Hocus Pocus

THURSDAY. SEPTEMBER 2, 1971.

Peter Pettigrew is not an early riser by nature. He never has been. Bernadette would often tell people— much to Peter’s chagrin— what a sound sleeper her little Petey had been when he was a babe. 

James, on the other hand, liked to rise at the, as Monty put it, arse-crack of dawn. Still does, if the fact that Peter’s being shaken awake before it’s light outside is any indication. 

“Morning, Petey!” James beams.

Peter’s thoughts are sluggish as the sky goes from black to grey outside their window. He blinks slowly. A “G’morning.” rolls stickily off his tongue. 

The dorm is quiet, save for the light breathing of their sleeping roommates. It’s almost enough to lull him back to sleep. 

Almost. James shakes him again. 

James’ hair is still wet and his skin is still flushed pink from the shower he’s presumably just taken. Peter’s never understood why his friend showered in the mornings. He was only going to get dirty again throughout the day!

Peter’s brow furrows at the feel of his friend’s moist hands on his shoulders.  

“What time is it?” He rubs the sleep from his stubborn eyes.

James shrugs. “Dunno. Six maybe?”

“Six in the morning?!” Peter splutters. 

“Yeah. About six, I reckon.”

“Breakfast isn’t until eight!”

“I know.”

“Then why wake me up at six in the morning?!” Peter demands.

“I couldn’t sleep,” James says, as though that is explanation enough.

And somehow it is. James had too much energy to lay in bed for another two hours. So James did what he always does when he’s in the mood to bounce off some walls. He came and found Peter. 

Peter, who used to be right next door, is now right across the room. Of course James woke Peter unspeakably early. There was nothing to stop him from doing so. Peter thrills at that.

“Not sure how you lot can.” James runs a hand through his wet hair. Water droplets run down his cheeks. “There’s so much to do! We’re allowed out of the dormitories at sunrise.”

As if the very heavens bent to the will of James Potter, the morning’s first ray of sunlight crests over the Scottish hillside, casting a faint yellowish glow on the room. James refracts the light like a mirrorball. 

“We should try to find the kitchens. Maybe we can nick a couple crumpets.” 

James is going to go out and explore, with or without Peter. 

Peter tosses his blankets to the side. “Let me get dressed.”

“Atta boy, Petey!” James is smiling again. Peter swells. 

Their search is ultimately fruitless.

James-and-Peter spend nearly two hours traversing empty hallways and asking unhelpful portraits for directions. At one point, James dares Peter to slide down a barrister. He retracts the dare when Peter immediately looks sick at the thought. But— for some reason— James has decided it’s awfully important that somebody slide down the barrister. So he dares Peter to dare him to do it. Peter obliges, of course. 

Yet the kitchens remain elusive and unfound. 

James seems a bit put off by this, pouting as Peter drags him to The Great Hall for breakfast. But Peter doesn’t mind it so much. This morning was brilliant, kitchens or not.

*** 

Breakfast, Peter finds, is also brilliant. The crumpets that he and James had been scouring the castle for materialize on the table precisely at eight. The boys are delighted. 

The rest of the school joins them in waves and the chatter in the hall crescendos. 

“Remus!” 

Peter follows James’ gaze over to the entryway. 

Remus looks tired. Peter supposes that makes sense, considering how late the other boy got to bed. Peter wonders where he’d wandered off to. Had he gotten lost? Surely, it’s not that hard to follow the group? Annalena had been quite loud with all her ‘Gryffindors, this way.’ and ‘Keep up, please.’ and such. 

The short boy makes his way over to the Gryffindor table. James raises his voice again. “Saved you a seat.” He says, shuffling down the bench a bit.

This is news to Peter. But it really shouldn’t be. 

James had insisted on waiting up for Remus after James and Peter had unpacked. It seems that James Potter had set his sights on a new friend. God save Remus’ poor soul. 

“Good morning.” Peter greets the boy as he sits down. Ever the polite one, Peter is… tries to be at least. Bernadette raised him to be polite.

“Morning.” Remus mumbles. He doesn’t so much as look at Peter. Instead, the boy busies himself with loading his plate. Nothing but toast! Plain toast! Criminal. 

“Sleep well, Remus?” James asks, nicking a crumpet from Peter. 

Rude. Peter narrows his eyes at James. In return, James giggles. He takes a large, exaggerated bite out of Peter’s crumpet and chews with his mouth open. Minging!

“I guess,” Remus answers with a shrug, oblivious to James’ crimes. 

“You might have asked.” Peter sniffs at James. 

James swallows before speaking. “Would you have said no?” 

Cheeky boy. Of course Peter would have said yes. “…no.”

“Then all’s well, yeah?” James’ smile is far too bright for this early in the morning. 

Peter admits defeat and grabs himself a new crumpet. 

 “Have either of you two gotten a chance to look at our timetable yet?” His best friend moves on to the next order of business. 

Remus nods. “I have.”

“What’s our schedule like?” Peter asks. “Is it good?”

He hopes it’s good. Monty had told the boys plenty of tales from his glory days at school. He’d also told them plenty of horror stories. For whatever reason, those were always the ones that stuck with Peter. He swore up and down that he’d never take Arithmancy after hearing how poorly Monty had done on the O.W.L.S. 

“Not sure what qualifies as good, really. We’ve got Charms first today.”

“Brilliant!” James grins. Whether he’s referring to the schedule, or to the success of his diabolical plot to get Remus Lupin to speak, Peter isn’t certain. But his smile is too big to disagree with, so Peter just nods. 

Just about when Peter’s decided he’s done with breakfast, the atmosphere in the hall suddenly grows stormy. 

If Peter thought Remus looked tired, Sirius Black looks like a living corpse. 

He shambles lifelessly over to the Gryffindor table. 

Peter knows, without a single shred of doubt, that Sirius Black is about to sit next to him. He knows this because he desperately does not want Sirius Black to sit next to him. Because Sirius Black scares him. 

The Heir had been volatile even on the train, but ever since the sorting Sirius had been quiet and tense. Peter felt the need to tiptoe around him, terrified that one wrong step would knock the Heir out of his stupor, and Peter would be the one to lose a head when the boy snapped.

It’s no wonder that none of the other Gryffindor boys wanted to room with him. He hadn’t exactly put any effort into easing their worries about his reputation, had he? When James and Peter had first reached the bedroom, Sirius was just standing in the center of it. Staring. He scowled darkly at them when he noticed their presence. As if they were intruders.

If there had been any chance that there might be an open bed in the other room, Peter would have tugged on James’ sleeve and whinged until the older boy had agreed to leave. Alas. No such luck. Peter Pettigrew’s got rotten luck. Just like his father. 

So Peter isn’t surprised at all when The Heir to The House of Black plunks down next to him. It seems Peter’s used up his supply of good luck just getting into Gryffindor. 

Unlike Peter, James doesn’t let Sirius’ sour face dampen his mood. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

James must have a death wish. That’s why he’s so daring on a broom, isn’t it? His secret death wish. Peter should have seen it before. 

Sirius doesn’t respond. 

“Breakfast’s nearly over.” James forges on. “You’ve barely got time to eat.”

“I’m not here for breakfast, thank you,” Sirius says. His tone implies he’s not thanking James. Quite the opposite, actually. 

There’s a thud from a different table. A package. Another. Another. 

Parcels and letters rain from the sky. The mail owls have arrived. 

Remus is the first of their lot to get something. It’s a brown paper parcel, not too large. It barely makes a sound when it lands in his lap. 

“What is it?” James leans over, no doubt attempting to read the attached card. 

Remus looks… soft. Peter’s surprised at how drastically this changes his features. The smaller boy had been stony and deadpan ever since their meeting on the train. But now, as Remus held his gift close to his chest, stone surrendered to flesh.

“A blanket.” His answer is still short, but his voice sounds less clipped than before. 

Next comes James. The Potter family owl, a twitchy tawny little thing called Leopoldo, swoops down and drops a package right in front of him. Then, Leopoldo perches on Peter’s shoulder. 

“Hi, Leo.” Peter strokes the top of Leo’s feathered head absently. Peter doesn’t notice whether or not the bird reacts. 

He’s looking for his mother’s owl amongst the flock. He’s finding himself less and less sure by the second that she’s sent him something at all. 

Peter doesn’t like how much it upsets him: The idea that his mother hasn’t yet sent him mail. It’s irrational, honestly. And not fair to her, either. It’s only the first day. She’d seen him yesterday, for Merlin’s sake. Why should she send him mail just a day later? Just because James’ folks did? 

“Hey.”

Peter stops searching the sky for an owl that will never arrive. 

“I’m sure it’s for both of us.” 

James is sweet. He’s kind. And he’s good. And he’s going to be great. 

Peter nods. “Right. ‘Course.”

“We’ll open it tonight, yeah?” 

That can be enough. Peter can make it enough. “Yeah.” 

Peter is saved from the sticky feeling in his lungs when Leopoldo suddenly puffs out his chest and shrieks.

A dark Great Horned Owl perched on Sirius Black’s shoulder screeches right back and swipes a sharp talon in Leo’s direction. 

Peter ducks. Leo strikes. Sirius grasps uselessly at his bird.

“Bad, Leopoldo!” James swats at the ornery birds to no avail. 

Peter— thankfully no longer Leo’s perch— wants to help, but isn’t sure that sticking a hand in between two fighting owls is the best course of action. 

Remus, on the other hand, doesn’t even pretend to be interested in helping. He stands, carrying his parcel beneath one skinny arm.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” James, through sheer dumb luck, has wrangled Leo away from the other bird. 

The tawny owl hoots indignantly, shakes himself once, then flies away. Sirius’ bird doesn’t look any happier for having won the fight. 

“Class,” Remus answers. He speaks slowly as if talking to a child. “I recommend you head there soon as well unless you’re hoping to be late.” 

James hops up. “Right! Come on, Pete. I’ll race you.”

Peter’s not entirely certain that James even knows where the Charms classroom is. Nevertheless, when James takes off, Peter scrambles to follow. 

It’s beginning to feel like a pattern.

+++

FRIDAY. SEPTEMBER 3, 1971.

Puffy cotton clouds drift endlessly in the bright blue sky. The sun casts warm rays down on the castle grounds, intermingling with the breeze from the north to create one of the last truly warm days expected this September. In short, it’s a beautiful day for flying. 

Not that the weather matters a lick to James. It could be freezing and rainy and dreadful and the boy would still be itching to get back on a broom. His broom, preferably. 

It’s nothing less than a major bummer that first-years aren’t allowed to bring their personal brooms to school. James is certain that his Cleansweep Six is a much better ride than whatever old tree branch they’ll be working with here.

“What if I’m sick?” Peter frets on the way down to Flying Class. “You know I get sick. What if I try to fly a lap and I spew?”

Peter worries too much. James knocks their shoulders together in an attempt to transfer some of his excited energy over to his friend. 

“Aim for the Slytherins.” James grins.

He hears a distinct harrumph behind them. A split second later, a head of fiery red hair barrels past him. His grin falls. 

James is starting to think Lily Evans might not like him all that much.

It’s only been a day– two if you count the day on the train– but she seems to seethe anytime he so much as opens his mouth! Which, James doesn’t understand in the slightest. He’s a delight! Ask anybody!

Well... not anybody. Not the Slytherins, obviously. And clearly not Severus. But that’s fine. The dislike there is mutual. 

The thing is: James doesn’t dislike Lily. He doesn’t even know her enough to dislike her! She’s an uptight little witch with terrible taste in friends and a knack for Potions. That’s simply not enough to base an opinion on. And James simply can’t fathom what information Lily thinks she’s gathered in just two days of knowing him to make her dislike him so. 

Not that it matters. He won’t dwell on it. He’s already got his hands full trying to get his roommates to open up.

Sirius hasn’t budged. Honestly, he’s been a tougher nut to crack than expected. On the train, he seemed rather willing to be mates. He’d even insulted Severus on the boat when the beetle-eyed prick had gotten rude about Gryffindor. But ever since the sorting hat left Sirius’ head, he’d been sulky and strange. 

That’s not nearly enough to deter James, of course, but it appears Sirius picked up on that fact yesterday. So, today, he’d made himself scarce. 

Remus– for all the reading the boy does– had not been smart enough to follow Sirius’ lead. So, James will just focus on him for now.

Unlike Sirius, Remus doesn’t seem easily agitated. He’s quiet and ill at ease. A bit snippy on occasion, sure. But that’s nothing James Potter can’t handle.

Remus really does seem just a touch shy. James can fix shy. Just look at Peter!

“Have you ever flown before, Remus?” James asks. He’s found that Remus answers direct questions. 

Remus shakes his head. “No.” 

Like pulling teeth, talk with this one is.

“Why not?” James prods, squinting in the sunlight as they step out of the castle.

“Too many muggles about.” Remus shrugs. “Da’s never been a Quidditch man anyhow.”

“You live around muggles?” Peter asks wide-eyed.

Remus nods, setting his mouth into a thin line.

“Brilliant!” James says. He’s never actually met a muggle, but they’ve got plenty of muggle artifacts back home. His parents say it’s very impressive what the muggles manage to do without magic. James thinks the tellyvision is probably the most impressive, even though Papa won’t let him touch it without supervision.

Now he’s got a mate who’s lived so close to muggles that he couldn’t ride a broom. Thrilling!

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitches. It's the ghost of a smile. James smiles right back.

When the trio reaches the spot on the grounds where class will be held, his smile falters.

Shooting Stars? We’re meant to be flying on Shooting Stars? Might as well stay on the bloody ground. 

The baby-brooms are lined up neatly in two rows. Nineteen in all. 

They’re early for class– as James insisted they be– but they’re not the first group to arrive. No, that honor belongs to two Gryffindor girls standing on opposite sides of the field. 

One of them is Lily Evans. She eyes them suspiciously as they approach. James makes a face at her. She doesn’t laugh. 

He didn’t want to stand near her anyways. The wind is coming from the north, making the spot next to the other girl ideal.  

That’s exactly where he goes. Peter files in beside him. Remus follows.

“You can just ask me if you’ve got any questions, Remus.” James grins. 

Remus fixes him with a strange look. “Thanks.”

“You can!” James insists.

“Right.”

“What’s that look for?”

“No offense, James, but I think if I really need to ask a question, I’ll speak to the professor… rather than another first-year.”

Right. Remus has never seen James in action. 

“Not just any first-year!” James reminds him. “Me!”

Peter giggles, the twat.

“Oi! Don’t laugh. You’ll give him the wrong idea.”

Peter giggles harder.

“I’m bloody brilliant on a broom, Peter, and you know it.” James thwacks his friend on the shoulder.

Remus shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Tell him!” James implores.

“James is quite good at flying,” Peter says dutifully.

“See?” James folds his arms over his chest.

Remus just shrugs again, the corners of his mouth twitching once more.

“What do you mean?!” 

“Well, now you’ve coerced him,” Remus replies.

“I did not coerce him,” James says, affronted. “Pete, tell him I didn’t coerce you!”

“I’m not sure you understand how that works.” Remus shakes his head, bemused.

This is the longest conversation James has managed to rope Remus into. The other boy is this close to smiling; James can tell. He almost doesn’t even mind that it’s at his own expense. 

He’s distracted from this small victory by Lily’s voice.

“Sev!” The girl calls, waving excitedly at the spindly boy. “This is Mary, my roommate.” 

“Pleasure.” The two shake hands.

James recognizes the girl next to Lily from History of Magic the day prior. She’d been the only one to ask Professor Binns about his… ghostliness. 

Peter nudges James. He’s fervently not looking back toward the castle. James gets the memo and turns in that direction.

Sirius is heading out to the field.

James smiles. It’s been a good day for him so far on the roommate front, and Sirius likes Quidditch! 

But Sirius walks right by James. And right by Peter. And right by Remus. 

He settles in next to some Slytherin girl on the opposite side of the field. The girl smiles at Sirius and says something to him that James can’t hear from so far away. Sirius nods. 

Beside James, Peter sags in relief. James can feel himself deflating for rather different reasons. 

He doesn’t have long to dwell on this rejection. Madam Hooch has arrived.

The second James sees her, his skin starts to itch with anticipation.

Madam Hooch is the Quidditch referee. Everybody knows referees play favorites. James Potter intends to be one of those favorites.

She surveys the students with sharp, hawkish, yellow eyes. “How many of you have ever flown a broom?”

James’ hand flies into the air, along with the hands of the girl to his left, two of the boys in the other Gryffindor bedroom, and Sirius. Peter reluctantly lifts his hand too, eyes downcast.

“An experienced group, I see,” Hooch says, “Good. Then today’s class ought to be easy for most of you.”

Each and every Slytherin raised a hand. Every Slytherin except Severus Snape, that is. He, too, is looking down, attempting to hide his blush behind a curtain of black hair.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say ‘Up!’” 

The class complies.

James’ broom jumps into his hand at once. He cringes at the feel of it in his palm. It desperately needs a waxing. These things are going to give somebody a splinter.

The girl next to him weighs her broom in her palm, her lips curling unhappily.

“Pretty shite, huh?” James leans towards her, doing his best to keep his voice hushed so as not to be heard over all the shouting. 

Peter’s shouting is the loudest. He’s all red in the face, eyes bulging in a laughable glare. He looks like he’s trying to intimidate the broom into following orders. Poor Pete. Someone ought to tell him he’s not very intimidating. His broom just flops about on the ground.

Remus’ broom is giving him a hard time too, hopping up halfway to his hand before falling lifelessly to the floor again. 

“When’s the last time this thing was polished?” The girl agrees.

“Probably when Hooch was in this class.” 

She smiles. James recognizes her. He knows from class, obviously... but there’s something else as well. He can’t put his finger on it any more than he can remember the girl’s name. 

She’s a lithe little bird. Fair and glowy. Her dark blonde hair is tied up in plaits. 

“James Potter.” He introduces himself.

“I know who you are.” She replies, rather than returning the favor. “You’re the baby on the shampoo bottles.”

James snorts. “That’s me."

“What’s your friend doing?”

James looks back at the boys. Peter laughs breathlessly, his broom finally in his hand. But James quickly realizes that she wasn’t talking about Peter. She was talking about Remus.

Remus appears to have taken a pause, He’s standing there with his hands on his hips, just studying his broom.

“Dunno,” James admits.

His roommate frowns severely at the broom, eyes narrowed in deep contemplation. 

“Up.” He commands, firmly. 

The broom doesn’t jump, per se. Rather, it levitates vaguely upwards in slow motion. Remus plucks it out of the air.

Peter blinks at the show. He turns to James, brow furrowed. James shrugs. He’s never seen anyone summon a broom like that, and, not to brag, but James has seen loads of broom-summoning. 

