lighter
“Quidditch tryouts are tomorrow,” James says, eyes trained on the gold flash circling the room.
“Oh, joy,” Remus deadpans, and you snort.
It’s been a few weeks since your first tutoring session with Sirius. You’ve met every Tuesday and Thursday since, working on his transfiguration skills, conversation easily snapping back and forth. You don’t want to admit it to yourself, but despite the headaches, you look forward to your sessions with him. He's pretty much up to par with the rest of the class now, but you’re still meeting. You’re not sure when you’ll stop; when he decides he wants to, probably. You’re not going to say anything; a tiny part of you is still nervous about him letting your secret out.
You’ve spent more time with Remus, James, and Sirius as a whole- instead of leaving the dormitory when James and Sirius come in, you’ve started staying. It’s odd having new friends (or getting closer to the friends you had?) but it’s nice. Well, calling Sirius a friend is a stretch- you’re still weary, and he’s still annoying. Nevertheless, you’ve spent more time in their dormitory lately.
James snatches the snitch out of the air, its wings fluttering rapidly against his palm.
“You should come and watch. I know Remus is,” James continues, looking over at you.
“Yeah, it’s fun to watch the first years. Sirius is co-captain this year,” Remus adds, thumbing a page in his book. He’s laying in a position only he’d find comfortable, long limbs strewn across his comforter. You’re curled up at the top of his bed, leaning against the headboard, leafing through a stack of notes.
“Mmhm.” James lets the snitch go again, and it hovers in front of you for a moment. You raise an eyebrow at it before it speeds away.
“Maybe I’ll show up. What time?”
“Eight.”
You gag, nose wrinkling, “On a Saturday?”
“Sirius had to talk him down from having it at five-”
“It’d show who’s actually committed-”
The door slams open with the distinct sound of a combat boot on wood- Sirius walks in, elastic held between his teeth as he gathers his hair in a ponytail with both hands, arms flexing underneath his button-up with the movement. You quickly look back down at your notes.
“Hi, Sirius,” Remus says.
Sirius grabs the elastic out of his mouth, tying his hair back quickly, “James, I’d rather die than wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to see no one on the pitch.”
“Bugger off, people would show.”
“Eight's pushing it for me, honestly,” you say.
Sirius’s bag thunks to the floor, and his bed springs squeak as he flops down. “Ah, there you are, I was wondering what that smell was.”
“Your mum let me borrow her cologne this morning.”
“Shut up- wait, you?Trying out?” Sirius scoffs as James and Remus chuckle. You look up, quirking an eyebrow. He’s leaning back on his forearms, legs splayed over his unmade sheets, looking down his nose at you. You work your jaw.
“No. I’ve never really flown-”
“-obviously-” he cuts in under his breath, smirking at you,
“-I’m just going to keep Remus company. And for free entertainment.”
“I’d pay to see you on a broom,” Remus chuckles, and you add,
“Honestly- Mom tried to get me in flying lessons once when I was little, but that went as well as you’d think.”
“Oh, pureblood flying coaches are rubbish. Reg was allowed one and he’s still shite.”
“Didn’t he catch the snitch before James last year?” you cut- James gasps, and Sirius sits up fully, their eyebrows furrowed in sudden rage.
“Oi, that was dumb luck-”
“Sure, sure,” you drawl, grinning at how easily they’re riled up.
“I didn’t expect quidditch smack talk from you,” James says, chucking the snitch in your direction; it flutters to a stop a millimeter away from your nose before darting away.
“Rem's made me go with him to every game since third year to watch you both.”
James’s eyebrows furrow, “I didn’t know that,”
“I did. Could spot your ugly mug out of a crowd from a mile away,” Sirius snorts. You chuck a pillow at him. It hits his face with a satisfying thunk as he flops back to the mattress.
“Remember when you were flying with Regulus at the Malfoys’ Christmas gala in first year and ate absolute shit, Sirius?” you ask, and he shoots back up, pulling the pillow from his face with his eyes wide in warning,
“Oh, don’t you dare-”
“What was it you said? ‘That’s not fair, Mummy, Mummy-’”
“Shut up, I did not-” he groans as James and Remus fall into a fit of laughter. The pillow flies back in your direction, but you flick your hand up, spelling it to freeze in midair.
“Oh, now that’s not fair-” Sirius whines, but is cut off by a weak knock on the dormitory door. You all fall silent, and you let the pillow fall to the ground as James stands.
