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Chapter Text

November 1976

Mary Macdonald longs to be held.

Her hands shake with it, the longing. Marlene begins to notice. Mary shoves her hands and her feelings down further into the pit of her stomach, ignoring the pain.

When Mary imagines touch, it is gentle and kind. It is fingers scratching her scalp, skating across her arm, kisses pressed lightly to her forehead. It is soft, never cruel, never unwanted, never forceful.

Milton Mulciber held her down. She remembers it through a fog. His hands gripping her wrists like vices, pining her in place as he jeered at her. A little bit of spittle landed in her eye, where the bruise was beginning to form. The curse, powerful though it was, couldn’t dull the searing terror that ripped through her body. She feels it, again and again, waking in the night to the sound of her own screams. It is for this reason that she always casts a silencing charm around her bed for the night.

Marlene and Lily don’t know. Or, at least, they are kind enough not to let Mary know that they do. She is grateful for that. Even in this strange, foreign world of magic, they remind her of home. Through them, she remembers her youth, the young Mary who watched flying brooms and magical sparkles with wonder.

Mary knows better than anyone just how dangerous magic can be.

~*~

They say war is approaching. Nobody likes to talk about it much, Marlene especially. She buries her face in the newspaper whenever one of the boys begins discussing it over breakfast, which is where they find themselves one blustery morning.

“My dad says the ministry has growing concerns that they’ve got spies in their ranks,” James Potter says, letter dangling from one hand as he spoons porridge into his mouth with the other. Lily, to Mary’s left, wrinkles her nose at him. Mary supposes it’s only fair. James and Lily have only recently struck up a truce, with James agreeing to stop pestering Lily with date proposals and Lily relenting to stop calling James an “arrogant toerag”. Still, talking while eating is enough of an offence to invoke Lily’s ire.

Sirius Black makes an annoyed sound from next to James, tossing his hair. “Well no shit, the ministry’s corrupt. You know who just got a promotion? Fucking Malfoy, that slimy git my cousin married.” He pulls a face and leans back against Remus Lupin’s shoulder, sighing dramatically with his head back. “So much for the blood purity of the noble house of Black, no one’s less pure than Lucius Malfoy.”

Mary and Lily glance at each other. Comments like these are frequent, especially from the purebloods among them. Lily shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. Today is not the day to fight. And, of course, Mary acquiesces.

In her best dreams, it is Lily who touches her. No one has softer hands, softer skin, softer love. Mary craves it like air. She takes any crumb, any morsel of love that she can get and cradles it gently against her breast, letting it sink into the deepest parts of her heart.

Mary is a stranger to magic. She is good at it, sure. Protection charms are her specialty. But it feels foreign in her body, like an intruder. She cannot ignore how her nerves scream with warning when she casts a spell, because magic was never supposed to be a part of her. But it is now, lodged into her where there was no space for it. A splinter.

The others don’t quite get it. Marlene, James, Sirius, Peter, even Remus, they do not understand the feeling of alienation that surges, as though she steps further away from herself the more magic she casts. Lily gets it, the betrayal in her very core. They’ve talked about it, late nights in bed with the curtains drawn, quietly swapping stories of home as a reminder of their pasts. At Hogwarts, it is easy to lose yourself in it all. Lily is her anchor, her compass. Lily dictates and Mary follows.

She loves all her friends, but it is hard to explain the level to which lily brings Mary comfort. Especially now, as the skies darken, and whispers become more prevalent. She’s scared, fuck, she’s scared. It is easy now to blame her shaking hands on the situation at hand, but that is almost worse. She thinks of Mulciber’s face suddenly and shudders.

“You there, Mary?” Marlene’s voice nudges her back to reality. Mary blinks and glances to her side, down into Marlene’s big brown eyes, creased with worry.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Mary says and smiles, but she knows it’s not convincing. Still, Marlene gives her another scrutinizing look before returning to debating quidditch stats with Sirius, James, and Peter.