“Wicked.” The girl says feelingly.

With Remus’ broom firmly in his hand, that’s left just two students still struggling.

The first of which is Trevor Gillybum. A Gryffindor boy all the way on the other end of James’ row. Gillybum’s broom is stubbornly refusing to move a single centimeter.

The second student who can’t seem to collect his broom is Severus Snape.

Severus is glowering sourly at his broom. The broom, as though taunting its would-be rider, teeters between a horizontal and vertical position. It looks much like a teeter-totter actually. The kind James and Peter used to play on when Papa would take them to the playpark. James suppresses the urge to snicker.

Then Severus stamps his foot, his broom shoots up to smack him in the face as retaliation, and James stops suppressing that urge.

The entire class laughs along with him. Even Gillybum.

The only people not laughing are Severus, Lily, and Madam Hooch. He’s hunched over a bit, holding his nose while Lily mother-hens him.

“Oh! Are you alright?” She’s crowding into the boy’s space. “Let me see.”

James can’t hear what Severus says back; his hands muffle his voice. 

Hooch soon blocks James’ view of the carnage, but her wince tells him everything he needs to know. 

“Is it broken?” Severus' voice sounds all snotty.

“I can’t be sure.” Comes Hooch’s gruff reply. “Better safe than sorry, though. Come along, dear.”

The woman puts a protective arm around Severus and begins leading him off. 

Lily cranes towards the pair until they’re out of her reach.

Hooch turns on the rest of the class. “Your feet are to stay firmly planted on the ground while I am gone.” She instructs. “I’ll not be held responsible if one of you breaks a neck."

A chorus of agreement later, she’s taken Severus back up the steps into the castle.

No sooner than she has, several students break out into laughter again. 

Lily Evans looks worried sick. Too worried to even reprimand them for laughing– which seems to be a hobby of hers, ruining fun. She turns to Mary and murmurs something to the other girl that James doesn’t quite catch.

What James does hear perfectly is Bertram Aubrey’s snide comment to one of the Slytherin girls.

“He should have asked his mudblood girlfriend for some tips.” 

Time freezes. 

James Potter has never heard that word out loud.

He knows the word, of course. Knows what it means. He read it during his schooling at home. He’s been taught about its historical context. Been told it’s a terrible terrible word. 

But he’s never heard it out loud. Until now.

Bertram Aubrey just called Lily a mudblood. And Aubrey’s stupid little friends are laughing. Laughing like it was funny. Like they agree.

At that moment, James feels like his bloody skin is on fire. 

Because here’s the thing about James Fleamont Potter: he doesn’t feel anything in halves.

And, right now, James Potter is angry.

“What did you just call her?!”

His shout is clearly startling. Aubrey and his friends stop their infuriating giggling. The whole class turns to watch.

The boy raises a brow at James. “This doesn’t concern you, Potter.”

“Apologize.”

“Why should I? I didn’t say anything that isn’t true.”

They’re laughing again. Aubrey’s insufferable friends are laughing again. James steps closer, his hands shaking with barely concealed rage. 

“Apologize to her right now!”

“Or what?”

James sees crimson. Blood roars in his ears. He tastes lightning again. 

Without thinking, James whips out his wand.

It’s not until a sticky disgusting smile oozes across Aubrey’s face that James remembers he doesn’t know a single offensive spell.

“What exactly do you intend to do with that thing, Potter?” Aubrey sniggers. 

The boy has his one, shining moment of superiority before James chucks his wand in the general direction of Peter and socks Bertram Aubrey in the face.

The fight itself is a whirlwind. 

James has never done this before. Picked a fight? Sure. Came to blows? Never. He hasn’t a single clue what he’s doing. 

But none of that matters. It’s like he’s barely even himself as he grapples with his opponent. He’s all swinging fists and gnashing teeth. He’s the red that’s spilling from Aubrey’s nose. He’s the acid he tastes on his tongue. The fire in his veins. The thunder in his ears. 

Bertram, for his part, gets a few good hits in. He shoves the heel of his hand up against James’ jaw in a quick jab, and James bites his tongue so hard it’s like he actually sees the colorful burst of pain swim across his vision. He spits the blood seeping from the bite right back at the boy who caused it.

Someone screams.

Screams? 

No. 

It’s a whistle. 

Before James can even process what that means, Madam Hooch’s strong hands are on his shoulders, ripping him away from the fight. 

“What is the meaning of this?” She demands, standing between the two boys, blocking Bertram’s attempt to lunge at James again.

James’ chest heaves. Every fibre of his being is vibrating. His limbs feel heavy. He spits out more blood.

“Madam Hooch,” he starts, “I can explain.”

“Not you.” She glowers. Hooch does an about-face and points a gloved finger at Lily. “You. What happened here?”

James smiles a scarlet smile. Lily Evans. He’d gotten into this skirmish defending her. Surely he’s in the clear now. She’ll tell Madam Hooch the awful things Aubrey had said, and James’ll be home free.

“He attacked him!” Lily says, eyes frantic.

“Who, Miss Evans?”

“James!”

Hooch rounds on James, and his chest stops heaving. The blood stops pounding in his ears. The buzz, the rush, dissipates. 

“Is this true, Mister Potter?” Madam Hooch’s voice is cold. Her yellow eyes appear more snakelike than hawkish as James squirms under her angry glare.

Bertram Aubrey smirks. 

“Yes, but-”

“Detention, Mister Potter. This afternoon. Right here. You’ll be helping Hagrid tend to the grass.”

James’ mouth refuses to shut. “He called her-”

“There is no excuse for violence, James.” The Instructor says flintily. “Five points from Gryffindor.”

“Madam-”

“I’ll make it ten.” She warns.

James manages to wrangle his lips into submission. 

Madam Hooch looks around at the students, weighing the state of things. At last, she sighs heavily.

“Class is Dismissed.” 

Nobody moves.

“What are you all waiting for? A formal invitation? You’re dismissed. Go. Find something to occupy yourself with.” She barks. With a wave of her wand, the brooms march themselves back into their case.

Once most of the kids disperse, she marches off. 

Aubrey slinks away to lick his wounds, but James remains frozen in place. He rubs at his sore jaw. 

Then he’s crushed by an eager embrace. Peter. 

“You got us out of class early!” He exclaims.

James groans. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, I’m glad for it,” Peter says matter of factly. “Saved me from being sick all over the Slytherins.” 

James can’t help but brighten a bit. Pete has that effect. 

“I could have used some backup. You should have done it anyway.”

His friend turns pink, but he laughs nonetheless.

“Give me back my wand before we forget, yeah?” James holds out his hand.

Pete goes from pink to pale. “Your wand?”

… James Potter spends his detention searching the soon-to-be cut grass for his wand. 

It’s a tedious process that bores James so severely he thinks he would rather pluck out his own leg hair than ever do it again. 

At least Hagrid is kind to him. The large man takes James’ side once the tale of his terrible battle is fully recounted. 

He finds his wand, too. Thank Merlin. Small blessings.

But the search takes longer than expected– he’s got no clue how it ended up so far away from where he’d thrown it– and he winds up missing dinner. Hagrid offers him a rock-hard sandwich. James politely declines.

The worst part is, James thinks miserably,  Hooch never even got to see me fly.

He returns to the Gryffindor common room tired, achy, and starved. So, he’s of the opinion that his sour mood might be excusable. Or understandable at the very least. What isn't understandable is the way Lily Evans marches up to him the moment the portrait swings shut behind him. 

She’s got a fire brighter than her hair blazing behind her eyes.

“What on earth did you do that for?!”

“Huh?” James says intelligently.

“Why would you attack that poor boy?” She waves her arms like some sort of flightless bird.

“Poor boy?” James sputters, “You heard what he called you!”

“So he called me a mean name! That doesn’t give you the right to go around walloping people over the head like some sort of brute!” 

Brute. Is that what she thinks of him? Some sort of brute?

James Potter is no brute.  James Potter is a knight, and Bertram Aubrey was a dragon. James is an auror and Aubrey was a werewolf. James is a beater and that boy had been being a bloody bludger hurtling straight for James’ chaser for crying out loud. Why couldn’t Lily see that?  

“But-” James starts.

“And to use my honor as some sort of excuse!” She looks aghast. 

“That’s not-”

“Keep away from me, Potter.” Lily’s voice goes icy. “And keep your nose– and your bloody fists– out of my business!” 

As James watches her stomp up the stairs to her room, something inside of him settles into place. Like a puzzle piece clicking. A moment where one realizes: this is the way things are. 

Only, James finds himself unhappy with the picture it’s created. 

He was wrong earlier, about what the worst part of this whole ordeal was. The worst part is, James is now certain that Lily Evans doesn’t like him much.

+++

SATURDAY. SEPTEMBER 4, 1971.

“-the library, probably. Waste of a Saturday, if you ask me.” The bedroom door bursts open. James Potter’s voice ricochets off the walls of the room and assaults Sirius’ ears. He’s so bloody loud. 

“We do have loads of homework…” Pettigrew. Quieter. Just as irritating. 

“Homework? Homework?! This is the most important morning of my entire life, and you’re thinking about homework?!”

Sirius Black has been perched uncomfortably at the edge of his still-made bed since he woke up. He had hoped his roommates might be gone for the whole day. He had hoped that he might be able to think for ten seconds without something interrupting. Apparently, the universe has denied his request. Uncle Alphard’s law strikes again. 

“Sirius, tell Pete that homework can wait.”

James Potter is always doing this, always trying to rope Sirius into conversation. He doesn’t seem at all deterred by the fact that Sirius has decided he hates James Potter’s guts. 

Naturally, this decision had come a little too late. Just like everything else did with Sirius. He’s always just a little too late: he always has to ask the question first. Always has to test the limit. Always has to touch the hot stove before learning his lesson. 

Lesson learned. 

“What are you on about?” Sirius snaps, whipping his head around to scowl at the other boys. 

He scowls harder when James Potter smiles. 

“Quidditch tryouts are today!”

“So?” 

“So? ‘So’ he says.” The boy’s grin is blinding. Sirius wants to snuff it out. “So, we’re going!” 

“First-years aren’t allowed to play Quidditch.” 

“Yeah, but we can still watch. It’ll be brilliant! Like a private game!” James Potter kicks off his shoes and digs around in his trunk for a new pair. “You should come.”

Sirius doesn’t dignify that with a response. He turns away from the other boys.

“Suit yourself,” James says. “Come on, Pete. I’ll race you!” 

“You’ll win.”

“Sure will!” James Potter’s footsteps are just as loud as his voice as he gallops down the hall.

“Wait! James! James, you’re cheating!”

And, just like that, Sirius Black is alone again. 

Which is fine.

It’s good, actually.

Because that’s what he wanted: to be alone. 

Except, now that he is alone, he’s not quite sure what to do with himself. 

It’s taunting him. 

The letter under his pillow is taunting him. It has been ever since he received it.

Sirius reaches out and clasps the dry parchment in his hands. 

He looks down at the awful thing. His mother’s handwriting stares up at him. Clean, elegant strokes spell out his name. Simple. Sleek. Sinister.

The longer he waits, the worse it will get. He’s certain of it. Walburga is not a patient woman. 

Sirius shares that quality with his mother. Patience is a virtue he was never blessed with. Though, in all truth, it doesn’t seem he was blessed with many virtues at all. 

He had one job. One. Simple. Job. Sit on a stool: a task so simple even a bloody house elf might have managed it. Yet Sirius Black mussed it up. How? How did he fail? What secret deformities of the soul had that dusty old hat seen in him that rendered him unworthy of his birthright? 

Sirius knows he hasn’t always been the best son. He knows he can be brash and insolent. He knows he’s sharp in a way no parent wants their child to be. But he’s The Heir. And he’s never wanted anything other than to make his parents proud of him.  Never. Not for a single solitary second.  That has to count for something. It just has to. 

He can’t look at the letter any longer. The image of it has burned itself into his brain. The parchment stings his fingertips.

He can see the Quidditch pitch from his window. He sees the teeny little smudges– presumably his roommates– rush across the pitch and climb into seats in the stadium. The James Potter blob joins a blob already seated in the stands. Lupin? The Pettigrew blob is not far behind.    

The brooms are in the air. Red smudges whip around in the sky above the stadium, weaving through the towers. Chaser tryouts. 

Is this nasty habit where it all started? 

Sirius had spent years watching muggle children play from the windows of 12 Grimmauld Place, much to his parents’ chagrin. Was that where this all began? Was that the first domino to fall? 

No. 

With trembling hands, Sirius stuffs the envelope back beneath his pillow. 

He knows exactly where this all began. It began with James Potter. It began with shaking his hand, with staying in that compartment. James Potter was the first domino to fall. 

Sirius wants to scream. He wants to break something. It was the first little act of rebellion– the first real choice he’s ever made for himself– and it all led to this. It led to him standing alone in a garishly red bedroom, scared half to death of a bloody letter. 

He has to leave. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, but he can’t stomach being in this room anymore. He doesn’t belong here. It feels like the crimson walls are closing in on him. He’s claustrophobic.

He needs to leave, and so he does. He rushes down the stairs and out of the portrait in a dizzying blur of rouge. He leaves his tie behind.  No need to wear the reminder of his plight like a leash. 

If he were a Slytherin, Mother would have wanted him to always be in full uniform. Mother would have wanted him to wear his tie as a mark of pride.  And he would have. 

But he’s not in Slytherin. 

If he were in Slytherin, he wouldn’t be stuck ambling aimlessly around the dungeons on a Saturday morning. He would just know where Andy was. He wouldn’t have to look for her in the first place. He wouldn’t need the comfort. He’d be happy.

Happy feels very far away.

“Sirius?” 

It isn’t Andromeda. 

“Sirius, what are you doing down here?” Narcissa’s porcelain skin looks almost green in the dim, cool light of the enchanted torches. She’s alone, a rare sight these days. 

“Cissa.” Sirius’ tongue feels heavy. He can’t force out any other words. 

For two days, Narcissa’s face has haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her: glossed lips parted in a perfect O, betrayal blatant in her gaze. 

Betrayal. She’d had the audacity to look betrayed by him. She’d looked hurt. As if he’d had any say at all in what the sorting hat decided. As if he’d chosen to abandon his family. 

“You shouldn’t be down here.” She’s been standing statue-still ever since spotting him. She won’t step forward. He’s contaminated now. He’s other now. 

Gravity crushes Sirius. His limbs feel like lead. All he can do is blink at her. 

He hates her. 

It’s like the click of a lock popping open.  He hates her. 

It burns dark and vile in his belly.  He hates her. 

He hates her. He hates her. He hates her. 

He hates her half as much as he hates James Potter. He hates her for forcing him to meet James Potter. For allowing him to fall into a situation where he felt obligated to shake a blood traitor’s hand. For allowing him to become contaminated. For tipping over the first domino that led to his fall from grace. 

He hates her. 

“Sirius, really, you need to leave.” 

“Why?” His throat is tight. “Because you can’t stand to look at me?” 

She doesn’t answer. Her pink lips press into a thin little line, like a scar cutting across her ivory skin.

He steps forward. She steps back. 

“Do I make you feel guilty, Narcissa?”  He hates her. He hates her.  “Do you have the decency to feel guilty?”

She’s still silent. Just staring. Her eyes are scanning his face like she's looking for something. Like three nights in the Gryffindor dormitory might have changed it. Like she’s looking for physical manifestations of the blemishes the sorting hat had seen in his mind. It makes him burn crimson. He hates crimson. 

“Answer me!” He growls. The anger is like pins and needles all over his body. Everything is alive. Everything hurts. 

Narcissa is composed. Always composed. Toujours pur. She straightens her spine.  

“I hope you’re not insinuating that what happened to you is somehow my fault.”

Somehow? Somehow?! He laughs. It’s entirely joyless. “You abandoned me.” 

“This is about the train?!” She rolls her eyes. 

The anger flares. It’s agony. It’s invigorating. His bones rattle with rage. She ruined his life. She ruined his life so she could fraternize with her fiance. 

Sirius hates her.

“Sirius-”

“Shut up!”

She shuts her mouth. He can hear her teeth clack together abruptly. 

The vitriol has his throat in a vise. His eyes sting. 

“I hate you.”

Narcissa’s pale face barely twitches. “You need to get out of here before somebody else sees you.” 

Sirius doesn’t move. 

“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She sniffs. “Excuse me.”

His cousin pushes past him. He watches her leave. When her dark head of hair rounds a corner and slips out of view, the rage recedes, and Sirius Black is left empty. 

***

SUNDAY. SEPTEMBER 5, 1971. FULL MOON

On Sunday, Sirius scours the castle for a good place to be alone that isn’t so bloody red. 

Eventually, he settles for sitting out by the Black Lake. September is growing chilly. Sirius shivers as he stares out at the choppy water. 

He chucks a rock into the lake. He’s watching as the water ripples outwards when something soft hits his back. 

“You’ll catch cold without a jumper.” 

Andromeda folds her arms over her chest, but her face is soft. Her brows furrow nearly imperceptibly when Sirius doesn’t smile at her greeting. 

He turns back to the lake. 

“Ne sois pas si têtue, petite étoile.” Andy huffs. She drapes the jumper around Sirius’ shoulders. “Landing yourself in the hospital wing won’t fix anything.”

Sirius grumbles at the babying. Yesterday he might have welcomed it, but all he wants right now is to mope. He wants to sit by this lake until he withers. He wants to wither. Andromeda, with her glowy eyes and luminescent laughter, is not one to allow for withering.

“You’re being dramatic.” He says.

“I’m dramatic? You’re the one sulking by the lake like somebody’s died.”

Sirius doesn’t respond. 

She doesn’t let him sit in silence for long. “I heard you ran into Cissa.” 

The hole in his chest howls. Narcissa. He hates Narcissa. He wants to hate Andromeda for bringing up Narcissa– anything to fill the hole. Anything to stop the terrible empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

But Sirius could never hate Andromeda. Hate the same Andromeda who tutored him in French and healing spells and violin? The same Andromeda who made funny faces at him from across the table at holiday feasts? The Andromeda who would waste her Sunday morning sitting by the Black Lake with her little cousin? No. Hating Andromeda isn’t an option. 

“She told you?” 

Andromeda hums in lieu of a proper response. She shrugs halfheartedly. “She tells me everything.” 

Everyone does. 

Except, perhaps, for Bellatrix. Though, in all honesty, Sirius isn’t certain there’s much for Bellatrix to tell. Sirius is mostly of the opinion that once people grow up and marry their betrothed, things just sort of… peter off. They stop caring about real things like Quidditch and cousins and start worrying about grown-up things like politics. 

