The Ethics of Dating Someone You’d Put on a Watchlist
The thing about being Lily Evans was that everyone expected her to have an opinion.
On school policies, on goblin rebellions, on why the Slytherins had hexed the third-floor water fountains again. On everything. If something caught fire—literal or metaphorical—someone would turn and say, “Well? What does Lily think?”
And Lily, because it was expected of her, always had something to say. She was good at it. She knew how to be blunt without being cruel, clever without showing off. Knew when to roll her eyes and when to draw blood. She didn’t mean to end up the voice of reason for half the student population, but someone had to do it, and frankly, she didn’t trust anyone else to manage it properly.
The older she got, the more exhausting it became.
Right now, for instance, she was watching two fifth-year prefects argue over whether detentions should include magical theory essays or hands-on scrubbing of cauldrons. They hadn’t asked for her input yet, but she could feel it coming like a storm front. Somewhere in the conversation, someone would throw out her name like a life preserver.
“Well, Lily says—”
She leaned back against the common room armchair and let her eyes slide to the fireplace. Let them think she was absorbed. Let them think she was off in her own world, far away from cauldron scrubbing and disciplinary reform.
Her world, if she had one, was small. Mostly built out of books and late-night conversations and the constant, low-level buzzing in her brain that came from trying to care about too many things at once. She liked debates, but not when they were disguised power grabs. She liked rules, but not when they were written by people she wouldn’t trust to boil water. She liked people, too—sometimes.
But she hated being expected.
When she was younger, it had been flattering. Adults who smiled and said she was precocious. Professors who treated her like a natural leader. Friends who turned to her to make the hard calls because they couldn’t—or wouldn’t. At some point, “Lily will sort it” had stopped being a compliment and started sounding like a sentence.
She didn’t know when it had happened. Maybe fourth year. Maybe the first time someone cried on her shoulder about a boy she hated. Maybe the first time she saw blood on the corridor tiles and realised no one else was going to report it.
It wasn’t that she resented it. Not really. Just—sometimes she wished she could vanish into the wallpaper for a week or two. Just long enough for someone else to become reliable.
Unfortunately, the world had other plans.
Her morning had begun with the sound of someone vomiting outside the dormitory bathroom. Mary was halfway through brewing some violently pink hangover remedy in the sink when Lily stumbled in to brush her teeth.
“New record,” Mary had muttered, barely looking up. “Seven Sickles says Marlene’s still drunk by breakfast.”
(Lily hadn’t taken the bet. She knew better.)
By mid-afternoon, things had begun to spiral with grim enthusiasm. Lily had broken up two arguments, been given a love poem (poorly spelled) by a second year Hufflepuff, and threatened a fifth-year Ravenclaw with bodily harm after he tried to vanish a first year’s homework as a “joke.”
By dinner, someone had set fire to the Herbology greenhouses.
Technically it was a small fire. Barely enough to singe the vines on a Screeching Sycamore, and that thing deserved it, honestly. But the smoke had been spectacular, and Professor Sprout had run out of the staff room wielding a hose charm like she was storming the beaches of Normandy.
Lily had been halfway through a bite of shepherd’s pie when it happened. She didn’t even sigh—just got up, wiped her mouth with the corner of a napkin, and started walking. It was either that or wait for someone to say her name in that same bewildered, expectant tone: Lily will know what to do.
Of course Lily knew what to do. That was the problem. She always knew what to do.
By the time she reached the greenhouses, the worst was over. A second-year with soot in his eyebrows was mumbling apologies while Sprout hovered with a restorative salve and an expression like she’d aged a decade in ten minutes. The plant was still smoking faintly, its branches curled in on themselves like a sad accordion left out in the rain. No one had died. Which was nice. The bar was subterranean these days.
“Miss Evans,” Sprout called when she saw her. “Take this one back to the castle, would you?”
Lily nodded, gestured for the boy to follow, and started walking. He was shaking slightly and smelled like burnt oregano. She handed him a boiled sweet from her pocket and didn’t say anything when he burst into tears. She just kept walking.
He’d be fine. A few points docked. A slap on the wrist. A week of whispered jokes about arson. But he’d live, and eventually he’d learn to be more careful. Hopefully.