Mary looks to Lily to stabilize herself, but Lily has Remus engaged in a deep conversation about some history book. Everything feels floaty and weird. Fingers trembling, she pushes herself up and away from the table, mumbling something about using the restroom.

She finds herself outside the owlery, which is convenient since this spot is only used by snogging couples and thankfully is currently empty. Her breath comes in short and stuttered, and she flattens her palm against her chest.

Her body wasn’t hers in that moment. It was Mulciber’s, and the curse’s. her mind was there but it hurt so bad that it kept floating away. She can still feel the pressure around her wrists, his hot breath in her ear. He tasted like cigarettes.

Everything feels wrong. Mary curls in on herself and tries desperately to tear at her wrist. She keeps floating away like she did then, and it reminds her so much of imperio that it’s almost worse.
Her skin
skin
skin

She doesn’t know how it ended. At some point, she blacked out. When she awoke, still all floaty and wrong, the first thing she saw was the open window, a white curtain fluttering and birds chirping. That isn’t right, she thought.

Madam Pomfrey asked who it was. Mary just stared at her. His eyes were everywhere, she shrunk under their gaze. She couldn’t speak a word.

Milton Mulciber, son of a prominent pureblood family, assaulted Marisol Macdonald, mudblood. Nothing she could say would ever change that.

But she still relived it every night since. She still floated away and thought about it and screamed and cried. She’d learned everything she could on imperio and taught herself spells to heal the gashes on her wrists that she’d open up.

Nothing changed.

~*~

At Hogwarts, she is Mary, yet another distinction between her past and present lives.

Back home, they call her Mari. Her mother still calls her Marisol every time. She says the name is like music to her ears, “it would be a crime to shorten it!”

Mary misses her so much. Her voice, her hands, her smell. She misses the homemade food being made when she came home from school, seeing her mother and father cooking together in matching aprons, singing off-key to Latin pop and dancing. She misses Rafe and Nico and ana. She misses the feeling of belonging.

When she goes home now, none of it is quite right. She sticks out like a sore thumb. She doesn’t respond much to Mari anymore, doesn’t have any of the same interests she did when she was little. She doesn’t know how to talk to her siblings anymore or play with them. When they ask how school is, she pushes food around on her plate and says it’s fine. Nothing she can say can bridge that gap.

Rafe asks what magic is like. He seems the most interested in it. Nico seems to resent her for leaving, and ana doesn’t quite understand it all yet. She tries to tell him what it feels like, but he can’t possibly know. It’s the loneliest feeling, to not belong where you came from.

Hogwarts is weird too. Yes, she has Lily and Marlene and the boys, but her past life feels distant when she’s here. Here, she’s Mary Macdonald, muggleborn Gryffindor slut. That’s what they call her, slut. Nobody back at home would call her a slut.

She doesn’t know whether she’s Mary or Mari. Sometimes, she wonders if she is neither. Caught between two worlds, whoever Marisol Macdonald was supposed to be fell through the chasm, never to be found again.

~*~

In the third floor girls bathroom, Mary Macdonald is pushed up against a wall.

Hands in her hair, frantic and desperate. Hot breath on her cheek. Knee pushing into her side. Lipstick smearing across her face. Teeth digging into her lip, hard enough that Mary makes a noise of protest.

It is quick and passionate, less of a desire than a carnal need. Mary needs this, needs this to forget. She needs lips, tongue, and breasts to forget his face.

Not her wrists, though. Those remain untouched.

Hestia pulls back, breathing heavily. Her hair is messy and her lips are parted. She looks like a goddess, glowing from within.

“You okay?” Soft whisper. She always checks in on her like this.

Mary nods. “Yeah, yeah, keep going.”

Hestia looks at her with those honey eyes, melted gold, and dives down. Mary arches up with pleasure, all thoughts exploding in colour. This is the feeling she craves: an absence of thought, replaced with pure and protecting sensation.