Bellatrix hasn’t been married just yet, of course. But she will be soon. And Sirius has already noticed the change in her. He’s a bit sad, truly, to see her go… not half as miserable as he will be when it happens to Andromeda in a year or so.

He wishes Narcissa was the eldest. He wishes she could’ve been snatched away by her betrothed ages ago. It’s clearly all she cares about, regardless. 

“I hate her.” He informs Andy. It sounds incredibly matter-of-fact; he supposes that it is, but this upsets him nevertheless. He wants the anger back. 

She hums again. “I know. She told me.”

“I hate her, Andy.” He insists, finally turning towards her. 

“Okay.” She nods. She barely even frowns. Sirius is struck dumb. 

“Okay?”

“Mhm.” Andromeda’s fingers weave through the blades of grass beneath them. “Okay. You hate her. That’s okay.”

Sirius Black does not do ‘okay.’ ‘Okay’ does not tend to sit right with people made of jagged pieces. 

He feels alone. He feels hollow. He feels…

“I’m scared.”

The confession is quiet. He sounds so much younger than he feels. He sounds like Regulus. 

Andromeda opens her arms, and Sirius surges forward, burying his face in her shoulder. 

Now that the confessions have begun, they pour from his lips like water from a broken dam.

“Mother sent me a letter.”

“I figured as much.”

“I can’t answer it.”

“She can wait a few days.”

“I can’t even open it.”

“It’s alright.”

 “I shook a blood traitor’s hand.” 

She says nothing. 

Andy holds him tighter. Does it hurt her? Something inside him wonders. Does it hurt her to hold him so close? Does he prick her the way he pricks himself when he’s alone with his thoughts?

 She squeezes him so tight he thinks he might break. He welcomes it. He hopes he does. He hopes he breaks into a million little bits so that someone might sand his edges and put him together better than before. 

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.” She quiets. She doesn’t let him finish. He doesn’t know how the sentence would have ended anyway. 

  “What do I do?” His shoulders shake, his face reddens, but no tears come.  Je suis sale. Je suis sale.  “I don’t know what to do.” 

“I know.”

Finally, from his lips spring his deepest fear. “Mother will disown me.”

Andromeda laughs. “Over your Hogwarts house?” 

He prickles.

“Please, Sirius.”

“She will!” 

Andromeda just shushes him. They sit, locked in an embrace, swaying in the September breeze for a few moments. Then, she makes a confession of her own. 

“Theodore’s parents are muggles.” 

Sirius’ blood turns to ice in his veins. He pulls away.

“What?”

“My boyfriend-”

“I know who Theodore is!” Muggles.  Muggles.  Andromeda’s been associating with mudbloods. “Does Uncle Cygnus know?”

“Does he know who Theodore is? Or do you mean-”

“Quit avoiding the question!” He smacks her shoulder. She laughs. It’s a delightful little sound, like the tinkling of bells. It’s nearly enough to cheer him.  Nearly.

“Yes, yes. Father knows.” 

“And Aunt-”

“Yes.” She’s being terribly impassive about this entire earth-shattering revelation.

“And they’re fine with it?” Sirius finds it difficult to believe that anyone in his family would allow this sort of affiliation to occur. 

“Of course not.” Andy wrinkles her nose. 

Ah. That makes more sense. 

“But I haven’t been disowned.” She brushes her long fingers through his short hair. Sirius closes his eyes and leans into her touch. “You think they’ll disown The Heir for fraternizing with blood traitors? I am a blood traitor and I-”

His eyes snap open. “Don’t say things like that!”

Andromeda isn’t a blood traitor. Blood traitors are… they’re people like James Potter. They’re loud and self-centered and nothing like Andromeda at all. Andromeda isn’t a blood traitor.

“What else would you call it?”

Sirius does not have an answer. 

“The point is,” Her hand settles at the nape of his neck, “you won’t be disowned.”

He can’t meet her eyes. 

“It’ll all turn out fine in the end.” From Andy’s mouth, it sounds like a promise rather than a platitude.

“I don’t know what to do now.” He admits. 

“You might want to start with answering that letter.” 

His stomach turns. 

“You’re right.”

“Always am.” She stands up, stretching out like a cat. “Come on then. Can’t let you starve. Walburga would have my head.” 

He accepts her outstretched hand and pulls himself to his feet. 

Andromeda consorts with mudbloods. Her Hufflepuff boytoy is a mudblood. 

But she isn’t dirty. She isn’t dirty at all. 

Andromeda is pure. Not in the same way as Walburga or Bellatrix or Narcissa, maybe. But pure nevertheless. 

Narcissa is a freshly bloomed peony. Andromeda is cobblestone after a storm.

Sirius wants to be exactly like her.

The badge on her robes glints in the sunlight as the cousins tread back toward the castle.

“Why didn’t you tell me you made Head Girl?” 

She laughs again. “When would I have had a chance to, with Cissa around? 'Blah blah blah blah blah…'”

Andy gives him the same conspiratory look as when she's just kicked his shin beneath the table at a stuffy dinner party. Sirius feels his lips curl into a smile for the first time in half a week.

+++

Dear Petunia,

I’m very, very sorry for snooping through your things. I promise I’ll never do it again. Please don’t be cross with me. I can’t

Lily Evans is not having a good evening.

The floor by her bed is littered with scraps of parchment. It’s a graveyard of unfinished letters. 

Petunia probably won’t even read it. She can be so stubborn when she’s upset! That’s why Lily had waited out the rest of the week before sitting down to write home. But it’s Sunday evening now, and Lily promised she’d write every week. Lily Evans never breaks a promise. 

She sighs and tears herself another bit of parchment.

Dear Pet,

Hi! I have so much to tell you. I meant to meet up with Sev on the train, but then I ran into these horrible boys. You should have been there, T

No. 

Lily fights the urge to bite her nails as she tears off yet another bit of parchment. 

Why wizards choose to write on parchment when there are far more sensible options for paper available, Lily has no idea. It’s terribly strange. Everything here is strange. 

Smashing. But strange. 

She hasn’t yet worked out how to immediately discern which portraits speak and which are still. She’s nearly gotten lost on the way to class twice, thanks to the moving staircases. And she’s got no idea how to use a quill. 

She wishes Petunia were here.

Lily’s older sister has always been a very practical young lady. Plus, she’s two years Lily’s senior, which– as far as Lily’s concerned– means she knows everything. 

If Petunia were here, Lily would have a guide. Lily wouldn’t feel so strange.

But Petunia isn’t here. Petunia isn’t allowed here. Because Petunia is not a witch. 

Petunia is not a witch, and Lily is. So Petunia is back home in Cokeworth, and Lily is here, in an enormous castle in the Scottish Highlands. Alone.

Not alone. Lily reminds herself. There’s still Severus. Thank heaven for Severus.

So, no. She’s not entirely alone. She’s got Severus– whenever they’ve got class together or a free period at the same time, that is. And her roommates seem fine enough: Mary and Marlene. They haven’t been unkind at all, thankfully. That had been a worry. Lily had loads of worries… has loads of worries. 

Neither of them spends much time in the bedroom, though. So, apart from classes, Lily doesn’t see much of either of them. She’s got no clue where Marlene disappears to. As for Mary, it’s usually quite easy to find her: just look for the crowd. Mary seems to be the social butterfly type. 

Lily’s not quite suited for that sort of existence. 

She’s found she fares much better just left of center spotlight, thank you very much. She’ll be the top of the class happily, but she’d never audition for a school play… Does Hogwarts even have plays? 

Dear Tuney,

Sixth time’s the charm. 

Dear Tuney,

I miss you. I ’m so sorry that I went through your things. I completely understand why you’re upset with me. However, I promised I’d write you at least once each week, so here I am. Hogwarts is terribly strange. They write using quills here, Tuney. Quills! Like the pope or something!

Severus sends his regards. I know you’re not his biggest fan. 

You’ll be disappointed to hear that I have not made any new friends. Or maybe you’ll be pleased. I won’t pretend to know. Either way: it’s still just Sev and me.

Severus is here too. We don’t see each other so much anymore because we were sorted differently. (Long story short: a hat told us to sit at separate tables during meals, and now our schedules are different.) Sev is in Slytherin. That’s the house he wanted, so I’m happy for him. He wanted me to be in Slytherin too, but I was sorted into Gryffindor.

I wish I was in Slytherin with him. Gryffindor is meant to be for the courageous types. I don’t feel particularly courageous, but I suppose

Gryffindor has treated me pretty well so far. The common room is nice, and I have a lovely view. 

The boys are awful, though, Tuney. There’s this one boy that seems to be the ringleader. He’s been picking fights since the minute Sev and I ran into him on the train. It’s completely barbaric.

I know you’d set him straight if you were here. 

Anyhow, I’m sure you’ll be very busy with schoolwork and such, so don’t feel too pressured to write back. I’ll keep sending plenty of letters.

I love you! See you in three months. 

Your Sister,

           Lily

Lily finishes off her signature with a flourish. There. That’s decent. She gingerly places the letter on her bedside table to give the ink time to dry.

The door swings open behind her. Lily’s eyes flick up toward the movement.

Mary Macdonald enters the bedroom with a bundle of some sort in her arms.

“Ay up.” She greets, making a beeline for her bed. “What’s that?”

Lily blinks. “What’s what?”

Mary shoots her a quizzical look and gestures vaguely at the field of parchment at the foot of Lily’s bed. “What’ve you been drawing? Can I see?”

“Oh.” Lily feels her face flush. “Haven’t been drawing… just writing a letter.”

She avoids meeting Mary’s gaze by hopping down from her bed to collect the trash. 

“A letter?” Mary prompts. 

Lily doesn’t fancy the idea of explaining herself any further. Really, what goes on between her and her sister is nobody else’s concern. If it takes Lily six tries to figure out what to say to Petunia, then that’s her business. 

A subject change is in order. 

“What’ve you got there?” Lily asks nonchalantly. 

At least, she’s aiming for nonchalant. She misses it by an inch or so. Thankfully, Mary makes no indication that she’s noticed.

Instead, Mary’s full lips part in a dazzling smile. She holds up one of the booklets from the bundle. 

“Witch Weekly!” The brunette proclaims.

On the glossy magazine cover, a pretty witch in blue robes cycles through a handful of poses. Lily eyes the photo. It doesn’t seem like this one can talk, but she’s certainly not static, either.

 Mary spreads the rest of the magazines in the bundle out on her bed. It’s a dizzying display of pretty, thin witches in colorful robes. “Alice lent me a few old copies.”

Lily’s got no clue who Alice is, but if these are just her older copies, she must have a whole trunk full of magazines. 

“Want to look?” Mary asks.

Lily Evans has never been the magazine type of girl. She’s always found herself better suited to textbooks, novels, and the like. Magazines are more up Petunia’s alley than Lily’s. Tuney’s always said so, too: that it’d be better if her little sister stuck to her Dahl and left Petunia’s Jackie copies alone. 

But Mary doesn’t wait for a response before climbing up onto Lily’s bed, magazine in hand. 

“That’s Amelie Newton on the front cover.” She points to the blonde witch in blue. “She’s some sort of potioneer, apparently.”

“Potioneer?” Lily raises a brow. Witch Weekly doesn’t seem to be the type of magazine that discusses potioneers…

Mary nods. “Says here she apprenticed under Sacharissa Tugwood.”

Lily recognizes that name! “She’s the witch who invented beauty potions.”

The first-year potions textbook didn’t delve into beauty potions too deeply. Apparently, they were rather complex. But it did mention that their invention was relatively recent. Credited to one Sacharissa Tugwood. 

That was the first time it occurred to Lily that magic could be invented.

It makes sense, sort of. Muggle science is constantly inventing things. Scientists are always creating new ways to conduct the elements that have existed since forever. It makes sense that magic might be the same. 

The discovery came as a strange sort of comfort. Magic is still being invented. In the grand scheme of things, Lily might not know much less about magic than any of the students who’d grown up with it. She could even know more if she put in an effort.

“There’s an interview with her on page twelve,” Mary makes herself comfortable on Lily’s bed. “If you want to skip there?”

Lily shakes her head, crawling into bed so that she can read over Mary’s shoulder. “No, thank you. What else is there?”

Mary smiles again, and the girls begin flipping through the magazine.

This issue, apparently centered around beautification, is as fascinating as it is feminine.

The girls pore over pages of stylish pink robes and blushing witches and handsome wizards. They’re fluffy, certainly. But they’re also filled with information about a subsection of magic that Lily never might’ve noticed had she stuck to her textbook. 

Mary’s voice cuts through Lily’s epiphany. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

They’ve come to a pause on a photo of Amelie. She’s leaning over a cauldron and giving the camera a spectacular smile.

Amelie’s got creamy, blemish-free skin and long flaxen hair. Her figure is akin to Petunia’s. That is to say, she’s thin. Thin and willowy. Lily frowns. 

“Makes for a nice model.” She agrees.

“I’d quite like to be a model,” Mary says.

Lily lifts her eyes from the page to study Mary’s face. 

Mary Macdonald is quite pretty. There isn’t a single spot on her mocha skin. No smattering of freckles, no birthmarks, no bumps. Her eyes are big and dark. They make her look far younger than eleven, in Lily’s opinion. Her lips are full and pouty, and her teeth are all straight. Lily is terribly jealous of her straight teeth.

“You probably could,” Lily says, “when you’re older, of course.”

Mary smiles. “You think so?”

Lily nods and averts her gaze. She doesn’t want to look anymore. She’s starting to feel a bit flushed. 

“Thank you,” Mary says, then laughs. “I’d probably forget to move. All my photos would be static.”

Lily furrows her brow. “Static?”

“Muggle photos are static,” Mary says by way of explanation.

Lily knows muggle photos are static. Of course she knows muggle photos are static. She grew up a muggle. But why would Mary’s photos be static? Unless…

“You’re muggleborn?” She asks.

Mary hums. She nods without taking her eyes off the page. 

This. This is a huge deal. 

“I’m muggleborn!” Lily scrambles to her feet, the magazine entirely forgotten. 

Mary’s head snaps up. “You are?!”

Lily feels her cheeks go pink. 

She feels a bit dumb for just assuming that she was the only muggleborn in the dorm. But, truly, she never would have suspected Mary Macdonald hadn’t grown up around magic. Mary just seemed so utterly at ease here. She befriended older students, she asked questions Lily was too afraid to ask in class, she was clearly comfortable. 

Lily felt like a deer caught in headlights nearly every moment of every day. Was it foolish of her to assume all other muggleborns would be just as nervous?

“I never would have known.” Mary continues, abandoning the glossy pages of the magazine. 

“What?” Lily blinks dumbly.

“I never would have suspected. I mean.” Mary sits up on her knees in bed. “You’re brilliant in class! All the teachers compliment your work-”

“Not all the teachers,” Lily mumbles sheepishly. Her cheeks grow even warmer.

Mary plows right through her interruption. “I just assumed you’ve had loads of practice.” 

Lily’s cheeks grow hotter still. She laughs and covers her face with her hands. “Thank you? I suppose?” 

Mary laughs too. “You’re welcome.”

The silence that falls over the girls is far more companionable than before. 

“Quills are stupid, don’t you think?”

Lily’s entire being lights up. Understanding. Her cells sing. Finally, understanding.

“They’re completely primitive!”

Mary brightens just the same. “I keep smudging the ink all over my hands.” 

“Me too!” 

Lily Evans makes a mental note to alter the letter currently sitting on her bedside table. She has something new to tell Petunia about. Mary Macdonald.

+++

The Slytherin Common Room is cold. 

There’s an enchanted fire burning beneath an obsidian mantle. But it’s cold nevertheless. 

Cold and quiet. 

It isn’t always quiet. Sometimes people will sit in the carved chairs by the fireplace to revise. Sometimes the sixth-year boys will play chess. Sometimes the prefects hold meetings at the long banquet table, banishing the other Slytherins to their bedrooms. 

But tonight, as Severus Snape sits silhouetted by the jade flames, it is quiet.

And it is cold. 

His eyes glaze over as he scans his homework once more, absorbing absolutely nothing. Is it cold where Lily is? 

Is it cold in Gryffindor Tower? Or do they have a real fire to warm them? 

What about Ravenclaw? Or Hufflepuff? 

Do the other houses spend their nights shivering by candlelight, or is that an honor bestowed solely on the serpents? 

Everyone else has abandoned the Common Room by now. They’ve all made the wise decision to spend their Sunday night safely tucked away in their rooms, probably under thick blankets made of silk or alpaca or some other style of expensive cloth. 

Severus Snape has no such blanket. Neither with him in the Common Room nor packed away in some ornate trunk. 

He shakes his head clear and begins reviewing the paragraph again.

Just a bit longer, then he’ll head to bed.

His roommates are sure to be asleep by then. 

There are precisely four first-year Slytherin boys in total. Which leaves Severus with three roommates. 

Three roommates who have made it rather clear to him that they’d prefer to be living with Sirius Black. 

They haven’t been particularly cruel– not compared to the bullies back in Spinner’s End. But they’ve very efficiently iced Severus out. 

Bertram Aubrey, Edmund Avery, and Bruce Mulciber. 

Bertram Aubrey doesn’t seem the least bit interested in being friends with any of the boys. He spends practically no time in the bedroom. Instead, he favors the girls. Especially Loretta Fieldwake. She’s been babying the boy ever since his scrap with Potter. 

Bruce and Edmund, on the other hand, pay almost no mind to anyone other than themselves. 

They must know each other from childhood somehow. Somewhat like Severus and Lily.  

There’s no other explanation for their fast friendship. 

Any chance Severus might have had to befriend any of the boys was ruined by the incident in Flying Class.

His nose twinges at the memory. 

The scraping of stone against stone alerts him that the prefects have returned from patrols.

Is it really so late? Has he truly spent so long feeling sorry for himself and reviewing his History of Magic essay? 

Lucius Malfoy strides into the Common Room with Narcissa Black at his side. Neither pay any mind to Severus. There’s no way to be certain they’ve even seen him. 

“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss about this.” Lucius is frowning. He looks frustrated. 

Lucius Malfoy is a man made of marble. Each feature of his white face seems chiseled into hard, unforgiving stone. The wrinkles appearing at the corners of his mouth appear placed there by the thoughtful hand of an artist. Severus finds himself struck with envy at the sight. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Narcissa mutters, pulling away from her betrothed. 

Narcissa Black is almost spectral in the dark. She does not walk so much as she floats. She looks much like all the other Blacks do. High cheekbones, dark hair, slender aristocratic nose. Her relation to The Heir is evident at a mere glance. Good breeding is unmistakable. Severus hears his mother's voice ringing in his ears. Good blood will out. 