“Yeah?” he calls, eyebrows raised, swinging the door open to reveal a meek-looking first year.
“Uhm, Professor McGonagall said to deliver this to, uhm, Y/N L/N? She said she might be in here…” he trails off awkwardly, fiddling with an envelope in his hands, eyes flicking around the room before landing on you. Your brow furrows.
“Thanks,” James says, snatching it from him before swinging the door shut in the student’s face. You’d normally get onto James for his rudeness, but you’re distracted- standing up, you grab the letter out of his hands. It’s sealed with McGonagall's wax stamp, your name written in her rigid handwriting on the back.
“Do you know what it could be?” Remus asks, suddenly peering over your shoulder.
“No,” you reply, swallowing nervously.
“Well?” Sirius says, gesturing to it, “Go on.”
You break the seal, unable to restrain your curiosity.
Please meet Professor Dumbledore and I in the headmaster’s office at six o’clock this evening for an advisory meeting. Do not be late, and come alone.
Professor McGonagall
“Advisory meeting?” Remus asks, reaching over your shoulder and pulling it closer to his face to inspect, “You’ve never had one of those, have you?”
“No. Weird…” you say, eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah, weird,” James echos, snatching the letter from Remus and scanning it before passing it to Sirius, “What do you think they want?”
The worst comes to mind- that she found out about your wandless casting, your animagus abilities have been outed, you’re to be expelled-
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ve never heard of a student getting an advisory meeting with Dumbledore- I’m not surprised, though, with your marks,” Sirius drawls.
You know, realistically, that Sirius might be right. You’re top of your class, and it’s sixth year, which is when professors start stressing career paths. But in the back of your head, something feels wrong- her letter is terse, the wording is tense, and it’s not often she sends messages to students. You gnaw on your lip. Do not be late, and come alone.
You take a breath and glance down at your watch. “Shite. I gotta go, it’s ten till. I’ll see you at dinner!” you say, rushing out the door. You can’t hear their goodbyes over the heartbeat in your ears.
---
You’ve never visited Dumbledore’s office before. It’s in a part of the castle you aren't very familiar with, which only intimidates you more as you speed-walk through the corridors of unfamiliar portraits, ominous letter clutched in your sweaty hand. You finally reach a looming stone gargoyle seemingly built into the wall, Headmaster’s Tower engraved in the archway above it. Peering around the statue, your stomach begins a slow descent as you notice no obvious entrance- just the stupid-looking gargoyle staring down at you with bulging eyes and a forked tongue. You peek down the hall for any portraits that might be able to direct you; fuck, the only paintings hung around are landscapes. You’re going to be late to something obviously important- why would she send that letter otherwise? Your watch reads 5:58. Huffing with frustration, you kick the base of the statue.
“Shit!” you cry, jumping away from the gargoyle as the sound of moving stone suddenly echoes through the corridor. The hunched beast sputters and blinks, raising a brow and glaring at you. He begins to begrudgingly spin, revealing a grand spiral staircase as he ascends.
“Sorry,” you say meekly- the gargoyle haughtily ignores you. “Bloody hell. Can’t anything just be normal?” you whisper to yourself, stepping on the stone and letting it move you up, knees wobbly. There’s a moment of complete darkness as you spin upwards, but you can hear the faint sound of voices above you. A crack of firelight spills in through the top of the staircase.
“She’s still a child, Albus. We cannot-” McGonagall’s rushed whisper finds its way into your ears despite you still being partially hidden in the stone floor. You wish the staircase would stop, send you back down, away from whatever punishment they’re about to torture you with.
Dumbledore’s gaze meets yours as soon as the staircase moves you into sight. “A child who is perfectly punctual.”
Dumbledore’s office is exactly as you expected it. Tall ceilings, open windows, and so full of odd trinkets and artifacts that you can barely see the walls. McGonagall stands next to the headmaster’s ornate desk, appearing slightly distraught. Dumbledore fiddles with what looks like a silver wind-up toy of a duck on the opposite side of the room, closer to you. His bright purple robes make his eyes even more vibrant as he offers you a gentle smile.
“Uh, you asked to see me?” you say lamely, shifting on your feet. The room feels tense. The only sound is the fireplace crackling after you speak.
“Yes,” the headmaster says calmly, looking back down at the trinket, “I believe we have much to discuss.”
“Have a seat, dear,” McGonagall insists, snapping to attention and shooing you into an impossibly comfortable armchair by the roaring hearth. You can only make yourself tensely sit on the edge of the cushion, rubbing nervous palms on your skirt. “Tea?”