Lily delivered him to Pomfrey and stepped back into the corridor, only to find a group of fourth-years hexing the suits of armour to moon passersby. She confiscated three wands, issued two detentions, and narrowly avoided a concussed Hufflepuff. Somewhere in the chaos, someone handed her a clipboard she hadn’t asked for and a schedule she hadn’t agreed to.
When she made it back to Gryffindor Tower, the sun was gone and her legs ached like she’d run a marathon she hadn’t trained for, all while carrying three small children and a sack of bricks.
Marlene was already spread across the sofa like a Roman emperor, flipping through a contraband magazine and drinking something that steamed ominously.
“You look like someone tried to feed you to a Hippogriff,” she said cheerfully.
Lily dropped her bag by the fireplace and flopped into the nearest armchair. “I’ve had a long day.”
“You always have long days.”
“That’s because I’m surrounded by idiots.”
She didn’t mean it cruelly. Not really. Just… observationally. Like one might comment on the weather. Grey skies, low pressure, chronic lack of common sense.
Marlene didn’t take it personally. She never did. Just hummed and turned a page. There was a half-dressed Beater on the cover of the magazine and at least three questionable potion adverts wedged between articles titled things like “Love Spells Gone Wrong: Six Aurors Tell All”. Lily didn’t ask how she got it. Some things were better left mysterious.
She let her head loll against the back of the chair and stared up at the ceiling like it might offer deliverance. It didn’t. Just more stone and the faint outline of someone’s seventh-year attempt to charm in a night sky mural. It had faded over time. Now it mostly looked like mildew with ambitions.
Lily closed her eyes. Counted to five. Then backwards. When she opened them, Marlene was watching her over the rim of her cup.
“You’ve got that look again.”
“What look.”
“The one that says you’re either plotting a coup or composing a very cutting letter to the Prophet.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“With that face?” Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Brooding. Definitely brooding.”
Lily reached blindly for a cushion and chucked it in her direction. It thudded into something behind Marlene, followed by a startled squawk from a third-year.
Marlene didn’t even flinch. “You’re also violent.”
“I’m restrained,” Lily muttered. “You should’ve seen what I wanted to throw.”
Marlene grinned. “God, you’re hot when you’re spiralling.”
Lily didn’t smile, but something in her shoulders eased. It always did, with Marlene. She wasn’t restful company—no one who actively enjoyed chaos could be—but she never asked Lily to be anything but herself. That counted for something.
They sat in silence for a moment. Well. As close to silence as Gryffindor Tower ever got. Someone was playing badly-tuned bagpipes two floors up. There was a loud bang from the girls’ dorms, followed by someone shrieking, “I said don’t open it indoors!” A first-year was weeping quietly near the portrait, possibly over a Transfiguration essay or a tragic crush. Possibly both.
Lily exhaled slowly. The fire crackled. Her headache was starting to fade, retreating from a thunderclap to a low, persistent hum.
Marlene glanced up from her magazine. “You know, you should date someone.”
“No.”
“Come on. It’d be good for you.”
“I’d rather kiss a blast-ended skrewt.”
“I hear they’re excellent conversationalists.”
Lily gave her a withering look, which Marlene accepted like a gift.
“You just need someone to shake things up a little,” she continued. “Make you reckless. Make you stop using colour-coded flashcards.”
“I don’t use flashcards.”
“Not anymore,” Marlene said, flipping another page. “Because I burned them.”
Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re genuinely insane.”
Marlene just grinned, all teeth and zero shame, and went back to her magazine. Somewhere behind her, someone attempted to start a singalong and was immediately told to shut up by three different people in harmony.
Lily didn’t bother saying goodnight. She just stood, stretched—something in her spine cracked ominously—and collected the bag she’d dropped earlier like a dead thing she was honour-bound to carry.
The dormitory stairs creaked under her feet, same as always. She stepped over the third one from the top, which had a habit of biting, and nudged open the door to the sixth-year girls’ dormitory with the side of her hip. The room smelled like dry shampoo, parchment, and something vaguely floral and vaguely threatening that might’ve been one of Mary’s “healing” candles.