“What are you implying?” The frown on Malfoy's face deepens.

“Nothing.” Narcissa pales, going from ivory to sheer white. “I don’t mean to imply anything, Lucius. It’s just difficult to explain… he’s family.” 

They’re talking about Sirius. Severus furrows his brow. Sirius Black. The disgraced heir. The reason none of his roommates will cast him a second glance. 

“He’s a child, Narcissa.”

“As am I! As are you.”

“I am no child.” Lucius does not growl. Growl is too animalistic of a word for such an aristocratic man. But his features control ever so slightly with a clenched sort of anger. “It would do you well to remember that.”

Narcissa frowns. “I’m sorry.”

Lucius sighs and outstretches a hand. Narcissa takes it. 

“He’s simply throwing a tantrum, dearest. You did say he was prone to them.” 

Sirius Black does seem the sort that would throw tantrums. Severus thinks darkly. Spoiled. Entitled. Undeserving, clearly, considering where the sorting hat placed him.

He doesn't allow himself to think about the fact that Lily was placed there as well. 

“But Aunt Walburga is so cross with him,” Narcissa’s frown remains fixed stubbornly on her face, even as Lucius strokes her dark hair. “And he’s all alone. I just worry…”

“How can you be certain he hasn’t read it yet?” Lucius asks. “Perhaps his outburst was-”

“He hasn’t. He wouldn’t lie to Andy.”

Lucius pulls his hand away. Narcissa sighs.

“Don’t be like that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Malfoy doesn't even bother to lie believably.

“She’s my sister.” Narcissa beseeches. 

“She’s a disgrace-”

“I think I’ll be the one to decide who disgraces my family; thank you.” Narcissa attempts to interrupt, but Lucius only speaks over her.

“Running about flaunting her filth-”

“Lucius, that’s enough.” Narcissa's voice sounds pinched now; her eyes are overbright. It's clear to Severus that she's about to cry from all the way across the room. Surely, Lucius can see it as well. Nevertheless, he carries on. 

“Honestly, it’s no surprise the boy turned out like he did, considering he’s so close with her. Letting a blood traitor tutor the heir is just-”

“Stop it!” Her cry comes out sharp and staccato. She collects herself just as quickly as she fell apart. “Just stop it. I don’t know why I bothered telling you in the first place.” 

Lucius finally relents, but it’s too late. Narcissa thumbs away a tear. 

“Darling, I-”

“Goodnight, Lucius.” She’s turned on her heel and fled up the stairs before the pale-haired man can get another word in. 

The Common Room is quiet again. 

Lucius sighs heavily before falling into one of the carved chairs at the banquet table. 

He drags a slender hand across his face. His expression is utterly unreadable. Suddenly, he stills. 

“Are you going to sit there like a gargoyle, or are you going to scurry off to bed, boy?” 

Severus, suddenly reminded of his existence, feels his bone marrow freeze. He’s been caught. Lucius turns in his seat to give Severus a withering glare. 

“Well?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Severus stammers, collecting his parchment and quill. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just-”

“She’s being awfully unreasonable, isn’t she?” Lucius asks, gazing up the steps to the girls’ dormitories. 

Severus swallows dryly. He’s not sure what the best thing to say is. Is this some sort of test? What happens if he fails? 

Lucius fixes him with another look. Severus forces himself to speak. 

“Yes.” He croaks. “I think so.”

Lucius’ stony face cracks open into a chiseled smile. A knowing expression dances behind his eyes.

“Smart boy.” He nods. “Sit.”

Lucius gestures to the chair opposite himself at the banquet table. Severus scrambles to obey. Lucius speaks all the while. 

“Women get so sensitive around her age.” He rubs his brow. “Not that they aren’t always.”

Severus doesn’t have much experience with “women.” He’s got plenty of experience dealing with Lily. But Lily isn’t a woman. She’s just a girl. The only woman Severus has interacted with consistently thus far in life is his mother. And his mother is not exactly sensitive. But he gets the feeling he shouldn’t disagree with Lucius Malfoy. After all, being the son of Abraxas Malfoy comes with a good deal of prestige. So he nods. 

Lucius laughs. It’s a bitter sound. There’s no joy behind it whatsoever. 

“Go on. Ask. I can tell you want to.” 

Severus’ tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. Another test? An opportunity? It’s terribly difficult to discern the difference. 

“Ask, for Merlin’s sake. You’ll give yourself the shakes at this rate.” 

“What was she-” Severus starts.

“Her cousin.” Lucius does not let him finish his question. There is no need. “That family is far too close if you ask me. I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s a good thing, really, what happened to the boy, but she’s not having it.”

Severus leans in, attempting to drink the knowledge obfuscated in Lucius’ vague words. “Sirius? What happened to Sirius?”

“Obviously, the entire sorting fiasco.” Lucius waves a dismissive hand. “But apparently, the boy’s been a disappointment for years. I hear the lady of the house has had about enough of it. Narcissa’s sad… and when Narcissa’s sad, I’m meant to be sad. To be supportive and whatnot.” 

Severus truly does not care a lick about the relationship drama between Lucius and Narcissa. But he does care to have private information about The Heir. This is delicious. It’s useful, is what it is. Incredibly valuable. 

Severus Snape has learned, throughout his several years on Spinner’s End, that information is valuable. General information is good, yes. But it's private information– information people don’t want others knowing– that’s invaluable. His mother had been teaching him that his entire life. It’s a lesson he tried to share with Lily when he convinced her to look through Petunia’s things. It’s a lesson she wasn’t ready to learn just yet. 

Severus gets the feeling, though, that Lucius Malfoy already learned this lesson a long time ago. That’s rather plain to see. What Severus can’t quite parse out yet is just what exactly this strange sharing session is meant to be. 

“Why are you…” His voice dies in his throat shortly after he starts. Perhaps it isn't in his best interest to call the situation into question. It's too late, though. Lucius has already heard him.

“Why am I telling you this?” Lucius smiles wryly. 

Severus bobs his head. 

“I’m a prefect, Severus,” Lucius says. “I ought to be Head Boy.”

Theodore Tonks is Head Boy. Severus agrees that’s utter tosh.

“I know what goes on amongst my underlings.” Lucius continues, leaning toward Severus in a mirror of the younger boy's earlier actions. 

Severus frowns, antsy under the elder boy's close inspection. Severus is not made of marble. He is nothing but flesh. Imperfect flesh is better left unexamined. He's thankful only that he does not flush.

“You broke your nose trying to ride a broom, yes?” 

“Yes,” Severus admits. There's no use lying. Not to Lucius Malfoy, nor to anyone else, really. He's sure the entire house has heard about it at this point. 

“I’m sure that’s put you at a disadvantage. Socially speaking.”

This time, Severus does flush. Of course it has. He entered that class as a nobody and left it a laughingstock. 

“Consider the disadvantage neutralized.” Lucius flicks his wrist as if sending Severus' problem away the way one might dismiss a servant. 

“But why..."  Why help me? Severus wants to ask. Why deign to help me? The words do not come. It makes no difference. Lucius hears them all the same. 

“You’re a Prince, aren’t you?” The aristocratic boy poses, the barest hint of a smile playing on his thin lips. 

Severus swells. Yes. he thinks hungrily.  Yes. Severus is a Prince. He’s half Prince. He’s far more Prince than Snape. If he could abandon the latter, he would. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. He nods.

“There you have it,” Lucius says matter-of-factly. He leans back in his oversized chair. This conversation is over. 

“Thank you.” The words spill out of Severus without his approval. He manages to hold back any more. His heart hammers in his chest.

“Go to bed,” Lucius commands. 

Severus jumps to obey, quickly gathering his things and heading up the stairs. 

“And Severus?” Lucius calls. 

Severus turns back to the prefect, who taps a finger to his lips. “This conversation never happened.”

Severus nods.  Lucius waves him off again. 

Severus Snape falls asleep freezing, but he can’t bring himself to mind. 

+++

Remus Lupin will be little more than a shadow by sundown.

The muscles in his back are shrieking. His spine is painfully stiff, and his knees burn. It doesn’t make sense to him that bones can burn. But his do. His knees feel as though they’re being licked by flame. 

His plan– forged perhaps a bit too optimistically– had been to slip off to the library and get ahead on schoolwork, same as Saturday.

Professor McGonagall assured him his grades wouldn’t be docked, but he’d wanted to be absolutely certain. After all, Remus isn’t meant to be here in the first place. He knows better than to give any of the professors cause to boot him. 

But, when he arose on Sunday morning to a feeling like every muscle down his back was being stretched like saltwater taffy, it became clear he’d be doing no such thing. 

It isn’t always so terrible: the morning before a moon. Sometimes, his condition is kind to him, and he gets off with nothing more than some achy joints and a click in his jaw. Once, he’d even been able to help his mother weed the garden. Other times, he winds up the way he did today. Pained and feverish. Too weary to do much other than lay in bed and wait while the aches swell to an excruciating crescendo as the sun ambles across the sky. 

He hadn’t expected his absence at breakfast to be noticed. 

That, in hindsight, had been quite foolish of him. His roommates don’t tend to leave him alone for more than a few hours at a time. Bar Sirius Black, of course. That boy has stayed quite far from Remus since the train. Which suits Remus perfectly fine. He’s not here to make friends. And even if he were, he wouldn’t pick some broody posh prick to pal around with. 

If he were to have friends, Remus might want to be friends with someone like James. That boy is a firecracker personified. He’s bright, and loud, and chock full of the energy eleven-year-old boys are meant to be filled with. Remus envies that a bit. He wonders, maybe, if he hadn’t been bitten… well, there’s no point in dwelling on that.

The point is this: James Potter is the type of friend Remus would want if he wanted friends… which he does not. But James Potter very clearly does. So, it should come as no surprise to anyone that after James Potter returns from breakfast and catches wind of Remus’ fever, Remus’ Sunday is spent tucked into his crimson canopy bed with two eleven-year-old male nurses checking in on occasion.

The worst part is Remus feels too rotten to even put up a fight. He just slips in and out of fitful sleep, broiling beneath a mound of blankets.

At some point, James had placed a damp rag over his head, claiming his mother calls it a cure-all. 

Remus resolutely did not think of his mam. He did not think about her cool, bony hands caressing his face when he was sick. He did not think of the wet washcloth she’d drag across his scarred skin after Da had stitched him up. The cloth was ultimately useless, of course. But it was a comfort to them both.

He did not think of Hope Lupin when James Potter’s small hands draped that rag over his forehead. He did not. But it becomes impossible not to when, at noon, he stirs to the smell of cawl cennin.

Remus opens his dry, stinging eyes to the pale, pink face of one Peter Pettigrew. The boy is sitting at the edge of Remus’ bed. Outstretched in his pudgy hands is a steaming bowl of soup. 

“Here.” Peter offers softly. “You weren’t at breakfast. You should eat.”

Remus rubs at his red eyes, his tired, moon-addled mind moving too slowly to properly process his roommate’s words. 

“You said you’re Welsh, yeah?” Peter gently places the bowl in Remus’ lap. “I thought it might be easier for you to keep it down if it was something from home.”

Something in Remus’ chest stirs. He’s pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with the moon. 

“It is Welsh, right?” Peter suddenly sounds nervous. “The soup, I mean. Or are you not Welsh? I’m sorry. I just-” 

“No.” Remus croaks, lifting a shaky hand. “It’s Welsh. I’m Welsh. It’s perfect.”

Peter puffs up, grinning proudly. 

“Thank you,” Remus says. The thing in his chest grows and squirms. It feels something like gratitude. 

Cawl cennin. He misses his mam. 

“Eat.” Peter pats Remus’ shoulder and hops down from the bed. “You’ll feel better.” 

He does.

***

They insist on walking him to the nurse. Which Remus thinks is perfectly ridiculous. He’s tired and achy, not faint. But nurses Potter and Pettigrew won’t hear it. 

“Should we bring you a blanket?” Peter asks, wringing his hands.

“They’ll have plenty of blankets in the hospital wing, Pete.” James is walking a few steps ahead of the other boys, making faces at his reflection in the suits of armor. He turns around to answer his friend. “Besides, he’s got a fever. He shouldn’t be under any blankets in the first place. That’s what mummy says.”

“I know. But maybe just to hold?” Peter turns to Remus.

Remus shrugs, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He tastes copper. Banging. He’s getting an early start at tearing himself to shreds.

How should he answer Peter? This is why he didn’t want them to come along. This is why he hadn’t wanted to talk to them in the first place. He settles on silence. The shrug seems to suffice for Peter.

Remus considers himself lucky that it had been Peter to ask the question, not James. James is not the sort to be satisfied with silence. 

As the boys round the corner, Remus catches a glimpse of Madam Pomfrey at the entrance to the hospital wing. She’s waiting for him. 

Dread pools in his stomach. It suddenly all feels terribly real. For the first time since he’d been bitten, Remus is about to go through a transformation away from home. He shrivels. 

James, too, takes note of Madam Pomfrey. 

“Must be the nurse.” He points at her. Pointing is rude.  “Come on, then.” 

James bounds up to the doors and into her line of sight. 

“Good afternoon.” He says politely. The switch in his nature is so abrupt it nearly makes Remus dizzy. Maybe he is dizzy. He's suddenly nauseous with nerves. 

“That’s ‘good evening’ by now, I reckon.” Madam Pomfrey corrects. 

“Good evening, then.” James smiles. “You’re the nurse, I presume?”

Madam Pomfrey nods. “I am. Can I help you?”

“My friend is sick.” James points back in the direction of Remus and Peter. Remus is limping, doing his best to catch up to James and get the boy to leave, so Madam Pomfrey can do whatever she needs to do before sundown. Peter is walking beside him, tutting sympathetically each time he winces. It’s thoughtful, but it’s also incredibly unhelpful. 

When Pomfrey’s gaze meets Remus’, a look of understanding dawns upon her face. Pity, too.  Remus tries not to think about the pity. 

“I see.” She says, “Well, you did the right thing bringing him here, boys.”

Remus feels as though he can hear his joints creaking with every step he takes. Perhaps he can. The Wolf can hear things from miles off. 

“I’ll see what I can do for him.” Pomfrey continues. She places her hand on Remus’ shoulder. Her touch singes. “You boys run along. Dinner should start any minute.”

“Do you want anything from the great hall, Remus?” Peter asks. “Lamb?”

Remus’ stomach churns.

“I’ll fetch him supper myself, Mister…"

“Pettigrew,” James answers. “And Potter.”

“Right,” Pomfrey studies the two. “Potter and Pettigrew. I might have known.” 

Before Remus even has a chance to wonder what she means by that, he’s being ushered through the great double doors of the hospital wing, and his friends– roommates– are obscured from view. The doors shut with a clang. 

After a few moments, Madam Pomfrey enters again. She presses the back of her hand to Remus’ forehead. 

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

“I’m alright.” He lies. 

She frowns. “It hurts already?”

‘Hurts’ is quickly becoming an understatement. Remus says nothing. 

“You might have come in earlier.” She walks swiftly to a cabinet and begins rummaging. “I could have given you something for it.”

It wouldn’t have helped. Da’s tried it all. 

“I’m alright.” He repeats. His voice sounds hoarse and small. 

She continues her useless rummaging. Remus begins to itch. 

“Please.” He says a bit louder. She ceases her search. “Please. I just want to go.”

Pomfrey presses her mouth into a flat line. For a moment, it seems like she might deny him. But, finally, she nods once. “Very well.”

She closes the cabinet and walks briskly back to the double doors. “You can walk, yes?”

Remus nods. She hums. Remus deliberately chooses to interpret it as approval rather than disbelief. 

“Follow me.” She says and sets off. Remus limps after her.

Madam Pomfrey does not attempt to coddle him again. She walks deliberately, with a quick step crafted through years of responding to emergencies. Remus does his best to keep up. She doesn’t even look back until they’ve made it outside. He appreciates it. 

“It was kind of your friends to walk you down.” She says, smiling ever so slightly. Sadness swims in her gaze.

Remus shrugs, eyes cast downwards. “I suppose.”

“Is something bothering you, Mister Lupin?” She asks, then adds, “Apart from the obvious.”

Remus nearly laughs at that. He might have if he didn’t ache so terribly. 

“Is it that Potter boy? Is he giving you trouble?” Pomfrey halts to look at Remus straight on. 

Remus shakes his head. “No, ma’am.” 

Not the sort of trouble she means, anyway. 

“Then what is it?” She asks. Her face is hard and stern, but her voice belies a sort of sincerity her eyes do not. “Spit it out. Not much time to chat, you know.” 

“They’re just my roommates,” Remus says. “The boys who brought me.” 

She raises a brow. 

“I’m not,” Remus takes a deep breath. He flinches at the way it shudders. He feels pathetic. “I’m not interested in friends. I’m here to learn.”

Remus had hoped that if he said it out loud, then it would feel true. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel true, and it most certainly doesn’t sound true if the pity that washes over Pomfrey’s face is any indication. Remus doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want anything. He just wants to get through this year. Is that really so much to ask?

As the itch in his skin grows more insistent, he thinks maybe it is too much to ask. He thinks he might settle for making it through the night. 

To his surprise, Madam Pomfrey chuckles as she begins walking again. 

“I don’t know that it matters whether or not you’re interested in friends, Mister Lupin.” She casts him one final sidelong glance. “You’ve got two.” 

Remus feels warm. Whether it is simply the fever rising or a creeping blush is unclear. 

Soon, The Whomping Willow looms over the pair like some sort of awkward, gangly teenager. It moves ever so slightly, even in the dead air. Like it’s breathing. Madam Pomfrey extends her arm to keep Remus from walking too close. He frowns. It’s becoming difficult to stand still. The itch has become so intense that it almost burns. 

Pomfrey bends down and picks up a smooth, flat stone. “Do you see that knot?” She asks, pointing to the trunk of the gnarled tree. 

Remus nods, not trusting his voice. He wants to scratch his skin off.

Pomfrey chucks the stone at the tree. It bounces off the knot, and the tree suddenly stops breathing. It becomes perfectly still. Petrified. Stripped of its defenses, the tree looks ugly and pathetic. Remus averts his eyes. 

Pomfrey hikes up her robes and crouches down into a hollow at the very base of the tree, obscured by the hulking thing’s warped roots. 

“Quickly, please.” She calls back to him. “Not quite sure how long it stays stunned.” 

Remus, not exactly fond of the idea of being beaten to death by an angry tree, scrambles into the hollow after her. He finds himself in a long dirt and stone corridor. It’s terribly dark. The only light in the entire passageway comes from Madam Pomfrey’s lit wand.

“Stay close,” she instructs. “And watch your step.”

Remus feels every bit the child he is as he grips tightly onto the fabric of the healer's robes, trying desperately not to stumble in the dark. 