“Oh, no thank you ma’am, I’m alright.” If you tried to drink anything right now, it would come back up.
“Are you sure?” Dumbledore places the toy on the shelf, where it promptly begins waddling away, gears creaking. “I do have a lovely chamomile.”
“That’s… yes, sure. Thank you.” Your eyebrows furrow as you watch McGonagall pour you a cup. She hands it to you daintily before sitting in another armchair nearby, her face tensely unreadable. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just not sure why I need an advisory meeting-”
The toy falls on the floor with a crash of metal on stone. A spring skids to a stop by your shoe.
“Ah, blast,” Dumbledore glances down, adjusting his thin spectacles and clicking his tongue at the broken toy, “Do you mind fixing that for me?” His eyes flick up to meet yours knowingly. You swallow thickly, and begin to put your teacup down to grab your wand, but he holds up a finger.
“No need for your wand.”
Your stomach drops.
“Uhm,” you stutter, “what do you mean?”
He raises an eyebrow at you, folding his hands calmly behind his back. You clear your throat, realizing what he’s asking. You feel sick.
You flick your hand, causing the scattered pieces to fly across the floor, through the air- Dumbledore leans back quickly to avoid a stray gear- and snap together with ease, the toy landing exactly as it was on the shelf with a final click. You can’t look at Dumbledore or McGonagall, your throat tight, eyes locked on the duck.
“Forgive my curiosity, I simply wished to observe.” Dumbledore’s voice is calm and warm.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, chest aching, “I know I shouldn’t be…”
“I didn’t summon you here to apologize for greatness,” he says. You glance over to see a smile underneath his greying auburn beard, cheeks stretching to wrinkle his eyes. Your gaze flicks to McGonagall, who seems shocked, a look of confusion and almost anger furrowing her brow. You didn’t notice when you first saw her that her hair is in loose waves falling down her back, instead of the usual tight, rigid low bun. The professors appear more curious or concerned rather than angry; like they’re observing a caged, rare beast. Fear is partially replaced with confusion in your chest. The headmaster continues, “I’ve known of your skills for some time. I’ve also known you’ve kept them secret, and I thank you for that.”
“I… you’re welcome?” you try, the knot in your stomach beginning to loosen, “So you’ve known? That I can do, uhm…” you gesture to the toy, “that?”
“We’ve had suspicions since the incident with Mister Snape and the unpoppable bubbles a few years ago. Rather innovative spellwork on that one, brava.”
“Albus,” McGonagall cuts before glancing over to you, “I trust you will not be using these skills in that inappropriate manner again, correct?”
“No ma’am,” you answer quickly, looking down at your shoes, “I- am I expelled? Or suspended?”
“No, my dear,” Dumbledore soothes, walking over to the hearth and turning to warm his backside and face you in a swirl of robes, “On the contrary. I’m afraid we have a favor to ask of you.”
Your shoulders relax. “A favor, sir?”
“We are living in a time of chaos,” the headmaster exhales, rocking on his toes, “you read The Prophet, correct?”
You nod. The wizarding world is in shambles. The Minister of Magic has recently resigned due to the overwhelming amount of backlash she received from her poor response to the rise of Lord Voldemort- that’s the rumor of what his name is, at least. The papers only address him as You-Know-Who, and his followers as Death Eaters. The number of disappearances nearly doubles every day, and his Mark has been seen in the sky over almost every wizarding village.
You try not to think of that symbol proudly scarred into your parents’ arms. Try not to think of the whispers you’ve heard from behind closed doors. Violence, hatred, everything that is foul. The Dark Lord. Your jaw clenches.
“The Ministry-”
“Is useless?” you snark, then catch yourself, “Sir.”
You’ve seen your father pay off Ministry executives to keep quiet about what they find in house searches. You’ve even seen some of them in the meetings- sleeves rolled up, white teeth flashing.
Dumbledore chuckles softly, and continues, “Yes. The Ministry 'is useless.' In this manner, at least.”
“Which is why the Headmaster has started something… new,” McGonagall finishes, “That he, and I, would like for you to be a part of.”
“Something new…?” you ask, looking between the two. McGonagall looks tense, but there’s a soft warmth in her eyes when she looks at you.
