him who needed the protecting.” He whispered, voice frail and small.
So, Sirius would live with the Potter’s.
“You’re as good as family to me, that can’t end when we leave Hogwarts.” Peter whispered, eyes misty, right before they all slept for the night.
So, they’d buy a flat in Diagon Alley together as soon as they graduated.
“I think I wanna be a professor one day,” Remus admitted with red ears, the Head Boy letter just days from reaching him.
So, Professor Lupin he’d become.
“I’ve been fighting my whole life.” Sirius broke the silence after they passed around The Prophet , an article about a dead family of Muggle-borns on the front page. “Reckon I’m pretty good at it, too and I don’t think I wanna stop.”
And there it was. His voice stronger. His grin wider. The twinkle in his eye. That gleam of mischief—Sirius.
James remembers taking the newspaper, looking over the headline, once, twice, before placing it down.
I don’t want to hide behind my name or my money. I want to help people—I want to be good.
“I want to be an Auror.” He whispered.
And Sirius beamed.
So, Auror’s they’d be.
And it felt good, it felt right—like he had purpose. It wasn’t forced like it may have been at the start of that summer, now James truly wanted to be better.
And he was getting there.
Sure, he was still James—proud, prank-loving, Quidditch-obsessed James. A world without laughter and Qudditch—well, that would be a horrible world to live in.
But, long gone were the days where he resigned to settle for the league after graduation. He no longer had a desire filling his free time trying to charm the pants off girls whose names he didn’t care to learn just for a quick snog in a broom closet.
He wanted to spend time with his mates and his parents. He wanted to learn and grow.
He wanted to be so much more than that.
“Thanks, Moony.” James says after a long moment, voice soft and sincere. Touched by Remus’ quiet faith in him.
“So then,” Sirius breaks the tense silence, voice sharp with unease, “what did Snape want with Lily?”
James pulled a face, something burning in his hazel eyes. “Said he wanted to introduce himself. Heard Lily was good at potions. Said he was curious.” He spat the last word like it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Curious?” Peter's voice rose indignantly, as he crawled forward so his legs dangled from the edge of his bed and onto the floor.
“I knew he was being stranger than usual this morning. Followed right after James.” Sirius recalls, gnawing at his fingernails.
And James would surely file that away for later.
“When the hell has Snape ever been curious about something that didn’t serve his own agenda?” Remus whispers darkly, more to himself than anyone else.
And those were the crux of James’ thoughts too—though he reckons that wasn’t even the half of it.
“There’s more.” He says, causing Remus’ gold eyes to snap up to meet his, sharp and attentive. “It gets weirder.”
“Weirder than Snape playing prim and proper with a Muggle-born?” Sirius asks.
James nods, “then Trelawney showed up—”
“Okay, you’re right, definitely weird.” Sirius mumbles as he thinks of the barmy professor.
“—except she wasn’t herself,” he presses on, “it was like she didn’t even know where she was. What she was doing. Her eyes were white. And she was talking mad.”
And that woman was always talking mad, but James’ unease was palpable and they could sense it was something more.
Peter, a devoted pupil to the Art of Divination (he got an O in fifth year) had a particularly keen interest, currently taking courses this year with Trelawney.
“Talking mad…” Peter repeated, almost knowingly, but still couldn’t quite be sure.
James gulps. Somehow saying the words makes them feel heavier. More real. “she was—I think she was prophesying.”
“Bullocks!” Sirius shouted.
“That can’t be,” Peter added, voice not as loud as Sirius’ but eyes just as shocked. “She hasn’t done a thing all year.” He points out passionately.
“But she did—she was! You weren’t there!” James insists.
Sirius and Peter open their mouths again, seemingly to vehemently disagree with him. However, Remus, always the voice of reason, gets them back on track.
“What did she say, James?” His voice was firm and commanding. His golden eyes flicking quietly around the room, silencing Sirius and Peter with a look.
James drew a shaky breath. “Well, she came pretty much out of nowhere,” he recalled, a chill dancing up his spine at the memory, “and her eyes—it was like they were just… gone.”
“Gone?” Peter interrupts, though there seems to be some sort of understanding behind his tone.
James nods, twisting his hand anxiously through his curls. “They were so foggy. Empty, even.”
Peter dips his head, once, twice, in understanding, but the look in his eyes changes in a way that makes James’ gut twist.