At the very end of the passageway stands a single wooden door. At a flick of Pomfrey’s wand, the door creaks noisily open into a basement of some sort.

This, at least, is familiar. Transforming in a pitch-black basement. Nothing Remus hasn’t done a million times before.

Not without mam.

He bites down harshly on his tongue as if to chase away the thought. 

“Here we are.” Pomfrey stands up to full height and dusts off her robes. She inspects the surroundings and frowns. “A bit bare, but it should do for tonight. Don’t you think?”

Remus wishes he’d taken up Peter’s offer to bring his blanket. He nods. 

“There’s a cot up the ladder.” The nurse informs him. “A few other rooms, too. The whole place is warded and locked up nice and tight. You’ll be safe here.”

That word. Safe. It burns him. 

No. He wouldn’t be safe. 

But everyone else will be, and that’s what matters, really. 

“I hope you’ll grow to feel…” She pauses, clearly searching for the correct word. Remus bristles. “Comfortable here, Mister Lupin. As much as possible, at least.”

He doesn't respond. What would he even say? 

“That’s all,” Madam Pomfrey says. She hikes up her robes again and turns towards the exit.

Panic flares bright and painful in Remus' chest. He grabs her wrist. “Wait!” 

He doesn’t know why it stings so severely when she jumps. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t appreciate the mournful lilt he's picked up in her voice several times tonight. Yet the flash of fear he just caught on her face makes him want to scream. He’s being impossible. That’s what Da would say. He can practically hear Lyall’s voice say it. 

He blinks up at the healer, watching as her face settles back into an unreadable mask. What does she see when she looks at him? Does she see the monster he will become in a few minutes? 

“Mister Lupin?” Pomfrey prompts.

Remus trembles.

“Could you stay?” The voice that leaves his mouth is not the voice of a monster. It is the voice of a terrified child. “Just… just on the other side of the door? Just until I’ve…” 

Hope always stayed. Always. She sang lullabies for her son until the screaming stopped.

Madam Pomfrey’s stony face melts a little. She nods wordlessly. Remus releases her.

Once the room has been sealed properly, Remus removes the clothing he doesn’t wish to rip. He does his best to fold them neatly, but it's difficult when his hands are shaking so violently. 

With that final task complete, he takes a deep, shuddering breath and curls up on the floor. The wooden door feels cold and almost damp against his flushed back. 

It’s all coming to a crescendo now. The itch. The burn. The ache. The ringing in his ears. The rattle in his lungs. He tastes copper. He’s not sure if it’s real. 

It’s coming. 

“Madam?” He calls. His voice quivers. Something inside of him tells him she's left. He wouldn't blame her if she had... he'd seen the fear on her face. In truth, Remus thinks he'd be scared of himself too.

“Right here.” Her voice replies from the other side of the door. She doesn't bother to mask its somber tone. Remus doesn't mind. 

He cherishes the sweet semi-second of comfort her reply gives him. Then it starts. 

It's always a toss-up as to which bone will be the first to cave in under the weight of The Wolf. On good nights, it might start with his hands or his legs. Tonight is not a good night. Tonight, his skull is the first thing to split. Unbearable pressure, piercing pain, momentary blindness. His whole world is a sickening array of white-hot pain and terrible noises. A symphony of grotesque grinding sounds. The cracking of his spine is drowned out by his hammering heart and his anguished cries.

There is one blessing, however small it may be; it passes pretty quickly tonight. There are only about fifty seconds between when the screaming starts and when the howling begins. 

+++

MONDAY. SEPTEMBER 6, 1971. 

Peter is pants at magic. 

It’s not exactly a secret. Feathers weigh tons when on the other end of his wand. Matchsticks are only matchsticks, never needles. And don’t even get him started on potions.

He’s pants at most of it, and the professors have all taken notice. Which is just awful, honestly. He’s been at Hogwarts for less than a week, and he can already tell he’s on some sort of list. That’s quite alright, Mister Pettigrew. Flitwick’s voice said lesson after lesson. Quite alright.

Flitwick couldn’t be more wrong. It was as far away from alright as it could possibly get. See, things wouldn’t be so awful if Peter’s peers had the decency to at least pretend to be struggling. But they don’t. Not the ones that matter, at least. 

Trevor Gillybum struggles in Potions, sure. And Devyn Fisher had somehow caused a small fire in his attempts to transfigure his matchstick. Objectively, Peter is probably doing better than them. But they’re not important. Peter’s roommates are important. And Peter’s roommates already seem bloody brilliant. 

Remus had some trouble with his broom on Friday, but that was easily the worst of it. It’s easy to see why, too. That boy is always reading. He’s very responsible. Very good at saying ‘no’ when James wants to go explore this place or that. Peter is not so strong. 

Despite his fair performance, The Heir genuinely looks bored in every class. He’d been the only person who managed to see any progress during Transfiguration, and he hadn’t even smiled about it! It’s infuriating. Peter would never say so, of course. Sirius is far too snarly and snappish for Peter to even consider it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t think it. The best thing Peter can say about The Heir is he’s at least kept his distance since Thursday morning. 

Then there’s James. James has always been brilliant– even in homeschooling. So, Peter’s not surprised that classes here seem to come easy for him too. Of course they do. He’s James Fleamont Potter. 

Peter only wishes some of that ease would rub off on him. Given what he puts up with for James’ amusement, he feels he’s probably owed some of it. Sunrise is simply too early to search for boathouses, belltowers, or whatever else the older boy dreams up. 

Clearly, his wish has gone ungranted, seeing as he’s currently the only boy scrubbing Devil’s Snare slime off his jumper in the bathroom. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” James repeats. “Honest!” 

Peter frowns, but he can’t force himself to respond. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. It always does when he’s embarrassed. He feels small and twitchy. He feels like he’s shrinking.

“It was sort of funny, really.” James tries again.

The dark stain on Peter’s sleeve isn’t going anywhere. He’s tempted to give up. 

“D’you want help?”

Peter shuts off the faucet and prays his face isn’t as red as it feels. He shakes his head. “Can we just go?”

James pushes away from the stall he’d been leaning on and throws an arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Peter is glad to be heading to Defense Against the Dark Arts, at the very least.

For obvious reasons, Defense is the class Peter had been most nervous for. But, in a fortunate turn of events, the intended professor had received a better offer to teach at Durmstrang, leaving the post empty mere days before the start of term. Professor Binns is filling in for the time being, meaning the class is a total joke! It’s practically a free period. Peter could use a free period right about now. The monotone droll of Binn’s voice might be a welcome sedative.

But Binns never comes. 

Instead, a man ambles in a good twelve minutes after class was meant to start. The first thing Peter notices about the man is his height. He’s not inhumanly tall– not like the groundskeeper– but he’s tall enough that his hat brushes the doorframe when he enters the classroom. 

That’s the second thing Peter notices about him: his clothes. He’s not dressed in the typical robes of a professor. Truthfully, his clothes are more akin to muggle clothes than anything one might see Slughorn in. A round cap sits on his head, and he’s sporting what appears to be a brown leather coat. 

The third thing Peter notes is that the coat is on inside out. 

“Sorry I’m late,” The man says, “this place is a maze.” 

He takes off his cap and places it on the desk. The Gryffindors buzz confoundedly in their seats. A curly-haired girl raises her hand; she’s met with an amused look.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Professor Binns?” She asks. She looks around, squinting as though the ghost might be in the room– simply more translucent than usual. 

“Not a clue,” the man says, taking a seat behind the Professor’s desk. “If I had to wager a guess, though, I’d say it’s likely he’s in his own classroom.” 

His own classroom. Peter’s stomach sinks slowly. There goes free period. 

“Where are my manners?” The presumed professor peels off his coat. “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Professor Alderton.”

As he speaks, the words scrawl themselves out on the blackboard behind him. He never even touched his wand. Something inside Peter sours a bit. This man does wandless magic without even looking, and Peter can’t consistently lift a bloody feather. It’s not exactly a wonderful feeling. 

Next to Peter, James lets out a little excited breath. His hand shoots into the air. Professor Alderton points at him. 

“Are you an Auror?” James is leaning forward in his seat, eyes all aglow.

Alderton laughs. “Not at the moment. At the moment, I’m a professor. Don’t I look the part?”

He does not, but Peter would never say so. That would be rude. Bernadette always warned against that. 

James would. He does so by laughing. Alderton doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’ll find I’m horribly underqualified, I think.” He says. “Now, I assume you’ve got textbooks?” 

***

Professor Alderton doesn’t seem underqualified at all. A bit unorganized, perhaps. But not underqualified. 

The textbooks were quickly discarded upon his declaration that the first chapter was ‘rubbish.’ The book had been expounding on the philosophy involved in the decision to attack or defend. Useful, Alderton claimed, But not to children. Not in this day in age. 

Instead, he insisted the first spell they ought to learn was the wand lighting charm. 

Peter was thankful that the professor had scattered the students about the overly large classroom after his brief lecture and demonstration. It meant Peter couldn’t see his friend’s progress. 

He couldn’t see their successes, and nobody could see his failures. And failures is the proper word. He hasn’t managed to summon even a flicker of light.   He feels impossibly small. Peter might not be pants at magic. He might not even be shite. He might just be a squib. That’s probably what it is. His father’s wand feels heavy in his hand.

“How is it going over here?” The Professor’s voice pulls Peter from his spiraling thoughts. He’s not sure what he’s meant to say. 

He sort of wants to lie. He wants to say that everything is just swell. But he doesn’t. He just blinks up at the broad-shouldered man. 

Alderton smiles kindly at him. “That bad?” 

Peter sniffs, shuffling uncomfortably in place. He nods. He can feel his face flushing. It feels like dozens of ants are crawling around on his face. 

“Let’s see it then, shall we? I’ll try to help.” Professor Alderton steps back. It’s not as though the spell requires much space, but perhaps it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

Peter grips his wand firmly. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and hopes.

 “Lumos.”

He hears no reaction. 

Peter peels his eyes open and finds the end of his wand still dark. He wants to cry. He wants to cry, and he hates himself for it just a bit. 

Professor Alderton’s eyes have gone all wide. He reaches out a hand towards Peter, then retracts it quickly as if he might get burned. 

“May I?” He asks tentatively. 

Peter hasn’t got a clue what the man is referring to. He nods anyway. 

Alderton gingerly plucks Peter’s wand from his hand. He holds it so tenderly. He holds it like it’s something precious. 

He holds the beechwood nightmare like it’s made of glass. 

“I know this wand.” He says. 

Peter knows it too. Thirteen inches, far too big for his small hands. Mummy said he’d grow into it.  Beechwood. Incredibly beautiful. Rigid. Unbending. Phoenix core.  Phoenix core.  It ought to be incredibly powerful. It was incredibly powerful in the hands of its previous owner if the snippets of Monty’s stories he managed to hear before Bernadette cut the man off were any indication.  But in Peter’s hand, it’s practically just a stick. 

“This is…” Alderton suddenly looks all misty. “You’re Paul’s boy?”

Peter has never been referred to as Paul’s boy. But he is. So he nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“I knew your father.” The Professor’s light attitude has dissipated like a vapor in the wind. His smile is mournful now. His eyes shimmering with remembrance. “He was a good man.”

His father was a great man. He’s heard that all his life. He knows. He knows he should be happy to have his father’s wand. It’s like an heirloom. He suddenly feels guilty for calling it a nightmare in his head. 

“You didn’t get your own wand?” Alderton asks, straightening up and handing the wand back over. Clearly, whatever fog had consumed his thoughts has rolled on. 

Peter shakes his head. “Mum said I ought to give Dad’s wand a go.” 

Alderton purses his lips. His brows furrow. Peter’s heart quickens in his chest. They stay like that for a long while, Peter fretting and Alderton considering, before Alderton suddenly steps back again. 

“Try it again,” He says. 

Peter does not want to. 

“Try it again, but this time, don’t think so hard about the spell.”

That seems counterproductive. 

“Your father didn’t tend to think too hard, you see.” The professor chuckles fondly. Peter shrinks ever smaller. “Just try it. Don’t think about the spell. Just imagine you need the light.” 

Imagine you need the light.

Peter does. He imagines that he’s deep in the castle dungeons. He imagines James is there. They’ve found a secret passageway, but it’s pitch black inside. James insisted they go in regardless. Peter followed. And now, he imagines, they don’t know which way is up. He imagines. He breathes. 

“Lumos.”

His father’s wand hums to life. It glows. Sporadic but bright. It shines a pale green like some magnificent glowworm. 

Professor Alderton is smiling. His eyes are nearly as bright as the light from the spell. “Well done, my boy! Well done.”

Peter finally stops shrinking.

+++

TUESDAY. SEPTEMBER 7, 1971.

The Gryffindor common room is packed full well before breakfast. James hasn’t seen it this busy since the first-years had finished picking rooms. Even then, it hadn’t felt quite so crowded. After all, first-years are teeny. 

James uses this fact to his advantage as he squeezes between the clusters of older students. The air is thick with nervous energy. It looks like a couple third-year boys are crying. What they could possibly be crying about so early in the day, James has no idea. 

It’s quite nice outside today. A bit chilly, but nothing terrible. Breakfast is sure to be good. Most professors haven’t started assigning too much work yet. Things are good, honestly. So what’s all this fuss about? 

“James!” 

Marlene, the girl from flying class and quidditch tryouts, is seated on the sofa near the fireplace. She waves James over. 

“Oi oi,” James grins as he complies, flopping down into the seat beside her. She returns his smile. “What’s all this then?”

The majority of the commotion appears to be centralized near the bulletin board. It’s functioning as a hub. When someone enters the common room, they make a beeline straight for it, then fight their way through the crowd to get a glimpse of whatever it is they’re all staring at. 

“Stephen’s posted the list for the second round of tryouts.” Marlene’s sat on her knees, facing the back of the sofa to watch the crowd. 

“Brilliant!” James immediately whirls around to mirror her. It’s useless, of course. The crowd is much too dense for him to see anything of value. “Did you get a look? Was I right about Lee?”

“No,” Marlene shakes her head. Her golden plaits whip around her face. “Not a good one, at least. Pretty sure Lee got cut, though.” 

That’s too bad. Lee was decent at tryouts. James thought he might make for a good Keeper with a little more work. 

A lanky boy escapes from the fold, looking dizzy. He stumbles over to the sofa and grabs at the back to steady himself. Clearly, he’s seen the list.  Perfect!

“Hey! You!” James calls out, pointing at the second year. “Did Cecil Lee get cut?” 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” The boy croaks. Honestly, James believes him. He looks rather green at the gills. Cecil Lee is quickly forgotten. 

“You ought to sit down,” James stands up, offering the older boy his spot on the sofa. 

The boy collapses into the chair and buries his face in his hands. James and Marlene share a look. She’s pressing her lips together firmly, trying not to snicker, but her eyes give away her bemusement. 

“Got cut?” She asks, patting his knee. She manages to sound sympathetic despite the mirth rippling across her features. 

The boy shakes his head. “Worse!”

“Worse than getting cut?” James feels himself pull a face. If you ask James, there’s no such thing. He’d just absolutely die if he didn’t even make it to the second round next year. 

Not that that would ever happen. Obviously. James fully expects he’ll be a chaser next year. Honestly, he ought to be a chaser this year, but first-years aren’t allowed to try out. It’s a stupid rule. 

“I knew I should have just tried out for Chaser.” The boy groans. 

James does his best to quickly flick through tryouts in his mind. This boy was there, which means James has seen him before. But placing his face to a name on the roster is difficult. After all, it’s not like James would have gotten a good view of the guy’s face.  Not if he was any good, at least.  James has to imagine anyone who was flying slowly enough to have their face memorized would have gotten the boot. 

Marlene beats him to it. 

“Oh!” She snaps excitedly. “You’re Longbottom! Beater, right?” 

Of course! Frank Longbottom. Second-year. Used a Nimbus at tryouts. Now that James has pinpointed Longbottom’s identity, the reason for the other boy’s squeamish appearance is pretty evident. 

Longbottom had stuck around for the Beater portion of tryouts. Everybody knows Stephen Gould, captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team, plays Beater. Longbottom must still be vying for the second spot. 

“I’m an idiot!” Longbottom drags his hands through his shaggy hair. “Why did I listen to my mum?” 

Finally, Marlene can’t keep herself from giggling any longer. Longbottom shoots her a withering look. She covers her mouth. 

“I remember you!” James exclaims, trying to recall the exact number of bludgers the older boy had managed to hit. “You were pretty good!” 

It’s not a lie. Longbottom had been pretty good. A little unsure of himself, perhaps. Which, of course, is not a quality one wants in a beater. But he was fast and pretty strong! Plus, Gould must think he’s got potential if he wants to see him again. Really, James thinks, he doesn’t have any reason to be getting so spun out. 

“Don’t worry so much.” 

“He should worry.” A girl’s voice floats over from the crowd near the bulletin board. 

“Piss off, Alice.” Longbottom groans, sounding absolutely miserable. 

Alice Fortescue, a second-year girl with short brown hair, laughs and perches herself on the back of the sofa. Her James remembers right away. She’s rather petite, maybe only a bit taller than Remus. When James saw her at beater tryouts, he’d nearly laughed. But she was good. What she lacked in wingspan, she made up for in enthusiasm. And she certainly didn’t seem to have Longbottom’s confidence problem. 

“Feel like forfeiting?” She asks, “Would save us some time.” 

“I don’t forfeit,” Longbottom says, jutting his chin out at her. 

“Just checking.” Alice’s voice is all singsongy. This entire interaction is a game for her. “I’ll see you on the pitch.”

“Not if I see you first!” Longbottom snaps. 

Alice laughs, and he quickly turns as red as his tie. 

“I guess it’s a race then,” She winks. 

Longbottom turns even redder as Alice hops off the couch and walks off. James had previously been unaware people could blush that particular shade. 

“Excuse me,” Longbottom says, quickly pushing himself to his feet and scrambling after her. 

As soon as he’s out of sight, Marlene starts laughing again. James reclaims his seat next to her. “That was weird.” He says. 

Marlene wipes her eyes. “A bit, yeah.” 

James stares after the second-years; he can practically feel the gears in his head turning. They’re moving much too slowly for his liking. “Why’d he get all red?”

Marlene’s laughter stops momentarily. She blinks at James. “Are you serious?” 

James shrugs. The conversation had been going perfectly well, then Longbottom got all flustered. He practically handed her the win. 

“Are you daft?” She rolls her eyes. “He obviously fancies her.” 

It’s like a veil has been lifted from his eyes. The previous interaction becomes much clearer. Longbottom hadn’t been nervous about Gould. He’d been nervous about Alice … Well, that’s much less fun.   James frowns. He sort of wants the veil back. “Ew.”