~*~

Mary watches Hestia walk through the Great Hall. She does not let slip, not a coy look or wink. Head straight, walking ahead with her friend. There’s a lilt to her step, a slight hesitation when stepping with her left leg. Mary knows that, because Hestia is careful with that leg when they fuck. Mary has her wrists, Hestia has her leg.

“Why are you watching Hestia Jones?” Lily says, beside her, carefully scooping some chicken onto her plate.

“’m not.” Mary says, still looking. Hestia vanishes beyond the doorframe.

“Are you two friends?” Lily asks, and there’s something so curious and earnest about her question that Mary nearly confesses. Instead, she swallows her pride.

“No. I think she’s friends with Emmeline, though.” This is reasonable to say: since becoming quidditch captain for the Ravenclaws, Emmeline Vance and James have become good friends. Mary doesn’t mind Emmeline, she’s got a wicked sense of humour, but she hasn’t gotten that close with Emmeline as compared to lily or Marlene, who seem to think Emmeline’s the best thing since sliced bread.

“Oh, yeah, she is. They’re kind of a weird group, aren’t they? Those two older Ravenclaw boys, the Slytherin quidditch captain, Emmeline, and Hestia jones?” Lily bites into her food, chewing fully before adding, “They’re not too bad, though. Emmeline says you and Hestia would probably get along.”

Well, she’s not wrong, Mary thinks. Changing the subject, she glances around. “Are Marls and the boys coming anytime soon for dinner?”

“Quidditch practice, I think. Pete’s at the greenhouses and Remus is sleeping already.”

“Already? It’s barely six.”

Lily opens her mouth to say something, and closes it abruptly. “I don’t know, maybe he’s ill or something.” She pokes out her elbow into Mary’s side. “Come on, you should eat something. Afterwards, we’ll play Gobstones.” She grins widely, showing that chipped incisor Mary loves. “I’m on a winning streak, you’ll test me.”

I love you, Mary nearly says. Looking back at the doorway, where Hestia is already gone, it seems her courage has left her.

“Sounds good” is all she says, reaching to get some pot pie.

~*~

Hestia Jones began on September 26th, 1976.

Mary was, as she tends to be when all good things happen, quite drunk. The seventh year Hufflepuffs know how to throw a good rager. Thanks to Pete, who manages to be on good terms with everyone, it seems, got them in. Mary remembers taking to the dance floor with Marlene, twirling and giggling. Somewhere, she could spot Lily in the crowd, chatting with some pink haired girl.

Between then and when Mary finds herself stumbling around outside Hufflepuff tower, she must have gotten really drunk. Like, eyes spinning in her eye sockets, one shoe missing, drunk. She keeps reaching down to grab at her other heel, and can’t seem to keep her balance when she walks because of the height gap.

There, sprawled on the ground and unwilling to get up, Mary lays there and thinks about just falling asleep. She wants lily to come rescue her, lift her up and carry her back to Gryffindor tower. Lily’s big, strong arms. Marlene is strong but lily is too, deceptively so. She wants lily’s bicep because it’s so perfectly shaped, soft yet firm below. Mary wants to kiss every bit of lily’s rolls all the way down her body. She wants to feel her stomach pressed against her own, inhale her jasmine perfume—

“Are you okay?”

Mary groans in response, trying to turn her head to look but the corridor spins faster. There’s a figure above her, and Mary tries to concentrate.

“Hey, hey.” Firm hands on her shoulders. Big amber eyes suddenly level with hers. Mary’s breath hitches. “I got you. Where do you need to go?”

“Stay… here.” Mary manages to slur finally, after a moment. Her tongue feels too heavy in her mouth.

She feels herself be propped up against the wall, her head lolling like a cut marionette. There’s a soft swoosh, and there’s a glass pressed into her hand.

“Water,” the soft voice says. “Drink up, Macdonald.”