With a skittering breath, he continues. “She went straight to Lily—out of nowhere—something about her being found. She called her The Forgotten Witch. She grabbed onto her, tight and told her to run.” His throat tightened at its own volition, “she kept saying it over and over. She was hysterical. Even when Lily tried to calm her down, asked her to stop, when I tried to get her off—she wouldn’t move for anything. It was like nothing else existed.”
Sirius blows out a tense breath at his mates words. The situation is not only unusual, but sounds quite frightening. He can’t imagine Lily—who’s only got to be a proper witch for a few short months—taking in a scene like that, on her first day, no less.
Remus feels similarly, a surge of protectiveness pumping through his blood. “What happened next? Where’s Lily now?” He asked frantically, though he eases a bit, remembering James' own sigh of relief when he checked the map earlier.
“Dumbledore showed up and I dunno—it was like nothing happened.” James’ voice changed now, transforming into something less terrified, becoming something darker. Angrier.
“What do you mean?” Sirius questioned, sitting upright.
“I mean,” James began frustratedly, diverting his attention from his hair to pace across the room, “he came out of nowhere too and he saw Trelawney and he seemed upset. Frightened even.”
“Dumbledore?” Peter whispered to himself doubtfully.
James ignores this, “then he touched Trelawney and it was like it wasn’t her doing those things. Like it was someone else. She let go of Lily, started asking where she was, how she got there—she didn’t even know who Lily was. Said they’d never met.”
The anguish in James’ tone was evident to everyone in the room. The three other boys flicked each other apprehensive looks, silently weighing which one of them would speak next, willing to risk possibly getting their head bitten off.
Peter was too nervous and Sirius was too—well, unserious.
“And Dumbledore?” Remus’ voice broke gently, taking a slow step toward the center of the room, “What did he do next?” It didn’t exactly take a genius to deduce that whatever the old headmaster did was partially responsible for James’ disgruntled state.
“ Nothing.” James spits, “absolutely nothing.” He repeated, a deathly quality to his words.
And Dumbledore was well—Dumbledore.
Every Witch and Wizard knows him, Hogwarts student or not. Whether they were in the United Kingdom or not. He was brilliant and powerful. And yeah, he talked ambiguously, always in riddles. But there was always a method to his madness, a greater lesson hidden behind his wise words.
But James couldn’t see it—not this time.
James has known the man since he was eleven years old, probably interacted with him more than most given his proclivity for mischief and never once has he seen him how he was today.
Frazzled. Confused.
A liar.
He can feel his skin burning beneath his clothes at the thought—not only in anger, but fear as well.
What did Dumbledore have to gain to lie to him? To Lily?
“He shooed Trelawney away. Then did the same to me as soon as I tried to ask questions.” His hands curled into tight fists, “he lied to Lily. Told her that stuff like this happens all the time and it means nothing, right before he rushed her away, too.”
And he thinks that’s the worst part of it—not the fact Dumbledore was scared. Not that he was keeping something from them. But that he lied to Lily.
It doesn’t sit right with him that he practically used to his advantage the fact she’s never been around so many magical people to convince her of a lie, for his own self-serving agenda—whatever that may be.
And sure, maybe he had his reasons to lie. Maybe they were really good reasons, too. But he reckons Lily doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark any longer.
Was seventeen years not enough?
And maybe it isn’t a big deal. Maybe he’s overthinking it. His mates probably think he’s over reacting but there’s parts of it he can’t put into words. Things he himself cannot yet fathom.
As he looked into Trelawney’s eyes while she wept to Lily. Her voice a disfigured, scary thing, he got that feeling again. The implications of something larger than him happening around him—but it wasn’t light and warm like how he felt when he met Lily.
It was dark and heavy. Cold and endless.
The same unexplainable tug in his gut, but this time it was harsher. Stabbing.
And his friends—bless them—see something more swirling beneath James’ hazel eyes but don’t push him on it. Not now, anyway.
“Why would he lie?” Remus whispered, brow scrunched in deep thought. His memory briefly flickers to Dumbledore’s uncanny casualness around the state of Lily’s lost letter from this morning.
“What in the bloody hell did Snape want with Lily?” Sirius interjected, daring to ask what he’s been thinking for the past ten minutes.
Peter took advantage of the moment and cut through the tense air too. “What would suddenly cause Trelawney to make a prophecy?”