“Ew?” 

“Bit gross, isn’t it?” James scratches the back of his neck. He suddenly feels put on the spot in a way he’s not quite accustomed to. “Girls are gross.”

Marlene punches him. Pain shoots up his shoulder.

“What was that for?!” He yelps as he grabs his assaulted shoulder. Marlene’s hands may be small, but she’s awfully strong. 

“I’m a girl!” She growls.

“Well yeah. ‘Course.” Duh.  James knows Marlene is a girl. He has eyes, thank you very much. “But you’re not a girl girl or anything.”

“Of course I’m a girl girl!” She insists, looking affronted. “I’m a girl!” 

“Right. Fine.” James surrenders, still not completely understanding her sudden rage. “But you’re not gross.” He explains. 

‘You’re cool.’ Is all he means. It’s all he meant in the first place!

His forfeit seems to have placated Marlene. She nods once triumphantly as if to say, ‘Glad that’s settled.’ 

James lets her have the victory. He hadn’t meant anything offensive anyway. Not even when he called girls gross. It’s not that bad! It’s just sort of… true most of the time. They tend to like weird things and speak in code. 

Not all girls! Just girl girls. But it’s difficult to tell which girls are girl girls before you speak to them. Alice didn’t seem like she’d be a girl girl, so maybe it’s not too gross for Frank to fancy her. 

Still, James can’t imagine himself ever trailing around after a girl like Longbottom just now. Especially not one who was his competition in quidditch! That has to be some type of treason. 

“I’m going down for breakfast,” Marlene announces, standing up and brushing herself off. 

“I’ll come too,” James says, springing up as well. “Let me just go wake Peter.” 

+++

WEDNESDAY. SEPTEMBER 8, 1971.

Sirius is not particularly fond of any of the members of his Potions group. 

Juliette Wilkes is fine. She’s cloying and clingy and utterly uninteresting. But she’s fine. She’s the easiest person for Sirius to stomach, which he supposes is good, considering he’ll be stuck with her for the longest. 

Lily Evans is grating and overeager. If Sirius had any say in it, there would be a limit on how many questions she was permitted to answer per class. Her responses consisted of terribly long passages from the text spouted off the top of her head. Verbatim. 

But as much as the girls may irritate him, Sirius doesn’t truly dislike them. Not the way he dislikes his roommates, or Lucius, or his third Potions partner. Severus Snape.  

Snape, the oily boy Sirius briefly met on the boat, is insufferable. Especially in Potions. 

For one thing, he smells funny. 

Sure, it’s technically a minor issue, but it gets on Sirius’ nerves, nevertheless. His hair is atrocious, and he always smells a bit of Punguous Onions, and he represents Slytherin terribly. That’s the real issue, isn’t it? Severus Snape simply doesn’t belong in Slytherin. Put him in a lineup with the rest of the House, and that becomes incredibly clear. Which makes it all the more infuriating that the boy appointed himself leader of Sirius’ Potions group and has a tendency to make snide, snappish corrections to his peers– even those at other workstations. 

“A sprinkle of ginger, Gillybum.” He sneers, leaning towards the table to their right. “Not a fistful. You’ll wind up with a rash.”

Juliette scoffs and rolls her eyes as she drops the Shrake spines into the cauldron. She hands Sirius the wooden spoon, and he begins to stir.

“Sev,” Lily scolds. 

Severus turns his attention back to his own group. “I’m only trying to help.” He insists. 

His beady eyes fall on Sirius’ hands as they stir the brew. 

“What on earth are you doing?” He frowns.

Sirius feels his own eyes narrow. “Stirring.” Obviously.  

“Slow down,” Severus hisses. “You’ll overexcite the Shrake spines.”

Sure enough, Sirius’ brisk pace had caused the brew to begin bubbling far faster than desired. He slows his hands.

“Honestly,” Severus tuts, scribbling a note down in his Potions textbook. “You’d think a noble might have a more gentle hand.” 

Sirius’ skin prickles. The familiar buzz of irritation deepens rapidly into sharp, stinging anger. 

“He’s not nobility.” Juliette wrinkles her nose. “He’s The Heir of a Noble and Most Ancient House. There’s a difference.”

The fact that Severus Snape appears unaware of the difference is proof enough that he does not belong in Slytherin. He does not belong in the House that hundreds of Blacks had called home. He doesn’t deserve to sport the same crest as them, and he certainly doesn’t deserve to speak about them. 

Severus scoffs, and his lips twitch into a smirk. “Give me the spoon, Black. I’ll do it myself.”

Sirius’ grip tightens. 

“Is something funny?” The words come out as a growl. Mother would be disappointed. But they’re not a bark, and that’s a start. 

“It’s nothing,” Severus says, lips still curling. His black eyes glimmer with a nasty sort of amusement. “The spoon, please.”

“Sev, it’s fine.” Lily glances nervously at her partners. “He slowed down. Let’s just-”

“What’s so funny?” Sirius slams the spoon down on the table. The sound makes Evans jump. 

Severus’ smirk oozes into a smug grin. 

“Nothing, really.” He insists, plucking the utensil from its resting place. “I suppose I just forgot.”

Juliette’s petite hand squeezes Sirius’ arm. He wishes she wouldn’t touch him. He’s not sure how to ask her to let go. He smoulders, unable to break Severus’ gaze. 

“Forgot?” Juliette takes the bait. 

“Forgot he’s technically still The Heir.” Severus returns his attention to their cauldron, tipping slugs into the brew. “You do look more like The Spare, after all.”

His eyes flick down to the crimson tie around Sirius’ neck. Juliette releases his arm. The necktie suddenly feels tight enough to strangle. 

“But I’m sure you’ve already heard the spiel from your parents,” Severus says nonchalantly as he continues brewing. He pays no mind to Sirius’ glare or Juliette’s gasp or Lily’s uneasy admonishments. “I won’t make you relive that conversation.” 

Sirius stands so abruptly that his stool clatters to the floor. He makes to knock over their cauldron, but Juliette stops him. She grasps his wrists tight enough to bruise and stares at him with wide, beseeching eyes. 

She’s begging him not to embarrass her. 

Most heads in the classroom have turned to watch the scene by now. Mulciber is snickering. Fieldwake whispers something to Aubrey. Sirius’ heart hammers ever louder in his chest. He wrenches his arm from Juliette’s grasp.

“Problem, Mister Black?” Slughorn asks. He’s still half bent over the cauldron that holds James Potter’s Cure for Boils. Sirius’ vision swims. His eyes sting. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “May I be excused?”

Slughorn blinks, furrows his brow, then frowns. After a moment, he nods. It’s all Sirius can do not to trip over his own legs as he races back to Gryffindor Tower. 

***

Sirius Orion Black, 

I hope you are quite pleased with the little stunt you’ve pulled. Honestly, Sirius, are you trying to kill your father? I simply do not understand where we went wrong with you. Did I not feed you? Did I not clothe you? Did I not teach you to the best of my abilities? 

Why, then, have you continuously shown me nothing but disrespect? I have asked for nothing other than your love. Which, as your mother, I ought to be entitled to. Instead, you display your contempt brazenly enough to embarrass us both. 

You've disappointed us, Sirius. I wish I was more surprised.

Walburga Irma Black 

***

“Black,” James Potter’s singsong carries up the stairs. Sirius wipes hastily at his eyes as the door bursts open. “Dinner’s nearly over; you should probably-” 

James freezes in the doorway; his voice halts just as abruptly. Sirius feels like he’s been caught in the act— caught doing something dirty. He can hear Mother’s cold voice in his head. Crying is unbecoming.  

“Are you crying?” James asks. Sirius can’t stand James Potter. Obviously, Sirius is crying. What a ridiculous question. 

He wants to say so. He wants to call James stupid for even asking, but he finds it’s impossible to speak around the lump in his throat. Sirius releases a shuddering breath, and the tears begin to spill again. 

James shuts the door behind himself and hurries forward. “What’s wrong?” He asks, eyes horribly round with concern. They flit about Sirius’ face before falling to the tear-stained letter lying on the bed, then they shoot back up to Sirius. 

Sirius’ heart leaps to his throat. He lunges for the letter, but James is too fast. He snatches the letter away before Sirius can reach it. 

James Potter’s eyes flick back and forth across the page with surprising speed. His brows knit together, the crease between them growing deeper the longer he reads. 

Sirius wipes uselessly at his tears. 

After a long silence, James folds the letter and places it gingerly on Sirius’ bedside table. 

“I’m sorry your mum’s so awful.” He says. James Potter’s lips are curled into a small, sympathetic frown. This is the softest Sirius has ever heard the other boy speak. 

Sirius holds tight to the flare of anger Potter’s words beget. Anger feels so much easier than sadness. It’s much more familiar. 

“Don’t talk about my mother!” He snaps, grabbing the letter and stuffing it beneath his pillow again. “My mother is not awful.”

She isn’t, really. Walburga is many things. She’s demanding. She’s cold. She’s exacting. But she’s not awful. She only wants what’s best for him– for the entire family. She’s strict because he’s sharp. Clearly, she’d been right about him.

James stares at Sirius incredulously. “But I thought-”

“I’m not crying because of my mother!” Sirius exclaims.  

He’s not. 

The letter had been terrible to read, of course– every bit as terrible as Sirius had been expecting. But he’d been preparing for that moment for the better part of a week. He’d talked to Andy. She’d reassured him time and time again. Andy wouldn’t lie. Things would be fine. Mother would come around. Sirius hadn’t lived eleven years at Grimmauld Place to cry over a simple lashing. 

James scratches at the back of his neck. “Then why are you crying?”  

Potter looks like a poor, confused doe. Sirius’ anger slips away from him. He grasps at it with slippery fingers, but it’s no use. His lip trembles.

“Snape knows .” Sirius buries his face in his hands. “I’m not sure how he knows, but he does.”

Severus Snape, the greasy, smelly little nobody, had somehow been aware of the contents of the letter beneath Sirius’ pillow. And that is something worth crying over. 

Everybody important is in Slytherin. The Averys and the Carrows. The Rosiers and the Notts. The children Sirius was meant to befriend, to impress, to align himself with for the sake of his family are all in Slytherin, with Severus bloody Snape.

Severus Snape, who somehow knows precisely how disappointed Walburga is. Severus Snape, who’d flaunted his knowledge in front of a Wilkes. 

He’d baited Sirius, and Sirius had been brash enough to fall for it. He’d incited a scene in front of all the first-year Slytherins. Who’s to say Snape isn’t out there in the Great Hall telling them all whatever he knows right now? 

“Severus?”

“Yes, Potter.” Sirius snarls. “Keep up.” 

James laughs.

“Is that it?” He asks. “Who gives a toss what Severus thinks?” 

James doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? The Potters turned away from purity politics ages ago. James has no reason to know anything about the way the sacred twenty-eight function.

“It’s not about what Severus thinks!” Sirius says, “He embarrassed me!”

This, James seems to understand. His eyes brighten instantly, and he throws himself onto Sirius’ bed. Sirius rolls out of the way as an incredulous sound escapes his throat. “You should get him back.” 

“What?” Sirius sits back up.

“He embarrassed you, yeah? Just embarrass him back. Then you’ll be even.” 

“How am I supposed to do that?” Sirius twists his ring. “I know nothing about him.” 

“Can’t be that hard.” James waves a dismissive hand. “He does half the work for us. The bloke broke his nose trying to pick up a broom.” 

James is grinning wildly. Sirius feels his own mouth twitch in response, then he scowls at his own traitorous face. James Potter is easy to get wrapped up in. Sirius thought he’d learned he ought to keep his distance… and yet-

“Us?”

“I’m helping, of course,” James says. “We’ll figure something out.”

Sirius inhales sharply and opens his mouth to respond– whether to accept the help or tell James to piss off, he hasn’t quite decided yet– when the bedroom door opens again. 

James springs off the bed and rushes to the door. “Pete! Remus!”

The two boys barely seem surprised by Potter’s burst of energy. Pettigrew lights up almost instantly at the excitement. Lupin just looks tired. 

“We’ve got a mission.” James firmly shuts the door to the bedroom once more.

“A mission?” Peter parrots. 

“No,” Remus says simply, sliding by the other boys and heading straight for his bed. 

“You’re no fun, Lupin.” James pouts.

“We’ve got transfiguration second thing tomorrow, and I haven’t finished my essay. Whatever this is, I’m not interested.” Remus sits cross-legged on his bed and pulls out some parchment. James blows a raspberry. 

“What mission?” Peter asks, eyebrows all scrunched together. 

“Remember old Snivellus from the train?” James asks, tossing an arm around Peter and guiding the shorter boy towards Sirius’ bed. 

Snivellus? Sirius nearly snickers. Terrible nickname… suits him, though. 

Peter nods, so James continues. “Sirius and I think someone ought to give him a taste of his own medicine.” 

Peter still looks confused, but he doesn’t voice it. 

James turns back to Sirius. “Pete’ll help, too!” 

Sirius gets the feeling that Pettigrew knows loads about getting embarrassed. Being the one doing the embarrassing? Probably not so much. Regardless, Sirius’ eyes have finally dried, and the cloud of irritation that has followed him for a week feels as though it’s finally being blown away by the strong wind of James Potter’s enthusiasm. 

Some stubborn part of him wants to hold onto it. But there’s no point, really. James is right… partially, at least. Severus had slighted the Blacks. Slighted Sirius personally. He ought to pay for it. And who is Sirius to turn down assistance? 

“It’s got to be good,” Sirius speaks up for the first time since the others made their entrance. “And the sooner we get it done, the better.” 

“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?” Peter asks, eyeing Sirius warily. Sirius feels his own eyes narrow. 

“Of course not,” James answers for Sirius. “We’re only planning to embarrass him a bit.”

Sirius doesn’t just want to embarrass Severus. He wants to humiliate him. But he keeps this information to himself. 

“He’s a git, Pete. He bloody well deserves it. It’ll be a laugh.” 

Peter purses his lips for a few moments of uneasy contemplation before breaking. “Alright. I’ll help.” 

“Atta boy, Petey!” James exclaims, ruffling his friend’s hair. 

“What’s the plan?” Peter asks. 

Sirius groans, flopping back onto his own bed. “There is no plan.”

“Yet!’ James interjects. “There is no plan yet. We just have to think on it a bit. What do we know about Severus?”

Nothing. Sirius can’t help but think there might not be anything to know about Severus. People with rich inner lives typically have better things to do than show off in Potions class. 

“He’s pants at flying,” Peter notes.

That was an understatement. Severus broke his nose just trying to summon a broom. He’s utter shite. 

“We’ve got flying with the Slytherins on Friday.” James grins. “We can do something then.” 

Attacking Severus on ground where he already feels unsteady seems like a solid plan. Sirius fiddles with his ring and mentally flicks through scenarios that don’t involve the Slytherin boy breaking a more important bone before his thoughts are interrupted by Remus. 

“That’s a terrible idea.” He scoffs. 

The other boys turn to look at him, awaiting an explanation, but Remus gives none. He doesn’t even look up from his homework. 

“How do you mean?” James prompts. 

Remus sighs. “Madam Hooch already hates you. She’ll be watching, and you’ll wind up cutting grass again.”

James shudders. 

“Right, then.” He decrees. “Flying class is out. We’ll do it at Potions.” 

Peter frowns. “But Severus is good at Potions. I thought we were trying to embarrass him.”

“We could tamper with his brew?” James suggests. “Make it explode or something cool like that.” 

Sirius shakes his head. “We’re partners. That would tank my grade.” 

That’s the last thing Sirius needs. This ‘mission’ is meant to avenge his reputation. Not make him seem like a dunce. The boys fall silent again, deep in thought. 

“If only there was some way to make him as bad in Potions as he is in Flying.” Peter muses.

It would be a fitting punishment, Sirius thinks hotly. 

Sirius’ entire life has felt unsteady and confusing from the second the sorting hat left his head. The only thing that made any real sense had been his standing with the Slytherins in his year. They liked him. Obviously. He’s still somebody important regardless of where he sleeps at night. Snape tried to take that away. It’s only fair his safe haven be stripped away as well. 

“What if we turned Potions into Flying?” James says. “We could make grass grow and get the rest of the class to bring their brooms and-”

Remus snorts. “That sounds a bit advanced, don’t you think?” 

Sirius glares at the smaller boy. “I’m sure we could figure out a simple gardening charm, Lupin! It’s not as if we’re-”

“He’s not wrong,” Peter says. “Even if we learned the spell, there’s no way we could get everybody to bring a broom.”

After a long moment, James speaks up again. “What if he’s the only one with a broom?” 

Suddenly, Sirius bolts upright. He locks eyes with James Potter, and the understanding that passes between them in that moment is like lightning. It sends a rush down his spine. 

“Potions is first thing in the morning.” He says. “If we make him think he overslept…”

“He’ll show up at the wrong place.” James finishes. His face splits into a too-large smile. For the first time in a while, the sight of it doesn’t stir any irritation in Sirius. None whatsoever. “It’s perfect. It’s harmless. Nobody gets hurt but his pride.”

Peter is just a step behind. Poor lamb. “But he’ll know he hasn’t overslept. He’ll see all the other Slytherins heading to potions.”

“No, Pete,” James turns away from Sirius. “We’ll make him oversleep. Just not enough to actually miss Potions.” 

“Ohhhh.” Peter nods. Then frowns. “How?”

“Sleeping draught,” Sirius suggests. He opens his as-of-yet-not-unpacked trunk and fishes out a book of potions borrowed from the Black library. “I don’t think it takes more than a day to brew.”

“That’s brilliant!” James says. He leans over Sirius to scan the book over his shoulder. Surprisingly, pride swells in Sirius’ chest at the praise. He straightens his spine. 

“That’s absurd.” Remus scrunches up his face, finally putting down his homework. “Severus is ace at potions. Do you really think he won’t be able to recognize sleeping draught?”

The wide grin on James’ face falls, and Sirius turns to once again glare at Lupin. For someone who claimed to be uninterested, the small boy sure is butting in an awful lot. 

“How would you do it, then?” He snaps, growing more frustrated by the minute. “Since you’re so bloody clever?”

“NyQuil.” Remus snorts again. He smiles as though he’d just told a funny joke, but nobody else is laughing. All the other members of the dorm simply stare blankly. 

“Bless you?” Peter offers finally. 

Remus shakes his head.

 “No. NyQuil .” He repeats himself. Slower this time, like perhaps the others had just misheard. Sirius runs through a list of potions he’d watched his tutors brew and recalls nothing of the sort. 