Someone had hung a pair of tights from the window latch to dry. They fluttered gently in the draft like a sad little ghost.
The dorm was blessedly empty. Marlene’s bed was a chaos of throw blankets and Potions notes; Mary’s shoes had migrated to the foot of Lily’s bed again. She stepped over them and made a mental note to trip her in the morning.
She changed mechanically, shedding her jumper, her skirt, the heavy cardigan she’d stolen from her dad over Christmas and never given back. The tights came off last, like peeling bark from a tree. Then she stood in the middle of the room in an oversized t-shirt and mismatched socks, staring at nothing in particular.
Her bed was neat. Of course it was. Lily’s bed always looked like someone was about to take a photo for a Witch Weekly dorm decor feature. She hated herself a little for that.
She crawled into bed and lay on her back, arms at her sides like she was waiting to be embalmed. She stared at the hangings and idly wondered if anyone had ever tried to suffocate themselves with one out of sheer academic despair. It was probably frowned upon. She made a mental note to ask Madam Pince if there were statistics on that.
She tried to relax. Really tried. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. That thing Mary was always on about. Mindfulness. Inner peace. Whatever.
Then her thoughts skittered elsewhere—had she signed up for the patrol rota next Thursday? Was her Arithmancy theory complete, or was she thinking of last week’s? Had she left her Charms notes in the library again? What had Slughorn meant when he said, “We’ll talk soon”—was he assigning another mentorship, or planning a surprise career intervention? Did she care?
(She thought about Petunia. Just briefly. Like a wound you poke at to make sure it still hurts.)
Lily turned over. Then again.
She closed her eyes and hoped it would be easier tomorrow.
~
It wasn’t easier tomorrow.
Breakfast was a war zone. Someone had spilled pumpkin juice across half the Gryffindor table, and instead of cleaning it like sane people, a group of third-years had transfigured napkins into tiny boats and were now racing them with increasingly aggressive wind charms.
One had capsized. Two had caught fire. One appeared to be enchanted with teeth.
Lily took one look, turned on her heel, and went straight for the far end of the table. It was near the staff table and slightly haunted, if you believed the rumours, but it was blessedly free of small children and fire. The only person nearby was a seventh-year Ravenclaw who looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. He nodded to her with the haunted air of someone who’d once seen a Boggart and never recovered. She nodded back. An alliance was formed.
Lily sat, pulled a piece of toast onto her plate and stared at it grimly. It was underdone. Limp. Cowardly, even. She took a bite just to prove a point and immediately regretted it.
Somewhere near the middle of the Gryffindor table, a cup exploded. Someone screamed. She didn’t look up.
The post came midway through her second cup of tea. A flock of owls descended with the enthusiasm of tax collectors. One dropped a magazine directly onto her plate. Another, more polite, delivered The Daily Prophet with an apologetic hoot and a wing to the face.
She flipped through it out of habit. The headline read “AUROR INQUEST CONTINUES AS WAR CLOUDS GATHER”, which was neither helpful nor poetic. Below it, a grainy photo of a Ministry official waved nervously at the camera like he knew he was about to get sacked and wanted to look charming in his obituary.
Lily skimmed it without really reading, catching words like “unrest” and “unprecedented” and “heightened alert,” which were all starting to feel like white noise. The world was probably ending and no one could even be bothered to write about it properly.
She poured herself more tea. Burned her tongue on the first sip. Set it down and decided to simply endure her existence.
The quiet lasted six and a half minutes.
Mary slid into the seat beside her, wearing a jumper that had once been red before a laundry mishap and now looked like a sad, muddled pink. Her eyeliner was smudged in a way that said I got three hours of sleep and would murder for toast.
“You hear?” she asked, not waiting for Lily to say hello. “Euphemia Potter’s throwing some kind of spring party. Invite-only. Rumour is it’s already caused two breakups and a duel.”
Lily blinked. “Why would I care what James’s mum is doing?”
Mary gave her a look. It was the kind of look one might give a dog who’d just walked into traffic and then asked why the road was wet.
“You’re a prefect, a Gryffindor, and nosy.”
“I am not nosy.”