Mary doesn’t ask how the figure knows her name. She gulps down the water like it’s all she needs to survive, reveling in the feeling of her mouth being moistened once again. God, she does really hate alcohol.

They stay like that for a while, Mary chugging glass after glass while the figure keeps conjuring more. At glass five, she finally turns and looks.

She recognizes the girl, if faintly. She’s a Hufflepuff in Mary’s year. Brown skin, dark loose curls scooped messily back from her face, a delicate pointed nose and lips. Her eyes, like melted gold, tracing every line and movement of Mary’s face. She’s bold, unashamed of openly staring. Mary, entranced, stares back.

The girl smiles, revealing two slightly crooked front teeth. “Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“I was worried I’d have to bring you to Madam Pomfrey if you didn’t sober up a little more. She likes me, but not that much.”

“You’re Hestia Jones.” Mary guesses, finally puzzling it out. “Seeker for Hufflepuff. You’re at the infirmary studying with Madam Pomfrey a lot.”

Hestia seems surprised, eyebrows lifting. “I didn’t realize anybody noticed me.”

“How couldn’t they?” Mary asks, genuine, staring at Hestia’s profile. There’s a smattering of freckles against her cheekbone. “Everybody knows who you are.”

Hestia blushes, pink and pretty, and looks down at her hands in her lap. “I mean, I could say the same for you. Muggleborn Mary Macdonald, who got three Outstandings in her O.W.L.S!”

“How do you know that?”

Hestia leaned in, voice a whisper. “Your two girlfriends are fond of talking about you, you know.”

Now it’s Mary’s turn to blush. “They’re not—we’re not—I’m not dating Lily.”

Hestia cocks her head. “I didn’t think you were.”

“Oh.”

“They’re proud of you, though. Lily and Marlene. The tall gangly boy, Remus, he is too.” Hestia leans in a little. “I pay attention to everyone, but you’re worth watching.”

Mary, feeling her neck burn, goes to chug her sixth glass, which has mysteriously been refilled while they’ve been talking. Afterwards, she mutters, darkly: “That’s not why you know who I am.”

It hangs like a dark cloud over her entire reputation. Mary Macdonald, not just a muggleborn but a mudblood, a slut who sleeps with any man who comes onto her. That’s what the Slytherins say, what they whisper after her. Those three outstandings, in Defense against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, and Charms, came from her sleeping with the teachers. She’s promiscuous and open: the worst thing any girl could ever be.

Hestia is quiet for a while. Then, softly: “If something happened… it’s not your fault, Mary. Those boys, they’re real dicks. They’re just threatened by you. Don’t let them dictate your future.”

Mary shakes her head, tears springing to her eyes. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t need to, to know that you’re a good person, Mary Macdonald.”

She feels it deep in her chest, her next words: “Call me Marisol?” She’s never said that to anybody, not even Marlene or Lily. They wouldn’t understand, what her name means to her. Right here, right now, she needs Hestia to call her by her name, if only just to hear it again.

“Marisol. Pretty name.”

Mary smiles, and it triggers the tears to stream silently down her cheeks. She buries her head in her knees, sobbing openly. A hand presses between her shoulder blades, warm and present.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Hestia whispers, “I’ve got you, you’re okay.” The gentleness of it all makes Mary cry harder. The softness of Hestia’s touch is all she’s ever wanted. So, recklessly and craving more, Mary lifts her head, still crying, and presses her mouth to Hestia’s.

Mary has kissed girls before, back home. The summer before second year, she had a thing with a gymnast, Alessia, who had pretty black eyes and pin straight hair. She has fantasized about Lily, too.
Hestia is different. It is less passionate, instead softer but no less important. It warms Mary down to her very core, a sobering sensation that forces her to pull away suddenly.

They are very close, noses almost touching. Hestia’s pupils are blown, her chest rising and falling quickly. A curl has slipped loose from her bun, and Mary suddenly longs to run her fingers along it.