“A resistance. A group of witches and wizards to assist my efforts to fill in the gaps that the Ministry leaves void. An Order against Lord Voldemort,” Dumbledore explains softly. You’ve never heard his actual name spoken aloud, yet it brings a strange sense of confidence and comfort to you to hear it spoken so calmly from wise lips. Your eyebrows raise and your mouth opens to respond, but McGonagall lifts her hand, cutting you off.
“I know you well, dear. I’ve seen you hex prejudiced students without a second thought. I know your heart is true, and you’ll naively jump in headfirst to help. But you’re still a child,” she stresses the last word, cutting her eyes at Dumbledore. He remains placid and curious, looking over his spectacles at you.
“Which is why, if you choose to accept, you’ll be attending lessons regularly with me or Minerva after class hours.”
“Lessons on…?”
“Defense against the Dark Arts is one of your passions, correct? Something that can be expanded on fantastically with correct teaching, indeed. A broad range of subjects Hogwarts does not provide- you must grow bored in class, do you not?”
You blink, not quite knowing how to answer that politely, “I, well…”
“Your timidness will be both your strength and your downfall, my dear. I can tell you are far beyond what you’re being taught. Keeping that secret from the masses has kept you safe. Keeping that secret from us, however, stunts your growth- and perhaps your security.”
You blink again. Kept you safe? Security?
McGonagall sees your weariness at Dumbledore’s words, and leans over to pat you gently on the arm. “We do not wish to pressure you into joining something you do not believe in wholeheartedly. There will be no consequences of saying no. I’d like for you to think about it for a few days- until Wednesday, perhaps. We can meet then.”
You nod slowly, “I do believe in it wholeheartedly, don’t get me wrong, I’m just a little confused as to why you’re offering this to me.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle behind his glasses. Cool night air wafts in through the open window, kissing your fire-warmed face. The sun has just set.
“Oh, to be young… Hear me,” he says, standing taller and staring at you intensely as he speaks, “it is paramount that you do not discuss your abilities with others. However, I’m assuming Misters Potter, Black, and Lupin are aware?”
You flush, looking at your hands, “Yes, sir. Not by my choice.”
“Very well. They must not know of your lessons with us- for your safety, as well as theirs. We cannot be too careful at this point; knowledge is ammunition, and could be stolen from their minds if not given willingly.”
Your stomach twists. You nod, swallow thickly, and furrow your brow. “How would I explain coming here so often, then?”
“Career counseling,” McGonagall chimes in, “claim that you are attending an internship at Saint Mungo’s, and using the headmaster’s floo. I have it sorted.”
“Right,” you nod, head swimming.
“Now, my dear child, to dinner,” Dumbledore says, clapping briskly with a grin, “I believe we’re having pork chops.”
---
You don’t feel like going to the Great Hall. Walking out of the headmaster’s office, your head is spinning, and you can’t quite get your breath right- so you go to one of the many hidden places you retreat to.
There’s a decrepit tower hidden away behind an ancient tapestry near the kitchens. Inside is a spiral staircase ascending to a small balcony that overlooks the Black Lake; the view isn’t half bad. You sit with your legs dangling off of the ledge, taking deep, steady breaths. The bite of cold air on your skin is grounding.
Safety. You’re not a fool, you know that something big is happening. Voldemort is a threat everywhere, even at Hogwarts- but it still shakes you to your core to think that you could potentially hurt Remus. Dumbledore heavily implied that your help in his group would endanger you, and the people you love.
You have to do it, though. You couldn’t live with yourself if you turned down the opportunity to do something greater, to do what’s right. And he is right; you’re bored. You have an ache, a longing, that you haven’t been able to shake for years. This might be your ticket to a purpose.
You hear combat boots against stone behind you, and you sigh, leaning your forehead against the guardrail. They come to a stop beside you before a pair of long legs swings into view beside yours.
“Why aren’t you at dinner?” Sirius asks. You turn your heavy head to watch as he fumbles in his robe pocket, pulling out a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. His hair is loose around his shoulders, and with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened... you can’t help but admire him for a moment. He's pretty, you’ll give him that.
“Why aren’t you?” you halfheartedly retort.
“Skipped detention- Briggs won’t realize I’m gone, anyways. But we don’t have to talk about whatever’s got you out here if you don’t want to,” he shrugs, putting a cigarette between his lips, cupping his hand against the wind as he tries to light it. His kindness startles you. The empty flick of a lighter pops in your ears. Remus gave you a lighter, too, a few years ago, showing you how muggles create flame. A part of you aches seeing that Sirius still uses his. “Bloody thing,” he mutters, shaking it before trying again.