“Mm,” Mary said, which was not agreement. “Anyway, Regulus Black is invited. That’s the news.”
That made Lily pause. She chewed, swallowed, took a sip of tea, and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he a Slytherin?”
“Isn’t he Regulus Black?” Mary replied, like that was more damning.
Lily hummed noncommittally. She’d interacted with Regulus maybe four times total, and three of those involved reluctantly coordinating prefect duties while pretending the other person didn’t exist. The fourth had been in third year, when she caught him feeding a feral Kneazle by the lake. He hadn’t noticed her watching.
It had been weirdly tender. She’d chosen to repress it immediately.
“Okay,” Lily said. “And this is relevant because?”
“It’s Euphemia Potter’s party,” she said, with the exasperation of someone explaining royalty to a goat. “She only hosts, like, one event a year, and the guest list could start a minor civil war.”
Lily tilted her head. “You do remember I have a well-documented hatred for elitist bullshit, right?”
“Yes.”
“I actively protest elitist bullshit.”
“Yes.”
“And Euphemia Potter’s invitation-only soirée for the most aggressively pureblooded social climbers is the definition of elitist bullshit.”
“To be fair, they do invite muggleborns,” Mary said, mostly to provoke her. “Sometimes on purpose.”
“Oh,” Lily said flatly. “How progressive.”
“Marlene went last year.”
“Yes, and she stole their silverware.”
“Out of protest,” Mary said, nodding. “I respect that.”
Lily had managed to avoid attending herself, mostly through sheer force of will and an ever-dwindling list of excuses. James had tried—relentlessly. Bribery via the Potter library, mostly. First-edition Transfiguration texts, obscure magical theory journals, that banned copy of Magical Law and the Shifting Body she’d been hunting since fourth year.
It was almost tempting. Almost.
She’d been inside it once. The house, not the library. Fifth year, for a group project that had somehow spiralled into a study session hosted at Potter Manor. Lily had lasted twelve minutes before faking a headache and fleeing. Her brain had gone into full fight-or-flight the moment she stepped into the front hall. Too many tapestries. Too many ancestral portraits watching her like she was going to make off with the candlesticks.
Last year, she’d blamed exams. The year before, a fabricated stomach flu. This year, she was dangerously close to citing an allergic reaction to heirloom linen.
Lily was about to deliver a scathing remark involving class warfare and Euphemia’s probable crystal collection when she caught movement in her peripheral vision.
McGonagall. Purposeful. Grim. Making a beeline for their table with the cold precision of a guided missile.
“Oh no,” Lily muttered.
“Miss Evans,” she called, voice crisp. “A word, please.”
Mary made a noise like a dying bugle. “You’re going to be put in charge of something horrible. I can feel it.”
Lily stood. Drained the last of her tea. Resigned herself to fate.
It wasn’t even nine in the morning.
McGonagall did not slow her stride, which meant Lily had to half-jog to catch up. It was either that or let the professor bark orders over her shoulder like a general mid-march, and Lily refused to give her the satisfaction.
They walked in silence through the entrance hall and up two unnecessarily steep staircases, narrowly avoiding a pair of second-years wrestling with a self-duplicating cloak and what looked like half a Honeydukes shelf.
“Not your problem,” Lily muttered to herself. “You’re off-duty. It’s breakfast. Let them die.”
Initially, Lily assumed she was being dragged into some emergency prefect meeting—someone had probably enchanted a stairwell to scream obscenities again—but instead, they turned sharply and stopped just outside the Transfiguration classroom.
McGonagall opened the door. Gestured.
Lily stepped in.
There were five students already seated in a loose circle. All prefects. All in various stages of looking like they’d rather be dead. A Slytherin girl Lily vaguely recognised as Quinn something had her feet on a chair and was peeling an orange with slow, aggressive precision. Mulciber was chewing on the end of a quill. Corwin Fairleigh looked dangerously caffeinated. And Elodie Greaves was making a small origami giraffe out of her disciplinary report sheet.
A circle of competence, clearly.
Lily took the last chair. McGonagall shut the door with the finality of someone sealing a tomb.
“Right,” she said. “You’re all here because, against my better judgement, I need something from you.”