“It’s this American cough syrup.” Remus sighs. “Always puts me right to sleep. It was a joke.” 

“Why do you have American cough syrup?” Sirius asks. The better question is what cough syrup even is. But based on the look of understanding that crossed James’ face at the explanation, Sirius figures he might be the only one in the dark. 

Remus just scrunches his small face again and shrugs, returning rather pointedly to his homework. James launches himself at the Welsh boy. 

“No, no! None of that.” He snatches the parchment out of Remus’ grasp. He’s lucky the work didn’t rip; Sirius is certain they never would have heard the end of that. “Come on, Lupin. You have to help us. That was a great idea!” 

Remus shifts uncomfortably. “It wasn’t meant to be an idea,” he insists. “It was just a joke.”

It had been a terrible joke. Not very funny at all. But James is right. It was a great idea. Muggle elixirs are much less likely to be traced or detected by professors. 

“Sure,” James dismisses. “But you’ve got some, right? Night quilts?” 

“NyQuil.” Peter corrects. 

James nods, giving Peter a thumbs up. “That.” 

Remus worries at his bottom lip for a moment before responding. “Yeah.” 

“Perfect! We’ll use that.” James says decisively, hopping up from Remus’ bed. 

“But it tastes weird.” Remus lifts his hand as if to grab at James. “He’ll taste it.” 

Sirius waves off Remus’ protest. “We’ll just bake it into something.” 

Most potions lose a bit of their flavor after being cooked into a meal. Sirius supposes muggle elixirs ought to be the same. But Remus only shakes his head again. He opens his mouth, surely readying a retort. But in a flash, the rebuttal dies on his tongue, and his eyes turn thoughtful. 

“Unless…” Remus trails off, looking away from the others. 

“Unless?” Peter prompts. 

“Unless they’ve got a dial-a-meal around here somewhere,” Remus says finally, a smile playing on his lips. 

This time, Sirius can’t stop himself. “A what?” 

“You know. Like in The Jetsons.” Remus is grinning now. The smile looks odd and out of place on his face. Sirius is so used to seeing him frown. 

“The who ?”

“No,” Remus says. “Not The Who. The Jetsons.” 

***

THURSDAY. SEPTEMBER 9, 1971.

The boys all skip lunch on Thursday, choosing instead to hole themselves in their bathroom and watch as Remus… does the Jetsons? 

In all honesty, Sirius isn’t quite clear on all the details. 

What is completely clear, however, is that Remus Lupin has been holding out on them in classes. Not that Sirius had been watching, of course. He’d been a bit preoccupied. But he’s certain he would have noticed if Remus had displayed such obvious talent in the classroom. 

“How much do you think we’ll need to give him?” James asks, holding the bottle of pale blue liquid to the light. 

Remus shrugs, setting another bottle of pumpkin juice in the shower. “Dunno. Bit more than a regular dose, maybe?” 

After setting up the bottle, Remus takes a few steps back and points his wand. 

“Melofors.” 

The glass is suddenly encased in a small pumpkin. Peter picks it up and moves it to the substantial mound of petite gourds out in the bedroom. 

“Alright,” Sirius says, folding his arms over his chest. “Enough showing off. You’ve clearly got the hang of it. Do it for real now.” 

The pumpkin head jinx is technically first-year material. But Flitwick isn’t meant to teach it until shortly before summer. The fact that Remus has picked it up so quickly is equal parts impressive and irritating. 

Remus glowers. “I need to make sure I can do it quickly enough. We won’t get many chances.”

“There’s a pile of pumpkins on Peter’s bed.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “I think we’ll be fine.” 

Remus huffs and turns away from Sirius.

“Sirius is right.” James steps in, pushing away from the sink. “You’re ready.”

“Are you? ” Remus counters. “If you drop it-”

James cuts the smaller boy off with a laugh. “I don’t drop things.” 

“Fine.” Remus sighs. “Peter?” 

Peter picks up the bottle of NyQuil and hurries over to the shower, where James is waiting. 

“Ready?” Sirius asks.

Peter nods. James grins. Remus takes a deep, focusing breath. 

“Now!” 

At Sirius’ command, Peter tips out the contents of the bottle, Remus calls out the incantation, and James lunges with cupped hands toward the falling liquid. Each subsequent event happens barely a moment apart, and by the end of the chain, James Potter is sitting on the bathroom floor with a minuscule pumpkin in the palm of his right hand.  

Remus laughs breathlessly, his eyes big and round. “It worked!” 

“Of course it worked.” James lifts the pumpkin over his head triumphantly. “We’re geniuses.” 

A thrill of excitement bubbles up in Sirius’ stomach as he watches his roommates celebrate. 

“What’s next?” Peter asks, practically shaking with glee. 

“The shrinking charm.” Remus grabs the pumpkin from James and places it gently on the floor. “I haven’t had much practice with it yet…”

James bounds over to Sirius and loops an arm around the older boy. “Practice, he says.” James imitates Remus. “Sirius, tell Lupin he doesn’t need more practice.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sirius says instead, smiling tightly at the others. 

Remus’ brow quirks just a bit. The slightest hint of a frown flickers across his lips before he shakes himself off and shrugs. 

“If you say so.” 

Sirius watches and attempts to contain his awe as Remus performs the spell. It’s slow-going at first, with little sign the spell has been cast at all other than the echo of ‘Reducio’ reverberating in the bathroom. But slowly, the squash begins to shrink from the size of a fist, to a grape, and finally down to the size of a button. The shrinking charm is part of the second-year curriculum. Lupin learned it in less than a day. Incredible. Infuriating.

James collects the tablet from the floor and holds it between his forefinger and thumb. “Brilliant!” 

Remus pinkens at the praise. Peter frowns, squinting at the object between James’ fingers. 

“How are we meant to get that into his food?” Peter says. “Can’t exactly float it over to the Slytherins, can we? They’ll see.” 

James doesn’t deflate even for a moment. 

“Leave that to me.” 

***

“Leave, please.” 

Pyrite and Perks disperse immediately at Sirius’ command. The click of their kitten heels on stone echoes ever so slightly as they scatter off to some other corner of the library. Loretta Fieldwake, on the other hand, does not budge. 

Fieldwake might as well be Juliette’s guard dog with the way she’s been following her since class. It makes Sirius’ insides roil to think Juliette sought out this protection. Loretta scans Sirius once. Up and down. She seems unimpressed. 

“Good afternoon, Sirius.” Her smile is thin and insincere. “Skiving off class, are we?”

Sirius plasters a polite smile on his face. The same smile he wears at reunions and weddings and the like. “Just for a bit. I wanted to apologize to Juliette for my behavior yesterday.”

Loretta’s tense shoulders relax just a hair, but her gaze remains cool and unflinching. “It couldn’t wait until dinner?”

“I thought it might be better to talk in private,” Sirius says briskly. He can feel his perfectly practiced smile go pointy around the edges. Loretta frowns. 

She raises a brow at Juliette, who simply shrugs. 

“I won’t be far.” She declares, gathering her things and flouncing away. 

Juliette crosses her arms and stares up at him through long, fluttering eyelashes. Clearly, she can’t be that unhappy with him. Good. Sirius takes a seat. 

“I need a favor.” 

Juliette’s pout remains prominent. But, after a moment of silence, she sighs and returns to her work. “I thought you came to apologize.” She says. Her eyes flick back up to Sirius for a second. He wonders if she thinks he doesn’t notice. 

“He started it.” He dismisses. “You know that.” 

“You didn’t need to make a scene.” She’s not really doing her work. Sirius can tell. Mostly, she’s fiddling with her quill as an excuse not to make eye contact. “It was embarrassing.” 

“Has he been talking about me?” Sirius asks. It slips out in a surge of ire he just can’t contain. But it recedes just as quickly.  There’s no point in asking. He already knows the answer. The way Juliette squirms ever so slightly in her seat is answer enough. Sirius burns. “I thought so.” 

Juliette finally puts her parchment away. She sits up straight, setting her jaw. Her voice wobbles a bit when she asks, “Have you heard from your parents yet?” 

Sirius hears the real question in her words. Is Severus right? 

“No.” He lies. He feels hot bile creeping up his throat. Is Severus right?

Not even a second after the word leaves his lips, Juliette relaxes. Her dark eyes glitter with relief as she searches his face. “Is that a good thing, do you think?” 

Sirius shrugs, twisting his ring. The eagerness in her voice is almost painful. It makes him nauseous. It makes him angry. He wants to tell her to mind her own business. But, in all fairness, Sirius Black’s business is Juliette Wilkes’ business. Just as Narcissa’s business is Lucius’ business. As Andromeda’s is Rabastian’s. Bellatrix’s is Rodolphus’. So he bites his tongue. 

“You’ll let me know when you do hear from them?” She prods. 

He nods. 

“Now, about that favor?” He speaks slowly, not quite trusting his own tongue just yet. He’s still swallowing down venom meant for Severus Snape. Juliette smiles, none the wiser.

***

“Did she say yes?” James asks before Sirius has even stepped through the door. 

He’s sitting cross-legged on top of Sirius’ trunk, backlit by the late afternoon sun. There’s an odd golden glow around his wild hair. His wide grin and bright eyes make him look almost otherworldly. 

This was not part of the plan. 

 “What are you doing here? You were supposed to-”

“I did!” James says, scrambling to his feet. “I just came back to get you.”

Sirius blinks. He what? James plows right on. 

“Didn’t feel right to do it without you.” He runs a hand through his halo of hair. “Did Wilkes say she’d help?”

It hadn’t taken as much wheedling as Sirius had expected it to. Thankfully, Juliette didn’t ask for many details. Sirius nods. 

“Brilliant!” James says. “Come on, then! Not much time left.” 

With that, James Potter takes hold of Sirius’ wrist and yanks him out the door and down the stairs. The contact nearly burns. Nearly, but not quite. As Sirius stumbles along behind James, tripping in his effort to keep up with the exuberant leader, he’s transported back to the Hogwarts Express. To the first time they made contact. To the handshake he’s replayed in his head at least a million times. He’s credited that handshake with his ruin. What will he credit this moment with? 

Before long, the pair come upon the end of a long corridor where Remus and Peter are standing in front of an enormous painting. It’s a bowl of fruit large enough for a young giant. Heaps and heaps of berries and bananas, oranges and apples, peaches and pineapples pile upwards, teetering precariously as they approach the ceiling. 

James releases Sirius’ wrist and bounds over to the other boys. 

“Are we ready, lads?” He asks. He places his hands on his hips in some sort of heroic pose, even though his smile is anything but. He looks like a little imp. 

None of the others actually respond, but that’s no deterrent. Sirius is rapidly coming to understand that nothing ever is with this boy. 

James steps back, stands on his toes, and tickles the painting. The only pear in the portrait, hidden beneath mounds of grapes and surrounded by apples and the like, lets out a shrill, childlike giggle. As James continues wiggling his fingers, and the laughter continues ringing through the hall, a green doorhandle slowly begins to sprout from the canvas. 

“After you.” 

Sirius turns the handle, and the painting swings open. The heat of the kitchens hits him with such force that it almost makes his head spin. As does the smell. The spices sting his nostrils as he steps through the portrait. 

Sirius, James, Peter, and Remus slip inside one by one. Remus quietly shuts the painting behind them as the others creep over to crouch in a corner obscured by empty pots and pans. In the center of the kitchens, dozens of house elves scurry to and fro. Some of them hold plates of food several times larger than themselves. Luckily, they seem too absorbed in their preparations to have noticed the interlopers. 

“What now?” Remus whispers. 

The others turn to stare at him. 

“What do you mean what now?” Sirius hisses. “This was your plan!” 

“Our plan.” James corrects. 

“I don’t suppose any of you know what Severus plans to eat tonight.” Remus ignores them both, frowning down at the tablet in his palm. 

Sirius knew they should have just used Sleeping Draught. This whole plan seemed much simpler when the goal was just to slip Severus some Sleeping Draught. 

“They probably do,” Peter whispers, pointing out into the kitchen at nobody in particular. 

“They who?” 

“Them,” Peter repeats, pointing harder. It suddenly hits Sirius that Peter is not pointing out at nothing. He’s pointing at the house-elves. 

“No.” 

“But-“

“No.” Sirius insists. “They’ll split on us.” 

Sirius knows house elves. He has the delightful misfortune of owning a particularly cantankerous one. They’re narks. But Peter screws up his face, his cheeks turning an impressive shade of red, and shoots to his feet. 

“Excuse me,” He says. 

Sirius lunges for Peter; whether it's to pull him back to the floor or to hit him he’ll decide when he makes contact. But James grabs him before he can do any damage. 

Peter exits their little hiding place and approaches one of the larger elves. “Excuse me.” He repeats. “What’s that you’re making?” 

The elf in question freezes and blinks up at Peter with big buggy eyes. Peter smiles at it.

“Hello. I’m Peter. What’s your name?” 

Sirius could kill him. He really could. He’s going to ruin everything. 

“Bodrey, sir.” The elf squeaks. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Bodrey.” Peter offers the elf his hand. Bodrey stares at the appendage as if he’s not sure what he’s meant to do with it. 

“Master Peter is not to be being down here, sir.” Bodrey glances around at the other elves. None of them are paying the scene much attention. “Master Peter should leave.” 

Peter nods. “Oh, right. Of course. I’m sorry. I just wanted to compliment your cooking.” 

The other elves in the kitchen suddenly freeze. 

“Master Peter is here to… thank Bodrey?” Bodrey asks. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard it all before,” Peter says. “Not just you, Bodrey. All of you. Everything you’ve made so far has been really good.” 

In an instant, Peter is swarmed by dozens of elves, all calling out questions about which meal he liked best and which foods he favors in particular. 

The food is left unattended. James smacks Remus’ shoulder excitedly. 

“Pudding’s my favorite,” Peter says. “I’m sure there’s never any leftovers.” 

James, close to bursting, flails his arms, repeatedly thwacking both Remus and Sirius on the arm.

 “He’s bloody brilliant!” He hisses. “Come on!” 

James crawls out from their hiding spot and off towards the unattended pudding trays. Sirius and Remus follow. 

“Nobody ever eats Vipkey’s pudding!” An elf, presumably Vipkey, sniffs and wipes her big tennis ball eyes. 

Vipkey is wearing a green pillowcase. Jackpot. Sirius shuffles towards her station. 

“Nobody?” Peter asks. 

Vipkey cries, “Nobody!” at the same time as Bodrey says, “Not nobody, sir.” 

 Vipkey’s station has a wide array of pudding. Lots of tarts, cakes, and dark chocolate mousse. It all looks scrumptious, apart from what looks like a sloppy mix made from scraps of bread and fruit. It’s not finished yet, but it already seems utterly unappealing. 

“Nobody eats the bread pudding!” Vipkey sobs. 

Bread pudding? Who eats bread pudding? Why even make bread pudding? 

“Not nobody, Vipkey. Not nobody.” Bodrey insists, rubbing her shaking shoulders. 

“Who eats the bread pudding?” Peter asks, his eyes shoot over to James for a split second. James covers his own mouth so as not to squeal. Sirius feels his own lips twitch into a grin. 

“The first-year boy, sir,” Bodrey says. “The one who likes the treats from Cokes-worth.”

Sirius knows all the first-year Slytherins. It had been an exceedingly small group this year. Only the best. Sirius knows them all, knows their families, knows where they’re from. Sirius has never heard of Cokesworth. Which means that only one Slytherin could be from Cokesworth!

Sirius grabs Remus’ arm in a burst of James Potter-like excitement. Remus’ brows shoot up at the contact. He pulls his arm back. Sirius points frantically at the bread pudding mix, and the smaller boy quickly takes the hint. He drops the tablet into the mix; James darts forward to give the mixture a quick stir. The tablet sinks into the goop and disappears. 

“Maybe, tonight, you should just make enough bread pudding for the boy from Cokesworth,” Peter says sympathetically. “So there’s no leftovers, and nothing goes to waste.” 

Smart… Peter Pettigrew is actually pretty smart. This is nothing short of a surprise. 

Peter’s eyes dart towards the exit, and James drops to the floor once again. Remus and Sirius follow his lead, crawling back towards the portrait. 

At the end of it all, the boys spill back through the portrait in a heap of laughter and unbridled triumph. Peter closes the painting firmly behind them, and the door handle disappears. James whoops and tosses his arms around Peter’s shoulders. 

“Brilliant!” He cries. “Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!” 

“You broke James, Pete,” Remus says, a smile of his own stretched across his face. 

“And you!” James whirls around and whacks Remus’ shoulder yet again. “You evil genius, you!” 

Remus flushes and looks away. 

“We’re good at this.” James grins. “We’re really good at this!” 

Sirius laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it. 

 As he and his roommates return to their dormitory, Sirius finds he can’t stop smiling. That’s hardly a shock at this point. What does come as a slight shock, however, is that Sirius finds he no longer wants to. 

+++

THURSDAY. SEPTEMBER 9, 1971.

“Your friend seems mean.”

A green bean slips off of Lily’s fork. She frowns as she spears the vegetable again. 

She knows who Mary is referring to, of course. But she resolutely does not sneak a glance at the Slytherin table where Sev is undoubtedly speaking to that Mulciber boy. She keeps her eyes firmly trained on her meal. 

“I felt bad for him after the whole thing with his nose,” Mary goes on, her voice softer now that she’s seen the way Lily’s shoulders have tensed. “But you’ve got to admit he was a bit of a prick yesterday.” She says. “I mean, Black didn’t even do anything. Did he?”

“He messed up our potion,” Lily mumbles, stabbing at a carrot despite her sudden lack of appetite. “It probably wasn’t on purpose, though.”

In fact, Lily’s almost certain it wasn’t on purpose. Sirius had just made a simple mistake. It shouldn’t have gotten so out of hand. Lily knows that… but Sev must not. 

That’s really the only possible explanation: Sev  must have  felt slighted somehow. He never would have said those things otherwise– never would have brought up Sirius’  family.  She’s sure of it.

Mostly sure of it. 

She hasn’t been able to get Sev alone long enough to get concrete confirmation. 

Apparently, Sirius Black’s family is somewhat of a big deal. Severus has been swarmed with buzzing Slytherins ever since Sirius fled the scene. Lily would be happy for him if she weren’t so uneasy. 

Mary’s eyes are locked on the Slytherin table. “I just think he should drop it, is all.” 

“He has!” Lily snips, suddenly feeling very warm in the face. “It’s everybody else who hasn’t.” 

Lily finally allows herself to take a peek. Sure enough, Sev is deep in conversation with the other Slytherin boys. One of them is laughing. They’re looking at Sirius. Lily’s chest tightens. She soldiers on. 

“Honestly, Mary, you’re as bad as they are.” She says. “It’s none of our business.” 