“I don’t know!” James bursted, a low growl bubbling in the back of his throat, “I don’t know, to all three of those.” He admitted, miserably and useless as he flopped back onto his bed.
For a brief moment, Remus grapples with sharing that he too, got an odd feeling from Dumbledore but soon quells it. He knows James—he knows he’s grown up but also knows he’s bloody protective and unthinking when it comes to bigger situations like these. He also knows Sirius well enough to know he’d just egg James on.
Perhaps he was only now overthinking his interaction from the morning because of James’ unease—right?
And Remus—steady, calm, constant, Remus—breaks the silence first, pushing aside his own fantastical ideas.
“Easy there, Prongs. Let’s just think about this one at a time. It seems like a lot but maybe it was just too much at once. We need to think logically—”
James sat up to meet his golden eyes, ready to shout his protests.
“For Lily’s sake.” He finished
And damn—he reckons Remus knows exactly what he’s doing if the glint in his gaze is anything to go off of.
And damn Lily, too—her emerald eyes and endless waves of auburn and tinkling laugh.
He’s known her for all of an hour and she’s already disarming parts of him he’s unknowingly kept guarded his entire life.
“Trelawney,” Remus begins first, “if she really hasn’t made a prophecy all year maybe she only did when she saw Lily because she was a sort of catalyst to her magic.” He began to reason.
“Catalyst?” Sirius asks.
The dirty blonde nods, they could practically see the cogs turning in his head. “I mean remember Onai, she could only predict anything when she came into direct physical contact with magic, right?” His gaze falls to Peter, who knows more on this than the rest of them combined.
He nods eagerly.
“And Lily is seventeen years of untapped magic. Maybe so much of it trapped in one place drew Trelawney in without even knowing, finally finding that physical link. I mean sure—it’s unusual, but so is Lily’s situation. It could make sense?”
James thinks about it for a second and it does make sense. The justification is rooted in logic, there’s instances to back it. But it feels easy—too easy.
And he doesn’t know how to say as much without sounding like a petulant child, though his instincts scream at him to stamp his foot and cry out: You weren’t there. You don’t get it.
Peter senses James’ apprehension and is quick to jump in, “I have her for lessons Monday, I could see if she’s been weird–er, weirder than usual.”
And that actually sounds okay to James. An investigation of sorts before immediately thinking the worst. Especially if Lily’s involved, he doesn’t want to tangle her into any nonsense.
He nods to Peter gratefully, who sags in relief at the gesture. However, his sudden agreeableness is short lived as he whips his head back to Remus, “and what of Dumbledore?”
This was perhaps the most baffling part to him. It was one thing for Trelawney unknowingly to walk around the castle spreading dark omens but a complete other thing for Dumbledore to knowingly cover for her.
“Maybe he didn’t understand it either?” Peter supplied meekly, earning three glares.
Dumbledore knows everything.
“Right, sorry.” He blushed, shrinking back against his pillows.
“Maybe he didn’t want to frighten Lily, Prongs.” Sirius says sincerely.
And fuck—now Sirius has got that look too. Like he knows right where to get James all of the sudden.
“Doesn’t make it fair!” He protests.
Remus shrugs, “maybe, but think about overwhelming all of this is for her.” Snippets of his conversation in the office begin to flicker again, but this time his own sadness for Lily rushes back at him, easily outweighing Dumbledore’s peculiarities. “She’ll never have to take a Divination class, she has a thousand other things to think about and Dumbledore knows that.” He points out. “You know that.”
And damn him. Stupid voice of reason.
“Who knows what Dumbledore could’ve said to her privately. I reckon I’d feel it out before thinking the worst of it. It’s not like he’d bring Lily here and keep her in the dark, then there would be no point in bringing her here at all.” Sirius reasons.
Remus nods, “I’d just go gentle with it. If she was as scared as you say, she might not wanna bring it up. Or maybe she will. She should set the pace.”
And Merlin they’re right—he knows it too. The stupid ache in his abdomen subdued considerably by the pounding of his heart at the thought of how overwhelming this must be for her.
“So,” Peter begins, “that just leaves—”
“Snape.” Sirius spits out, the name like poison on his lips.
James averts his gaze back to Remus. His hazel eyes hopeful for some reassurances on this one, too.
Regrettably, the other boy shakes his head. “Now this one—I’ve got nothing.”