Mulciber perked up immediately, which was disturbing on several levels.
McGonagall ignored him.
“As you know, we’re entering spring events season. Which means parties, gatherings, and an alarming spike in minor curses.”
Quinn made a small sound like someone being slowly crushed under the weight of institutional responsibility. “Respectfully, Professor, it is—” she glanced at the clock, horrified—“eight thirteen in the morning. Can’t the interpersonal disasters wait until double Potions?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Travers.” McGonagall said, in the tone of someone choosing not to commit murder. “My point is, there is a higher-than-average risk of conflict in the coming weeks, and as such, I’m forming a temporary Student Conduct Committee.”
Nobody moved. It was the kind of announcement that made you want to check whether you’d been volunteered for a ritual sacrifice.
Elodie’s giraffe folded in on itself in despair.
“You mean,” Corwin said, “a tattling task force.”
“I mean a group of students who can respond to escalating conflicts with appropriate judgement and a minimum of explosions.”
“You’re putting Mulciber on that committee?” Quinn asked, incredulous. “He is an escalating conflict.”
“I have excellent judgement,” Mulciber said at the same time, managing to sound both smug and actively untrustworthy.
McGonagall didn’t blink. “You’re all here because the rest of the staff had even less faith in the other options.”
It was hard to argue with that.
Lily glanced around the circle again. This was shaping up to be the kind of group project remembered only in nightmares and disciplinary records.
“Do we get badges?” Corwin asked.
“No.”
“Do we get extra credit?”
“No.”
“Do we get anything at all?”
McGonagall gave them all a long, withering look. “The warm glow of civic responsibility.”
Elodie raised her hand. “Are we allowed to say no?”
“No,” McGonagall said again, and swept from the room without another word.
The door shut with a gentle click of doom.
Quinn leaned back and covered her face with both hands. “I’m going to fake my own death. Someone write me a eulogy.”
Mulciber was still grinning.
Elodie’s giraffe burst into flames.
Lily stared down at her notes and added find time to scream into a pillow to the bottom of her to-do list.
By the time lunch rolled around, Lily was approximately three braincells away from going full Banshee in the Great Hall.
Ancient Runes had been hell. Lily had emerged from the classroom like someone crawling out of a burning building, clutching her notes and what remained of her will to live. Professor Iskander had spent forty minutes talking about syntactical drift in pre-classical spell matrices and then handed them a surprise translation exercise in a dialect literally no one could read. Half the class had cried. One of them tried to sound out a summoning glyph phonetically.
She barely stopped him in time. She deserved a medal.
Lily was halfway through mentally drafting a strongly-worded letter to the Board of Magical Education when she spotted Remus Lupin at the Gryffindor table.
He was sat further down, a book open beside his plate and a sandwich in one hand. His hair was a little rumpled, and he had the peaceful expression of someone who hadn’t yet been emotionally waterboarded by bureaucracy before lunch. He looked like someone having a nice day.
This would not stand.
Lily stalked over, dropped her bag onto the bench with enough force to make a third-year flinch, and planted her hands on the table like she was preparing to cross-examine the accused.
“You,” she said.
Remus looked up, blinked once, and said, very cautiously, “Good afternoon?”
“You’re not on the committee.”
“What committee?”
“The disaster one.”
“You’ll have to narrow that down.”
“The Student Conduct Committee.”
Understanding dawned in his expression like a particularly slow sunrise. He took a calm bite of his sandwich. “Ah. That.”
“You knew about it,” she accused.
“McGonagall mentioned it. Briefly.”
“And didn’t volunteer?” she demanded. “Didn’t throw yourself in front of the metaphorical carriage? Didn’t even warn me?”
“I had Potions homework,” he said mildly.
“So did I,” Lily snapped. “I still got conscripted.”
“Because you’re responsible and terrifying,” Remus said. “I’m inconsistent and chronically ill. There’s a system.”
Lily narrowed her eyes. “You’re a prefect.”
“I’m also very good at avoiding eye contact.”
“Unbelievable,” she hissed, and sat down across from him with enough force to jostle his plate.
Remus moved his sandwich to safety.