She regrets it as soon as she’s said it. She could kick herself. She’s only just  made a friend in her house, and she’s already mussing it all up. Lily opens her mouth to backtrack, not to take it back– Lily doesn’t do that– but to soften her delivery a tad. But Mary just snorts. 

“It might not technically be my business.” She agrees, though the way she says it makes that detail sound utterly unimportant. “But it’s yours a little bit, isn’t it?” 

“No?” 

“Sure it is.” Mary insists. “They’re both in your Potions group. It happened  in  Potions. And the guy being a prick is your best mate.”

“Don’t call him a prick.” Lily scowls. She pushes away her still half-full plate. It’s no use trying to eat right now. Stress makes her queasy. “He’s just sensitive.”

He always has been. He’d never admit to it, obviously. Lily’s not even sure if Sev is aware of just how sensitive he is. But she’s aware. She’d like to think she’s aware of just about everything when it comes to him. He’s her best friend. 

Which is why, regardless of whether Lily agrees with her or not, she can’t let Mary Macdonald speak poorly about him. 

“He means well,” Lily explains. She’s proud of herself for not flinching as the supper is replaced with pudding in an instant. “He even helped Trevor Gillybum with his brew.” 

Mary seems unconvinced. She shakes her head as she cuts into a cake. 

“But we’re not talking about Trevor.” She says. “We’re talking about Black.

“I’d prefer it if we weren’t,” Lily says honestly.

She’s thought about this enough. Truthfully, she’d like to chalk the entire incident up to a big misunderstanding and forget it ever happened. Sev would apologize later. He usually does when he’s in the wrong. 

Not always, part of her singsongs. Not about Petunia. 

She shakes the thought away quick as it arrives. What happened with Petunia wasn’t Sev’s fault. Not really. He hadn’t forced her to go looking in that drawer. He’d only wanted Lily to understand why Tuney was so cross with her.

“You shouldn’t make excuses for him, Lily.” Mary wrinkles her nose. The crinkles look out of place on her smooth skin. It upsets something in Lily’s stomach… or maybe that’s the green beans.

“I’m not making excuses!’ Lily doesn’t mean to sound so huffy. It just happens. “I’m giving explanations.”

Mary laughs at that, and it makes Lily’s stomach churn even harder. 

“Alright. Can you  explain  why he decided to air out Black’s family business in front of the whole class?” 

She isn’t being mean. Not on purpose, anyway. But Lily feels her eyes sting a little nonetheless. Her stomach is terribly unsettled. It's tying itself into a great big knot. She hates it. She just downright hates this entire situation; she hates even more that the only thing she can think to say is, “It wasn’t the whole  class.” 

That makes Mary laugh again. She shrugs, turning her focus back to her cake. The situation between Sirius Black and Sev never mattered all that much to Mary. It just made for good conversation. 

But it matters to Lily. Of course it matters to Lily. Everything Severus does matters to Lily. 

“Excuse me,” Lily says, climbing off the bench. 

Mary’s eyebrows pinch together. “Did I upset you?” She asks through a mouthful of pudding. “I’m sorry.” 

“No.” Lily lies. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you back in the common room, yeah?” 

Mary nods, but Lily doesn’t wait for her entire response. Instead, she makes a beeline for the Slytherin table. Logically, she’s aware no one is watching her, but that’s not enough to keep her skin from crawling as she passes the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws. 

Sev is still talking to the boys from before. Only now, Bertram Aubrey, the boy James Potter punched, seems to be involved as well. Lily does her best to shake off the flitter of nerves that shoots through her as she approaches. It’s only Severus. 

“Sev.” She clears her throat. Whatever conversation the boys were having stops dead in its tracks. Severus blinks up at her, surprised at her presence. “Could I borrow you for a second?” 

He glances back at the other boys. It happens so quickly Lily might have imagined it. Then he nods, scoops the last of his bread pudding into his mouth, and stands. 

“I’ll walk you back?” He offers. 

Mary Macdonald has no clue what she’s talking about. Severus Snape is not mean. How could he be? 

Lily nods. “Sure.” 

The walk to Gryffindor Tower is quieter than their walks usually are. He doesn’t even chastise her for biting her nails. Maybe he can tell he’s in trouble. Maybe he’s just tired. 

“Why did you say those things to that boy?” Lily finally asks. 

Severus purses his lips. It makes him look so much older than he is. When it becomes clear that he doesn’t intend to answer, Lily presses on.

“It was mean, Sev. You shouldn’t have brought his parents into it.” 

“You don’t understand.” He sighs. “He-”

“I understand enough to know that you didn’t have to do it in public.” She says sternly. 

Severus listens to Lily. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the  only  person who listens to Lily. So when he frowns at her outburst, everything feels like it’s sliding back into place. He’s listening. Contemplating what she’s said.

He’s silent for a minute or so. Lily nearly gets nervous that he’s going to fight her on this. But then he nods. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. 

It’s not her he needs to apologize to. But it’s a start. It’s enough to loosen the knot in her stomach. 

“Thank you.” She says. She can’t help the way a smile tugs at her mouth. 

He smiles back at her. It’s soft and familiar, and the knot unties.

+++

FRIDAY. SEPTEMBER 10, 1971.

Severus is pulled from the deep, dark embrace of sleep by a violent shaking of his shoulders. 

“Get up! For Merlin’s sake, Snape!” Juliette Wilkes is standing over him. Her grip is surprisingly strong. It almost hurts. “I can’t believe you.”

Severus blinks. His mind sputters like a stalled engine. “What?” He croaks.

She releases his shoulders, and he falls back onto his bed with a soft thump. “You heard me!” She snaps, “Ditching Potions to sleep in. Don’t you care about the group at all? You left us with the muggleborn.”

Severus sits up so swiftly it makes him feel a bit faint. “What are you talking about?” He asks. His head is swimming. It’s dark in the dorm room... But it’s always dark down here. The lack of light gives him no real hint as to what time it is. 

“It’s past noon, Severus.” She sighs. “You missed class. Several classes, actually.”

Noon?! Severus’ legs are all tangled in his duvet. He flails as he tries to escape. 

“But I happen to think it’s a bad look for you to skive off Flying.” Wilkes prattles on, stepping away from his bed to allow the boy more space to scramble. “And we’re associated now, thanks to that scene on Wednesday. So, if you look bad, it reflects on me. Understand?”

Finally free from the prison of his covers, Severus rolls out of bed. The stone floor of the dungeon is frigid against the soles of his feet. It sends a shock up his spine. 

He hadn’t considered that Wilkes might feel the two of them were ‘associated’ now. Truthfully, he’d been expecting that to take a bit more work than just knocking Sirius Black down a peg. Then again, he’d been expecting everything to take a bit more work than it had. Once it became clear that Severus had information about the Blacks, his roommates had suddenly become much more amenable to conversation with him. 

Besides, she isn’t wrong. It would be a terrible look. 

He’s just managed to get people to forget about the incident from the last Flying class. The last thing he needs is for people to start thinking he’s afraid of a bloody broom. No wizard worth anything is afraid to fly. 

“Thank you.” He finally says. He digs through his trunks for a clean uniform, head still a bit bleary. 

“Don’t thank me.” She wrinkles her nose. “Just don’t be late.” 

She doesn’t slam the door when she leaves. He’s only sure she’s gone because the room gets a fraction colder. 

***

Severus does his best to follow Wilkes’ final instructions. He gets ready in a blur. It’s easier this morning than most. He doesn’t have to wait for Bertram to be done in the bathroom. He practically sprints up the stairs from the dungeons. He’s heaving and dizzy by the time he reaches the main floor.

It’s cloudy, nearly completely overcast. The chilly air stings his flushed cheeks as he approaches the empty field. There’s no sign that class will start anytime soon– except, of course, for the two rows of broomsticks laid neatly in the grass. 

Severus has never owned a broomstick. Not one that he actually remembers, at least. 

His mother had several in her childhood. She spoke fondly of them– of flying. She’d meant to give Severus one when he was old enough. She’d meant to teach him how to fly long before he ever got to Hogwarts. But when it became quite clear that Tobias wouldn’t be seeking work of any sort, the brooms had been the first things to go. Sold for a couple sickles each, at least. 

Severus glowers down at the broom that broke his nose. 

That never should have happened. It never would have happened if not for his father. And it will never happen again. Not if Severus can help it. 

“Up.” He says firmly, leaning back ever so slightly. Once bitten, twice shy. The broom flops about on the ground. Severus’ face grows warmer. His nose twinges. “Up.” He repeats.

This time, the broom acquiesces, hopping lethargically into his grasp. 

His face warms again, though his angry blush is rapidly receding. The sun has come peeking through the purple clouds. A thin ray of sunlight casts a little spotlight on Severus’ success, and he glows for one beautiful moment. 

The sun is in the wrong spot. 

Severus is facing east. He squints at the light. That’s not where the sun should be. He drops the broomstick as if he’s been burnt. Or at least he tries to. The broom doesn’t move. 

It’s stuck to his hand. 

Severus bolts back to the castle, using his free hand to tug uselessly at the broom. 

He ought to be in Potions right now. Class has probably already started. They might be prepping ingredients for their next brew at this very moment. No doubt Black and Wilkes are doing it incorrectly. And poor Lily is far too kind to say anything about it. Is that why Wilkes sent him off in the wrong direction? To ruin his brew in some act of twisted revenge?

Both hands are stuck to the broom handle now. Severus’ palms sting as he tries yet again to yank them free. His feet fumble down the steps. His heartbeat thumps away between his ears. 

He should have known. Severus curses himself as he rounds the corner of the stairwell. It had all been too easy. Of course Black wouldn’t stand for his humiliation. Severus just hadn’t expected Wilkes to take his side in the matter. 

But clearly, she had. 

Thank Merlin his third partner is just Lily. He doesn’t think he could bear to show his face at all if it were Mulciber or Avery who’d be greeting him. 

Poor Lily. He can only imagine what sort of things Wilkes and Black might be doing. The things they might be saying to her. 

Severus skids to a halt in front of Professor Slughorn’s classroom. His hands are still useless, so he turns to his side and leans up against the door. It swings open a hair faster than intended, sending Severus stumbling into the room. 

He narrowly avoids crashing directly into Amethyst Perks by diving awkwardly in the other direction. Perks’ cauldron makes contact with his back, and he crumples forward, barely catching himself with his broom-burdened hands.

A jolt of pain runs up his legs when his knees hit the floor, but it’s completely inconsequential compared to the smothering embarrassment that threatens to squash him into nothingness when the cauldron tips. 

Lethe river water and mistletoe berries splash onto the cobblestones. The beginning stages of Forgetfulness Potion. Perks shrieks and hops up onto her stool. Severus does his best to roll out of the way. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Slughorn demands from his post. 

The commotion does not decrease in the slightest. Pyrites hops up on her stool next. “It touched me! It touched me!”

She’s overreacting, of course. Even if it had touched her, there hadn’t been nearly enough water to cause any long-term damage. Still, her crying sends Fieldwake into a tizzy. “Professor!”

“Remain in your seats, please.” Professor Slughorn tries again to wrangle the class. “Please, stay seated while I-”

Bertram Aubrey grabs the hem of Fieldwake’s robes. He bunches them up and holds them a safe distance from the rapidly growing puddle. He glares. “Nice going, Severus.” 

Severus could keel over and die. He really could. But it doesn’t stop there. No. Why should it? Why should the universe grant him a break? 

“Wasn’t enough to break your own face with that thing, hm? Had to get a shot in on someone else too?”

Black is smirking from Severus’ table. His eyes blaze with some idiotic form of righteous fury. Severus broils. He pushes himself to his feet, a reply scalding on his tongue, but Gillybum laughs. Gillybum of all people. 

The other students– the ones not focused on getting away from the Lethe water– follow suit. The Gryffindors, in particular, seem to find The Heir’s quip awfully funny. James Potter pipes up, “Of course not. Snivellus just forgot how to walk, is all.”

A newly renewed wave of laughter rolls through the classroom. Nobody laughs harder than Black– not even Potter’s idiotic little friends from the boat. Though they’re not far behind. 

“Boys,” Slughorn warns, finally arriving at Severus’ side. He waves his wand at the mess on the ground, and the puddle rapidly evaporates. 

Lily stands abruptly, red in the face. Her stool makes a terrible scraping sound before it clatters to the ground. “Leave him alone!” She orders, glaring at Black and Potter. 

“That’s quite enough!” The Professor bellows at last. He flicks his wand towards Lily. Her stool rights itself. “I will not ask nicely again. Sit down, all of you.” 

The students sit. Perks and Pyrites are still glaring. Black and Potter are still glowing. Severus stands, glued to his spot with shame and smoldering, bitter rage. 

“I’d ask you to put down the broom, Dear Boy, but something tells me you’d have a bit of trouble with that.” Slughorn hums. “Is that right?” 

Severus nods. 

“Right then, I believe a trip to Madam Pomfrey is in order. Wouldn’t you agree?” He asks, chipper as ever once more. 

Severus swears he can hear Black snicker when he nods for a second time. 

It hadn’t been personal before. When Severus had informed the other Slytherins about the goings on in the House of Black, it had been a purely strategic move. 

He hadn’t hated Sirius Black. He’d had no real reason to. Black seemed like a brat– utterly unworthy of his title and status among his peers– but he’d also seemed harmless enough. Little more than a minor inconvenience to be dealt with three times per week. But Severus had been wrong. Obviously. 

It’s personal now. 

+++

If Remus is being honest, that went better than expected. Severus stumbled in late, danced about with the broom for a bit, and got sent right back off to the nurse without any casualties. Unless you count the class period as a casualty. Professor Sughorn had been entirely unable to force the class to get any work done after that spectacle. 

It would have been a lost cause anyways. Peter could barely contain his snickering. Remus is pretty sure James kicked him under the table a few times to get him to quiet down. But the moment their dormitory door swings shut, James positively explodes.  

He launches himself onto his bed in a fit of giggles. “That was brilliant!”

Remus rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs insistently at his lips. It was certainly a job well done if nothing else. He takes a seat on his own bed, biting his lip to disguise his grin. 

Sirius, who’d been nearly nothing but scowls ever since stepping foot in the Gryffindor dorms for the first time is smiling so wide it’s a wonder his cheeks haven’t cramped from the unfamiliar strain.  

“Did you see the look on his face?” Sirius sits beside James. He pulls a face, blinking owlishly in mock bewilderment. 

Peter takes a seat on the floor in the middle of the room. Two fat tears roll down his cheeks as he wheezes out breathless peals of laughter. “And Professor Slughorn!”

James hops up to a standing position atop his bed. He puffs out his chest in a poor imitation of the professor’s gut. “I’d ask you to put down the broom, Dear Boy, but I-” He can’t finish the impression without collapsing into another fit. He flops back onto the mattress, kicking his legs in a rather dramatic show of elation. 

Remus can’t help but join in. Severus had swung the thing around like the world’s worst vaudeville performer, stumbling into desks and tipping stools. He’d looked a bit like a cartoon character in the process of slipping on a banana peel. 

“The broom was a great touch.” Sirius flashes James a sharp, pearly white grin. “Nice one, James.”

Peter nods in agreement, but before he can voice his assent, James rocks himself back up into a sitting position looking confused. “I thought that was you.” He says to Sirius, brows suddenly furrowed. 

Sirius shakes his head. “No. I was with Juliette.”

“I was out by the pitch.” 

Peter hops to his feet at the same time that James and Sirius whirl around to face Remus. All three speak at once, their words come out in a loud, chaotic jumble of “Lupin?!” and “How did you do that?” and “Evil genius! Mastermind! Moriarty!” 

Remus feels his face flush. He must be scarlet based on how hot his cheeks have gotten.. He ducks his head, a wide smile rapidly spreading across his face. “I just wanted to be sure he brought the broom to class, is all.” He shrugs, feeling rather sheepish all of a sudden. 

James is undeterred. When is he not? He jumps onto Remus’ bed, bouncing a few times before mussing up Remus’ hair affectionately. “Next time we ought to just leave you in charge, eh?”

To his surprise, Remus finds that his chest doesn’t sink at the notion of a ‘next time.’ But it probably should.

There really shouldn’t be a next time. For several reasons. The first is obvious. It rears its ugly head approximately once per month and is the reason Remus is meant to be staying as far away from his roommates as possible. The second is a bit simpler. 

“We’re bound to get caught eventually.” He says, doing his best to fix the hair James just ruined. 

Sirius snorts. It feels terribly incongruent with his aristocratic face. 

“What?” Remus asks, eyes narrowing just a hair. 

“You snuck out to the Flying field, and performed a second-year charm without any of us even noticing you were gone.” 

Remus is pretty sure Sirius didn’t intend for that to sting. It probably shouldn’t sting. There’s no reason for that. Remus is meant to be unnoticeable. That was the goal… but for some reason, the words bite at him anyway. 

“What’s your point?” He says tersely. 

Sirius’ eyes glint strangely. Remus can’t quite read them. Can’t quite decide if he wants to. 

“That we won’t get caught if you help us,” Sirius says at last, shrugging halfheartedly. 

James points at Sirius, grinning ear to ear. “Exactly!”

“Come on, Remus.” Peter pipes up, eyes all big and pleading. “You’ve got to admit, this was fun.”

It was. It absolutely was. 

“And we’re good at it.” James insists. “We could probably do something bigger if we tried.” 

“Bigger?” Sirius leans forward from his perch on James’ bed. 

“If Lupin helps us, that is.” James waggles his eyebrows. 

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But he wants to. 

James leans up against Remus, draping himself dramatically across the other boy’s shoulders. 

“Please?” He singsongs, long and drawn out. He stops momentarily to sit up and gesture at the others. “Come on guys.” He says, before resuming his position.  “Please?” He restarts.

Peter joins in almost immediately, scurrying to Remus’ other side to mimic James. 

Remis thinks of his father. Of how worried Lyall had been about this exact situation. He thinks of his Mother. Of what she had said to him the night he’d cried himself to sleep. He thinks of his talk with Madam Pomfrey as they approached the Whomping Willow. 

Sirius doesn’t approach the other three boys. And he doesn’t say please. He isn’t even smiling anymore. But he meets Remus’ eyes. “Could you at least tell us what in Merlin’s name The Jetsons are?” 

Shocked laughter claws its way up from Remus’ chest. The ghost of a smile plays across Sirius lips. Remus nods, unable to stop himself any longer. 

“We could start there.”

James leaps up as though victory has been secured. Peter squeezes Remus into a too-tight hug. 

Remus has half a mind to write Da an apology letter. But he shakes himself out of it. 

He’s a smart boy. He can make this work.