James groans, making work to harshly tug at his shoelaces for some sort of distraction.
“Especially considering he rushed out of the Great Hall as soon as she did, it can’t be a coincidence.” Sirius adds thoughtfully, then his eyes gleam with mischief, “you’d know about that, right Prongs?” He teases.
James tugs off one of his sneakers and chucks it in the long haired boy's direction, “I was getting my Quidditch Book.” He lied, a blush painting his cheeks. “Anyway, Lily said they barely spoke, but it’s the whole curious thing. I mean when has Snape cared about anything besides himself if not for some horrible greater purpose?”
They all nod in agreement, tension returning to the air, thoughts of the fifth-year incident passing them by. Snape barely has friends—never mind Muggle-born ones. There was no mistake that something was going on.
“We should keep an eye on him around her—on the map, too.” Sirius suggests, to which they all agree.
“Nothing overbearing!” Remus jumps in, eyes fixed on James, “I’m keen on making sure Lily doesn’t get hurt, but we don’t want to make decisions on behalf or cause her any unnecessary trouble either.” His gaze then moving to Sirius at that last bit.
“Oh come on, Moony,” he drones, “I’m just trying to make sure Snivellus isn’t trying to harness her trapped magical Muggle-born blood to I dunno—turn her into an evil box or something.”
A beat of silence passes before they all burst out laughing.
“Evil box? ” Remus hollers.
“What in the fuck is an evil box, Padfoot?” James laughs, finally feeling lighter.
“Well it’s a box…” Sirius begins, voice fixed and firm, “but it’s evil.” He deadpans.
A moment later Sirius bursts out laughing too, throwing his head back onto the mattress.
The laughter begins to fade into quiet giggles and wide smiles. Peter was wiping at tears on his cheeks, whilst James could still see Sirius and Remus’ chests breathing heavily from where they were laid on his bed.
James stood over the pair, eyes trained on Sirius, “you’re ridiculous, mate.” His smile betrayed his words.
Sirius popped his eyes open, one grey followed by another—as always, gleaming with mischief and light, but also something softer.
“Maybe,” he agrees with a grin, “but I got you to laugh, didn’t I?” This parts gentler.
James softens instantly, nodding his head before patting his friend on the shoulder. Next, in what he hopes is subtle, he discreetly swipes where the map laid on the foot of Remus’ bed before walking back over to his own.
And whether he was covert or whether it was his mates taking pity—they don’t say anything about it.
The room falls quiet. Peter, who finally managed to unstick his hand, sat against his headboard flicking through his comic again. Sirius had made himself comfortable at the end of Remus’ bed, dozing off, whilst the latter let him, leaning into the pillows himself.
James sits at the edge of his messily made bed, moving to pull his curtains closed as he goes. Just as his fingers grip the velvet, Sirius speaks up, halting his movements.
“We’re here for you Prongs, alright?” He says, not even needing to open his eyes to see James’ nod. “We’ll keep an eye on things for you and Evans—just come to us whenever you get worked up. We’ll figure things out.”
James feels a surge of affection at his words. He really does have the best mates.
“I know we will, thank you guys.” He responds sincerely.
He sees Sirius smile, “well what I mean to say is—Moony will always figure it out. Won't you?” He teases the taller boy, flicking the leg that rests next to his head.
The pair begin to bicker back and forth, James taking it as a cue to bow out as he slides his curtains around his bed. Once he’s sat comfortably atop his blankets, he makes work to shove his hand into his pocket, reaching for his wand and where he hid the map.
Wordlessly, he casts a silencing charm within his personal sanctuary.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” He whispers—just to be safe—as he taps the parchment with the tip of his wand.
The ink begins to appear as he flicks it open, eyes drawn to a singular area.
Before he can help himself, his fingers are on the spot. Right between Dumbledore and Flitwick.
Lily Evans.
He delicately traces the letters, the loop of the ‘L’ all the way to the curve of the ‘s’.
He thinks of dark omens, vague prophecies. Of things like astronomy charts and constellations. And then he thinks of red hair, green eyes and pretty ribbons.
He shuts his eyes harshly, one hand working its way through his curls, the other steadfast against her name. A whisper over the old parchment as he mindlessly traces the ink, like it’s some delicate, precious thing.
“Who are you, Trouble?” He whispers to no one but himself.