“Do you know what I did this morning?” she asked, clearly not waiting for an answer. “I spent forty minutes locked in a room with Mulciber and Travers. Greaves tried to fold her notes into a fox and accidentally summoned a wasp.”
“That does sound dire.”
“McGonagall said we were the best option.”
“Well,” Remus said delicately, “she didn’t mean it personally.”
“I hope you choke on that sandwich,” she muttered.
Remus tore off a bite, chewed serenely, and said through a mouthful of treachery, “You know you’ll do a better job than anyone else.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to do a better job. I want to be mediocre. I want to be shockingly, offensively average and let someone else handle the magical equivalent of corridor HR.”
Remus sipped his drink, thoughtful. “I don’t think you’re capable of that.”
(Unfortunately, he was correct.)
She slumped forward until her forehead hit the table. “I hate everything.”
Remus hummed sympathetically and went back to his book like they hadn’t just shared a moment of spiritual defeat. Lily stayed facedown on the table, breathing in crumbs and shame, wondering if she could just sink into the wood and live there forever. Maybe become a poltergeist. Haunt people who forgot to return library books. Rearrange their citations. Spill ink in their beds.
She was nearly done composing her future revenge haiku—three days overdue / your soul now belongs to me / should’ve read faster—when someone dropped into the seat beside her with enough dramatic flair to qualify as a health hazard.
“Morning, Evans,” Sirius said brightly, like it wasn’t half past twelve.
Lily groaned into the tabletop. “No.”
“No what?”
“Just. No. Whatever this is. No.”
Sirius leaned sideways, trying to make eye contact with the vague shape of her left eyebrow. “You look unwell. Is this a curse? Should I fetch help?”
“She’s had a rough morning,” Remus supplied without looking up.
“Was it the committee thing?” Sirius asked, already smug.
Lily lifted her head half an inch. Just enough to glare.
“I heard Mulciber’s on it,” he added. “Which means you’ve got maybe four days until you snap and transfigure him into something unpleasant. Like a goblin. Or a prefect handbook.”
“I’m thinking dung beetle,” Lily muttered.
Sirius grinned, like he was genuinely proud of her. “Good choice.”
“What do you want.”
“Nothing.” Sirius said, lying a liar. “Except to inform you that our dearly beloved James would like a word.”
“Tell him I’m dead.”
“He says it’s important.”
Lily peeled herself off the table. She felt sticky and morally compromised.
“Did he say what he wants?”
“Nope.”
“Did he look guilty?”
“Always.”
“Did he look more guilty than usual?”
Sirius tilted his head, considering. “Hard to say, really. His face always looks a bit suspicious.”
Remus, still reading, helpfully supplied, “He’s near the courtyard. Said he’d wait.”
Lily groaned. Loudly. With feeling.
Sirius gave her a cautious pat on the shoulder. “There, there.”
The sun was out. Which felt rude.
Lily trudged down the stone steps like a woman walking toward her own execution, shoes thudding against the flagstones with the kind of weighty finality that said I am not emotionally available for whatever this is. She squinted into the courtyard. Spotted James immediately.
He was standing near the fountain as though he thought he was in a portrait. Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched with the posture of someone trying to appear both casual and tortured. Aesthetic misery. How tasteful.
She stopped a few feet away and crossed her arms. “If this is about your mother’s party,” she said flatly, “I’m going to kill you.”
James looked up.
He blinked. “What?”
“Your mother’s party. The one apparently causing a body count.”
“That’s not what—” He looked genuinely confused. “Wait, what’s happening with the party?”
“Two breakups and a duel,” she said.
“Oh, that was probably Sirius.”
She sighed. “Of course it was.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. His hair was doing something structurally impossible. “I just—no. This isn’t about the party.”
Lily squinted at him.
“Not directly,” he added.
“Oh?”
James held up both hands like she was a bird he didn’t want to spook. “Okay, look. It’s not what you think.”
“I haven’t said what I think yet.”
“Right. Sorry. Just—premeditive defence.”
Lily waited.
James shifted his weight. Looked back at the fountain like he was hoping it might provide backup.
The water gurgled unhelpfully.
“Okay,” he said finally, “so I’ve been seeing someone.”
