It Matters What You Did
I put the letter down next to my plate and look at it, the familiar loops of my mum’s sprawling cursive spread across the paper. How can it be that I’ve only been gone a week? It already feels like my little bedroom at home never existed.
I skim it again, reread the sign-off: Much love from Mum, Dad, Petunia, and Cadbury.
I highly doubt that. Petunia hasn’t said something as kind as “much love” to me in about five years. Since the day I got my hogwarts letter, actually. She never really got over the whole one-of-us-being-a-witch-and-one-not thing. It doesn’t matter to her that it’s completely not my fault and I’m a freak of nature—to her I’m just a freak. Not that we were particularly close before then, either. Even though she’s only one year older, she’s always given me the little sister treatment.
Cadbury is our cat. Petunia named her that years ago because she’s brown all over with white paws. I used to be her favourite in the family before I left for school, and when I’m home, we still spend all day in my bed together. A lot of people here have cats, but Petunia wouldn’t let me bring Cadbury, even though I begged and begged. I don’t even have an owl—I didn’t really understand the concept of owl mail before I came, and since then I’ve just used Marlene’s owl Percival to send my letters. She doesn’t write home that often.
I fold up the letter and put it back in its envelope, returning my attention to my breakfast. It’s only the second Monday of the year, and I’m already dreading every class on today’s lineup. History of Magic? Snooze. Arithmancy? An absolute bore. The only thing to look forward to is Care of Magical Creatures, though I’m embarrassed to admit why.
I haven’t seen him all weekend, now that I think about it. Why wasn’t he at the party on Saturday? You’d think he’d want to celebrate his initiation into the cult of quidditch. Or at least put in a public appearance. But he wasn’t there. And I was too busy being humiliated by Potter to notice.
I resolve to make up for the oversight in Care of Magical Creatures. We’re starting our unit about Glumbumbles, which so far only entails an especially boring chapter of the textbook. The sun is out, and Hagrid’s brought us to the courtyard, where we’re sitting in our pairs and reading aloud. Tommy has his back against the fountain, and I’m cross-legged, which is a rather anxiety-inducing position for someone wearing a skirt. As if I wasn’t already struggling to focus on what he’s reading.
“Congratulations, by the way,” I say quickly when he pauses to yawn. “On making the team.”
“Thanks.” He grins. “Did you watch the tryouts?”
I nod. “You were great.”
As soon as I say it, I regret it, but he only smiles and says, “Thanks,” again. He stretches out against the stone, looking awfully at home in the warm sunlight. We’re all so pale and colourless in comparison to his tanned skin and white shell necklace, which I can just see beneath the collar of his shirt. My heart beats at an abnormally fast rate.
“Sorry Potter was being such an arse,” I say in an attempt to continue the conversation.
“Oh, he’s alright,” Tommy says, yawning again. “You know, he’s right behind you.”
I shrug. “I’ve said far worse things to his face.”
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
I wear the glow of that laugh for the rest of the day, receiving appropriate squeals from Mary and Marlene when I recount the story to them. Alas, all it takes is one word from Potter for my soul to be crushed. I’m leaving Transfiguration when he calls out to me from behind.
“Hey, carrot-top.” When I turn around, he’s pinching a lock of my ginger hair between his fingers.
I smack his hand down. “Don’t touch me.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “Grumpy today, aren't you.”
I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say to that? No, just appropriately outraged at the implicit misogyny in your actions? I don’t think he even knows half of those words.
I huff and take off towards the meeting room. “Let’s go.”
We’re not late this time, but some of the prefects are already there, making quiet conversation around the table. Severus doesn’t spare me so much as a glance when we walk in, which, admittedly, stings. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking.
Still high on my earlier success, I follow him and Catherine Heaton out at the end of the meeting. Since when are they such good friends?
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Hello,” he returns, barely looking at me. His long dark hair is all but covering his eyes.
“How was your summer?” I ask.
It feels like a ridiculous question when we’d spent every summer before this one together. His family moved last May, but we used to be neighbours, and best friends before I knew witches and wizards existed outside of fairy tales. He explained everything to me before I came to Hogwarts, and for most of first year, even when we got sorted into different houses. Even when I became friends with Mary, then Marlene, whom he hated and who hated him. Even when he started tagging along with the more despicable Slytherins like Avery and Mulciber. We were still best friends. I’ve never needed to ask how his summer was before.
“Fine,” he says now. “See you.”
And then he and Catherine walk away.
The hallway is empty now, and I feel a little like crying, though whether it’s from sadness or anger I’m not sure. What’s with the cold shoulder? I want to demand. It’s not like we ended last year on such good terms, but I thought 10 years of friendship could override that. I suppose it can, when both parties want it to. But it seems like Severus no longer wants anything to do with me.
“He’s a dick.”
I turn around to see Potter standing behind me, and whatever defeat I was already feeling triples. Not only did Sev completely blow me off, but my archenemy witnessed the whole thing. Excellent. Now the tears building in my eyes are definitely from anger.
“Not the biggest one I know,” I say, brushing past him.