“Okay.” Hestia says, quiet and raspy. “We should get you to bed.” She clambers to her feet, pulling Mary up with her. The wave of drunkenness hits her when standing, but Hestia has a strong grip. Together, they make their way through the corridors, silent except for the soft pitter-patter of their feet.

The Fat Lady glares at them when they approach, but Mary mutters the password and she lets them in with an unimpressed “Hmpf!” Up the spiral stairs, to Mary’s dorm room, where Hestia pushes it open with her hip, now half-dragging Mary along with her.

Ellie’s asleep already in the furthest bed, curtains drawn tightly. The girls’ other roommate, who thinks they’re all supremely annoying and goes out of her way to make sure they all know. Mary makes a face in her direction, just before finding herself slumped unceremoniously into her bed.

“Shit, sorry!” Hestia whispers, reaching to pull her up and onto the bed fully on her back, reaching to pull the covers back. “Are you going to be okay here like this?”

“You’re an angel.” Mary slurs. “You’re a goddess. Goddess of fire but so sweet.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll let Marlene and Lily know I brought you back.”

She starts to turn back to the door, but Mary catches her wrist. Hestia looks back, face shadowed but no less lovely.

“They write poems about you. Pretty girl.”

Hestia’s brief smile is the brightest thing in the room. “Goodnight, Marisol.”

Mary stares after her for the longest time after she’s gone, until sleep fills in the blanks.

~*~

Hestia Jones becomes the most consistent thing in Mary’s life.

For weeks, they go crashing into empty bathrooms or classrooms together, lips locked. It started out slow and gentle, Hestia murmuring the whole time, walking Mary through it. The first few times, she’d had a panic attack, remembering, but Hestia sat and breathed with her. The more they fuck, the less Mary thinks of it. Hestia understands, but never asks.

They don’t talk much, aside from that one night. It scares Mary, the vulnerability. Hestia is so kind, so earnest, but Mary feels the pit in her stomach deepen with their every encounter.

She wants it to be Lily, truth be told. In those moments, she closes her eyes and thinks of Lily’s hands, Lily’s hair, Lily’s mouth. She moans Lily’s name. They don’t talk about that, either.

In public, they don’t address one another. Mary Macdonald only knows Hestia Jones as a friend of her friends, a girl in her year, a Quidditch captain. She does not know how Hestia’s stomach is freckled, how her thighs are spotted with stretch marks, how the birthmark across her left breast resembles a cloud. They are virtually strangers, in every way except one.

She goes to watch Quidditch matches and spends most of her time observing Hestia instead of James, Marlene, or Sirius. She watches how Hestia moves in dart straight lines, no wavering or hesitation. She’s quick, shooting across the field on the pursuit of the snitch in moments. Her hand jerks out, and suddenly she’s flying back to land, closed fist held up in victory to reveal the fluttering golden ball. The Hufflepuffs crowd around her, chanting, but Mary doesn’t lose sight of Hestia, blushing, turning to look up at the stands. Up at Mary.
It’s a brief glance, and from afar, but their eyes connect for just a second. Mary feels the current run down her spine. In that moment, Hestia’s eyes are the same gold as the snitch.

Sirius is pissed about the match. As soon as he’s down, he’s storming off to the showers, refusing to stop by anyone. Mary, Lily, Remus, and Peter head down to the field to meet with the other two. James and the Gryffindor captain, Maria-Gabrielle McGonagall, are engaged in a deep conversation. Marlene flies over to them.

“Shit out of luck!” She yells once she reaches earshot, propelling herself off her broom with a skilled maneuver to fall into Mary’s unsuspecting arms. Swooning, she bats her eyelashes up at Mary: “Will you still love me even if I lose, Macdonald?”

“I’ll love you no matter what.” Mary responds, and Marlene grins and bounces up.

“Pete, how were my stats?”
“Rough start, Diggory nearly got you nailed with that bludger, but a good recover. You should be more careful with your swinging, you nearly took out M.G. right near the end when she was racing over toward James.”