Lily stared at him, baffled. “Is this a confession or a cry for help?”
James winced. “It’s more of a… gentle warning.”
“A warning.”
“In case you throw something. Or start yelling. Or disown me.”
She folded her arms, expression flat. “Who is it.”
He hesitated. Which was mistake number one.
“James.”
“It’s Regulus.”
She stopped. Didn’t speak. Just stood very still, in the too-bright courtyard, while a bird somewhere above them made an optimistic little chirping noise that felt immediately incorrect.
Then, very calmly:
“What.”
James shifted again. Hands back in his pockets. Classic damage control stance.
“Regulus Black,” he clarified, like maybe she’d misheard him and thought he meant a different deeply unpleasant Slytherin.
There was a long moment of silence. The bird chirped again. She hoped it would explode.
Lily opened her mouth. Closed it. Ran a quick internal diagnostic to make sure she hadn’t been hit with a Confundus Charm.
“Regulus Black,” she repeated flatly, in case the universe wanted to rewind and try again.
James nodded. Brave. Stupid.
Lily looked at him disbelievingly. “You’re dating a terrorist.”
“He’s not a terrorist,” James said, somehow offended. “He just—has a reputation.”
“Yes, a reputation for terrorism,” Lily said, like James is a bit slow
James crossed his arms, visibly bristling. “He’s actually very principled.”
“So is every fascist. That’s kind of the problem.”
“He hasn’t even joined them yet,” James snapped. “He’s thinking about it. It’s different.”
Lily stared at him. “You just said that like it was better.”
He ran a hand through his hair like that might somehow fix the last five minutes. “He reads poetry,” he tried. “And he hates his parents.”
Lily made a sound that could only be described as extremely English and full of judgement. “Is this a sex thing?”
James choked. “No.”
“Because I’d understand it more if it were,” Lily said frankly. “Like—yeah, sure, he’s evil, but you have eyes. I’d still judge you, but at least I wouldn’t want to throw myself from the Astronomy Tower.”
James groaned into his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Let me get this straight. The boy who called Mary a mudblood in third year. The boy who hexed your broom in fourth because you bumped into him in the hallway. That boy.”
James, to his credit, looked like he was also suffering.
“He apologised for the broom thing,” he muttered.
“Oh, well, if he apologised.” Lily clapped her hands together, mock-sweet. “And I’m sure you’ll both live happily ever after, once he finishes moonlighting for the wizarding KGB.”
James opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought about it.
They stared at each other for a beat.
“He’s different when we’re alone,” he said, in the kind of voice reserved for people on the Titanic insisting it wasn’t that bad.
“Christ.” Lily looked like she aged five years on the spot. “You’ve gone full Jane Eyre. What’s next, defending the creepy attic noises?”
James didn’t answer. Lily suspected he’d never heard of Jane Eyre.
“Okay,” she said, slowly. “Okay. This is horrifying. But fine. Fine. You’ve decided to date Regulus Black. What I don’t understand is why I’m involved. Why you’ve come to me, of all people, to confess your horrible taste in men.”
James looked genuinely surprised. “Because you’re my friend?”
“I’m your reasonable friend. I’m the one who says things like ‘maybe don’t date someone with war crimes on his to-do list.’ I’m not the confidante for this. This is Marlene territory. Marlene would tell you he’s hot and ask if he has an older cousin.”
James winced. “I’m not telling Marlene.”
“Fine. Then Remus.”
“I definitely can’t tell Remus.”
“Then—wait.” Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t told anyone else.”
James suddenly found a very interesting spot on the cobblestones to look at. “No.”
“Oh my God.”
“I just needed—your opinion.”
“Why would you want my opinion?”
James ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly wild-eyed. “Because you’re brutally honest and have no concept of mercy. I figured if you didn’t threaten to kill me, it couldn’t be that bad.”
“I am threatening to kill you.”
James gestured vaguely. “Yeah, but like, emotionally.”
Lily dragged her hands down her face like she could peel it off. “You haven’t told Sirius.”
“No.”
“You haven’t told Sirius.”
“I’m going to—”
“James, he thinks Regulus sleeps hanging upside down in a cupboard. They’ve not spoken in months. He is not going to take this well.”