You wordlessly push his hand away and press a finger to the end of the cigarette, the paper glowing amber as it lights. He hums, taking a long drag. He meets your eyes and doesn’t look away. Your hand feels too hot- not from the flame, but from where his skin brushes yours. You pull away, attempting to keep your face neutral.
“Thanks. Another trick you need to teach me,” Sirius says, giving you a lazy grin through a haze of smoke as he ashes over the balcony. You avert your gaze to the lake, trying not to think about anything- especially not the painfully confusing feeling his smile gives you, or the way your mind is still reeling from Dumbledore’s words.
“How’d you find me?”
“Map,” Sirius says, patting his pocket.
“You stalking me?” you raise a brow at him, and he scoffs, taking another drag.
“You wish. I got bored cleaning chalkboard erasers, saw you were here, and thought I’d investigate.”
Your eyes flick over his face. His nose slopes elegantly and sharply, and his eyes are round and soft despite the heavy circles underneath. You remember his eyes being sharper, harsher. His lips, pursed around the cigarette, are plush; a barely-there shadow of hair scratches his pointed jaw. He has a freckle on the side of his pale neck.
“Staring’s a rude habit to have, y’know.”
“You’ve never concerned yourself with manners.” You tear your eyes from him, looking up at the sky instead. You can piece together a few constellations.
“I didn’t say to stop.”
Your mind goes blank. You blink furiously, attempting to gather yourself. You look back over. His eyes catch yours, shadowy and warm as ash.
“There,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your lips.
Oh, Godric.
“You obviously don’t remember Madame Cenanti's class,” Sirius teases, and you snap out of it with a slightly embarrassed huff.
“Are you joking? I can recite dinnerware placement in my sleep.”
Madame Cenanti was the instructor of the etiquette lessons you’d been sentenced to together. Once a month from toddlerhood until Hogwarts age, you sulked in the Black manor with a handful of other pureblood kids, learning about posture and the "proper, pureblood way" while your parents socialized. You grimace, remembering the sting of her ruler on the back of your hand. It seems like Sirius does the same, rubbing his knuckles absentmindedly.
“You always were the star student,” he drawls.
“I hated it just as much as you. I just wasn’t stupid about it.” Sirius was by far the most punished- he’d do anything to set Cenanti off. You did as you were told- it wasn’t worth the trouble to rebel.
“I never understood why you were sorted into Gryffindor.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“No offense,” he says, taking another drag, “You’re just not the… loud and proud type.”
You shrug, admitting, “I don’t know either, to be honest. I’d hate Ravenclaw, though.”
He furrows his brow at you, pulling his cloak closer around himself as the wind swirls, “Really? You’d fit right in.”
“I dunno. At least I get a show in Gryffindor. I’d get bored with the Ravenclaws.”
Sirius hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking over your face. “I can see it, I suppose. I’ve never met anyone so…”
“Stunning? Awe-inspiring?” you deadpan, staring at the reflection of the moon in the Black Lake.
“Covertly bold, maybe. I’ve never been good with words.”
You work your jaw, trying to ignore the heat rising to your face, “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.”
He takes another drag and taps off the ash, watching it fall into the night. “You know, I thought we’d… talk more. When we were both sorted into Gryffindor.”
“Really?” you ask, tilting your head, “Why?”
He shrugs, picking at his fingernails. “We had something in common, for once. I was wrong, though,” he says, and your gut twists, “obviously.”
“Obviously.”
You want to tell him you were just too shy to approach him- but that would be a lie. You’ve always thought that he’s an arrogant brat; now, you’re starting to question yourself. Just a little.
You sit in a tense silence.
You huff, fishing your own carton out of your cloak pocket. You lift a cigarette to your mouth, lighting it, trying to find more constellations, anything to get him out of your head. You wish he would leave. You wish he would move closer.
“You shouldn’t stay. I’m not very interesting company right now,” you wrap your cloak around yourself tightly.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t. I just…”
“Get bored?” You can hear him smirking.
You crack a smile. “Yeah. I get bored.”
There’s a pause, and you tell yourself you’re only imagining his stare. He stamps out the butt of his smoke on the stone next to your hand, tucking the filter in his pocket. At least he doesn’t litter.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Sirius says uncharacteristically- all soft and low. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as he stands, but you nod nonetheless. He lingers for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, before you hear his boots thud down the staircase and out of earshot.