“You know,” Lily says, impressed. “I can’t believe you’re not a rockstar Quidditch player, Pete. Your knowledge almost rivals Potter.”

Peter flushes a deep red. Further down the pitch, James yelps. “Lilyflower, you wound me!”

“Guy has ears like a bat.” Marlene fake-whispers into Mary’s ear. Around Mary’s head, she calls: “Hey Moony, did you watch any of that?”

Mary’s never quite understood any of the boys’ silly nicknames, but the only one to really have stuck is Moony for Remus. He seems to respond to it immediately, head snapping up from where it was bent into his battered paperback.

“Pete elbowed me for the important bits, and Lily narrated the whole thing, so I basically saw it all.” Remus says, giving one of his odd half-smiles. Mary sometimes wonders how he’s not more popular with girls. He’s tall and lanky, and quite shy and quiet around most people, but he’s really rather handsome. She’d asked him once, at a Gryffindor party, why he was still single and he’d shrugged half-heartedly and then looked away at the drinks table, where Sirius and Lily were trying to see who could chug the most Firewhiskey in thirty seconds.

Oh. She understood in that moment.

Remus liked Lily.

It made sense: Remus was the first one of the boys that Lily actually warmed up to. Marlene was always one of the boys, she’d grown up with James and Peter after all, but Lily and Mary were fairly outcasted from that larger group at first, being the two muggleborns. They just so happened to share a dorm with Marlene, but their first foray into the group was really Lily and Remus, who partnered together in Potions in second year and found themselves bonding over books and studying. It was clear that they were good friends, but nothing had ever seemed to happen between them.

Of course, Mary was glad for that. She wanted Lily for herself, but that would never happen. Lily wasn’t a—

Lily didn’t like girls. Simple as that.

And Remus must have been hesitating because of James’ clear and persistent crush on Lily. Honourable, but suspicious. Mary never quite trusted Remus Lupin or got a clear read on him. He was an enigma, a mystery. She didn’t dislike him, and they got along well, but there was always an air of protection around him, like the boys and Lily were constantly guarding him from being truly seen.
Even last year, when the boys seemed to fracture. Nobody really explained it, but one day there was James, Peter, and Remus at breakfast, who didn’t seem to worry about Sirius not joining them. Only Pete seemed to speak to Sirius aside from cordial and brief comments, like James. Remus would barely even look in Sirius’ direction.

They seem to be doing better at the start of this year, but there’s still something fragile and delicate about it all. Strenuous. All, it seemed, with Remus at its center. That just adds to the mystery more.

Mary glances down at the book he's holding. Frankenstein. Interesting. She flicks her eyes back up at him, where Marlene is him about his ineptitude for Quidditch.

“I should probably go finish my essay for Transfiguration tomorrow.” Remus says, holding up his book as a shield to block Marlene’s face, which is easy given that Remus is easily 6’4 and Marlene is barely 5’6. “Still missing a few inches.”

Marlene tries to grab the book away from her face but fails. She slumps her shoulders in mock sadness. “I guess I should go shower, too.” She says, glumly.

“Please do, you stink.”

“Oh, don’t go there, Macdonald. I’ve smelled your morning breath.”

“Girls, please keep the peace.” Lily interjects, laughing. “We still have to share a dorm for another year and a half.”

Marlene sticks out her tongue behind Lily’s back, grabbing Remus and strolling off with him. Back on the pitch, James and Maria-Gabrielle have finished talking. He jogs over to them, pushing his hair up off his forehead, glistening with sweat.

“Lilyflower, are you still insulting my prowess?” He teases.

Mary is astounded to find Lily beet red, staring at James’ sweaty figure. “N—no.” She managed=s to stammer out.

Mary’s stomach does an odd backflip, jealousy rearing its ugly head. Through her buzzing ears, she cqn hear Peter asking James about the game, what Maria-Gabrielle was saying. She is still staring at Lily, who seems to be doing her best to melt back into the stands while continuing to go deeper red.