The only thing I want right now is to be in my bed, but before I can get away, Potter does the unforgivable and speaks again.
“I looked for you, you know,” he says from behind me.
I stop, despite myself, and turn around.
With his hands in his pockets, he looks unusually sheepish, the front of his knit vest wrinkling as he slouches. He’s so much taller than I remember.
“On Saturday,” he goes on. “To apologise.”
I take a deep breath in and let it out. “I was probably crying in my room by then.”
Now he looks even worse. Like he actually feels bad. I didn’t know guilt was within his limited range of emotion. Or that he would ever feel guilty about this. Isn’t making me cry at the top of his to-do list?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Well it doesn’t really matter what you meant to do, Potter, it matters what you did.”
“I’m trying to apologise,” he says frustratedly.
I take a little pride in his aggravation.
“Well, try harder,” I say. “Or better yet, don’t talk to me at all.”
And then I turn and leave.
When I get back to my lovely bed, it’s not even my conversation with Severus that I’m puzzling over. It’s Potter, apologising. Since when is that something he knows how to do? He didn’t do a very good job of it, but still. The effort at all is completely novel. Is it possible he’s grown up? I mean, visually, he has, I just didn’t realise that a mental change might accompany it. But it hasn’t really, I remind myself. He made you cry over chess. Chess, of all things!He’s still the same arsehole you’ve always known.
Severus, on the other hand, seems to be changing for the worse. I knew when he became friends with Avery and Mulciber last year that they weren’t going to be good influences on him. They’re both so sleazy and gross, and they buy into all that pureblood bullshit. I don’t know why he hangs around with them, when he can be so smart and kind. I guess he isn’t so kind anymore.
“Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” Marlene asks me on Thursday.
It’s sunny again, so we, and everyone else, have taken our free period as an opportunity to laze about on the lawn and shirk responsibilities. Why is it so much harder to get work done when it’s nice out? I’m trying to write back to my mum, but the parchment keeps flapping in the breeze.
“Pat and I are,” Mary chimes in.
“And if I’d wanted to third wheel, I would have asked you,” Marlene says. “Lily?”
“Um, I don’t think so,” I say, dipping my quill in ink and watching it drip. “Why?”
“I was thinking of asking Dorcas.”
We gasp in unison.
“You’re kidding,” Mary says.
Marlene shakes her head, smiling nervously. “Why, should I be?”
“No, obviously you should ask her,” I say. “Marlene, wow.”
“I know.” She grins. “But what do I say?”
“Be casual,” Mary offers. “You have to start with ‘Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?’”
I nod. “And then if she says yes, you’re just like, ‘Let’s go together.’ And if she says no, no embarrassment suffered.”
“Double date! Double date!” Mary chants, pounding her fists on her knees.
Marlene laughs. “No way in hell.”
We all look over to where Dorcas is sitting with Amira Bell and Paula Davenport. They’re a little trio like we are, except they’re so much cooler. And not in the despicable everyone-knows-your-name kind of way like Potter and Black, but in a much more enviable always-carrying-a-sketchbook, tie-undone-but-it’s-somehow-fashionable kind of way. They tend to keep to themselves, but for years Marlene has been determined to change that.
“You know, she actually talked to me in Divination the other day,” Marlene says, crossing her legs and leaning forward. “She’s kind of a whiz. Trelawney loves her.”
Mary laughs. “Of course she does. I bet they share fashion advice.”
“Hey!” Marlene whacks her with a textbook. “I happen to think Dorcas dresses very well.”
“For a 40-year-old Divination professor, yes, she does,” Mary says.
It’s true—Dorcas’s eccentricity does a bit resemble the Divination classroom. Trelawney herself is always draped in billowing violet silk and long silver necklaces.
“She definitely pulls it off,” I say.
Marlene sighs. “See? Thank you.”
I lie back on the grass, the sun warm on my face. I close my eyes and yawn. Potter and I were on rounds again last night, and now that the novelty has worn off, it’s really quite exhausting. I didn’t get to bed until 2:00. Potter’s been quieter, at least, which in turn has made me feel a little bit bad for how harsh I was on him. I guess I was harsh enough that he did the near impossible task of shutting up. But I tell myself it’s better this way. I’d rather have that slight blemish on my conscience and him mostly out of my hair. Right?
“Lil.”
“What?” I jerk awake.
Marlene and Mary are standing over me, bookbags on shoulders. I sit up, disoriented, squinting at them in the sunlight.
“Free’s over,” Marlene says, holding my bag out to me.
I rub my eyes and hold out my hands. They each take one and pull me to standing.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my bag. “Was I asleep?”
“Yeah, and you know what?” Mary says. “If you weren’t, Tommy was coming over to talk to you.”
“What?” I look at her in alarm. “He came over?”
“No, but he looked like he wanted to,” Marlene answers.
I look back and forth between them. “You’re kidding me right now.”
Marlene grins widely. “Yes, we are.”
“Ugh!” I punch her shoulder. “I’ve had it with you.”
“It was Mary’s idea,” she defends.
Mary scoffs. “No it was not!”
“That girl’s got a devious mind, Lil.”
“Oh, shut up.”