“I know,” he said miserably. “That’s why I haven’t—yet. I needed to know if I’ve lost my mind.”
“Oh, well. Bad news on that front.”
James gave her a hopeful, doomed look. “But like… not completely lost it? Just slightly mislaid?”
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go with mislaid. Like your dignity.”
He winced. “Right.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So I’m assuming it was you who got him the invite to your mother’s party?”
James looked genuinely alarmed. “How do you even know about that?”
“Mary.”
James groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Of course she knows. I was hoping it wouldn’t spread until at least—Sunday.”
“Optimistic.”
“I was aiming for a week of plausible deniability.”
“She announced it over breakfast, James. Like it was breaking news.”
He muttered something incomprehensible into his palm.
Lily tilted her head. “So? You did invite him?”
He dropped his hand. “Yeah.”
She stared.
“He said no at first,” James offered, like that made it better.
“Pity he didn’t stick to his instincts.”
James shrugged, helpless. “I wore him down.”
She rubbed at her temples like the sheer weight of this stupidity might be physically dislodged with pressure. “I can’t believe I came all the way out here for this.”
James had the gall to look sheepish. “Sorry. I just needed to tell someone about it.”
She gave him a long, pointed look. The kind that could fell lesser men.
“I mean, thank you,” he added quickly. “For not hexing me. Or drowning me in the fountain.”
“I’m still considering it.”
He nodded solemnly. “That’s fair.”
“I’m not helping you lie to anyone,” she said. “I won’t cover for you, I won’t make excuses, and if he breaks your heart, I will say I told you so.”
“Of course.”
“And I’ll be insufferable.”
“You already are.”
She glared. He smiled. It was the kind of stupid, lopsided smile that made her want to either punch him or sigh.
She turned on her heel before he could say anything else foolish and emotionally compromising.
“Don’t follow me,” she called over her shoulder. “I need at least twenty minutes to forget this conversation happened.”
James stayed by the fountain, hands in his pockets, still somehow looking hopeful. Like she hadn’t just verbally kicked him in the soul.
Lily stomped back across the courtyard.
The sun followed her all the way.
It was safe to say Lily Evans was having a spectacularly shit week.
It wasn’t the worst week of her life. No, that honour went to the week in fifth year when Severus called her a slur, her cat got banned the library for disorderly behaviour, and she accidentally walked in on Filch singing to his mop. But this one was climbing the ranks fast.
She’d run out of ink. Twice.
She’d stepped in a cauldron spill in the dungeons and spent the rest of Wednesday smelling like melted liquorice and regret.
She’d accidentally made eye contact with Slughorn during supper and gotten roped into organising something called the Potions Networking Gala, which was apparently a real thing and not a very specific curse invented to destroy her will to live.
And, of course, there was now the Regulus Black situation. Which was not technically her problem but was somehow still ruining her life by sheer proximity.
By Thursday morning, she was operating entirely on caffeine and bitterness. She made it to class with seconds to spare, elbowed a Ravenclaw out of her usual seat, and spent all of Arithmancy vibrating with academic rage.
It didn’t help that her essay got passed back with a tidy red 93 in the top corner and a note that read: Excellent analysis. Keep pushing yourself.
Keep pushing herself. As if she had anything left to push.
She shoved it into her bag and was halfway out the door when Professor Nara called after her, almost as an afterthought.
“Oh—Miss Evans. Congratulations. Second overall.”
Lily blinked. “Second?”
“For the term rankings. Only just—Mr. Crouch edged you out by half a point.”
“Crouch is a fifth-year.”
“Yes,” Nara said, smiling. “He takes NEWT-level classes with the upper years. Isn’t that impressive?”
Lily opened her mouth. Closed it.
“Keep up the good work,” Nara added cheerfully, and turned to harass the Ravenclaws at the back of the room.
Lily stood there, frozen in the corridor, her books digging into her arm.
Eventually, she turned and walked out.
Didn’t slam the door.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t even swear, which frankly felt like a missed opportunity.
She just walked all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, dropped her bag on the floor, and said to no one in particular:
“I’m going to kill him.”
Lily Evans was having a spectacularly shit week.