Shit.

Shit
shit
shit

Lily Evans actually likes James Potter.

Mary feels her heart shatter into a million pieces.

Of course it would never work. Of course Lily wouldn’t like someone like her. She would forever be the best friend, the one who understood her past but not her future.

Cause Lily likes magic. She's fantastic at it. She talks all the time about becoming a magic historian or a potioneer. She wants to live in this world. Who better to do it with than James Potter, rich pureblood who was destined to be a great Quidditch player once he left school?

Not Mary Macdonald, who only wants to go back home to her family and old life, go back to being Mari. Mari Macdonald would never be enough for Lily Evans.

And that should have been okay.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mary loves Lily.

And Lily doesn't love her back.

But she doesn’t turn away.

She doesn’t do anything.

She stands there, hands balled into fists, barely processing anything besides the wave of emotions in her head.

Across the field, at the exact moment that Marisol Macdonald’s heart shatters, Hestia looks back through the crowd of Hufflepuffs.

Because she pays attention.

Chapter Text

June 1978

On the last day of classes, as Minerva McGonagall is tidying up her classroom, she hears a familiar sound, like a twinkling of bells.

Straightening up, with her back still to the door, she calls out. “I’m still not joining.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Albus Dumbledore’s soft, lilting voice responds.

Minerva turns. Albus is leaning against the door frame, arms folded at his chest. Sometimes, looking at him like this, it reminds her how old she is. Nearly thirty-one years ago, she was stood in this very classroom as a bright-eyed first year.

How times change.

“Your position is important. I wouldn’t dare compromise that.” Albus adds, sagely.

“What is it that you need, then? I can’t promise that I’ll do it.”

Albus nods and drops his cool façade, straightening up with his hands by his sides. She appreciates that about their relationship: Albus does not mince words or sugarcoat with her, he knows she won’t stand for that.

“I need your help assembling a different team.”

~*~

They wind up, predictably, at the Three Broomsticks.

It’s not busy, since it’s midday and most people are out enjoying the warm weather, but Albus chooses the smallest table in the far corner to sit. He flashes two fingers at Rose Rosmerta, who winks at them and swishes back to ready their drinks. Minerva watches her disappear into the back.

“Still weird to know that some of my former students are adults now.” She remarks.

Albus snorts. “Imagine how I felt when you showed up at the castle door, demanding a job.”

“I wasn’t demanding!”

“I distinctly recall you telling me you would turn my ears into teapots if I didn’t comply.”

Minerva flushes. Nobody seems to poke the same buttons to infuriate her as Albus does. It makes sense: as her mentor for nearly thirty years now, he seems to know her better than anyone.

Well, not everyone.

“Are you and Poppy heading home together this summer?” Albus asks mildly, pressing his fingernail into the groove of the wooden table.

Rose chooses that moment to deliver their drinks. Minerva flashes her a tight-lipped smile but waits to respond until she’s out of earshot. “Not this year. It’s still… well, we’re not quite back to where we were.”

“You mean after Alphard Black?”

Minerva nods solemnly. “Yeah, after Alphard.”

Alphard dying seemed to push Poppy away more than she’d ever been. Minerva should have expected it. It was exactly what she’d predicted back when they were seventeen, and Alphard had approached her about marrying Poppy to appease his family.

It’s not about that… she’s my friend. I do love her. And she’s pureblood, technically family. It’s just to save face, I promise, Minerva. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.

It’s true, he hadn’t. neither had she. Minerva knew it had been platonic from the start, all the way until he died. But it seemed one of the few remaining threads tying her to Poppy had been snapped.

Now, all that was left was their shared place of employment. Speaking briefly in the halls, cordial nods. The closest they’d come to being friends was over the care of Remus Lupin, but he would be gone as of today. They were back to being coworkers, and coworkers alone.

Minerva ducked her head to hide the emotions that swelled in her chest, refusing to let Albus see them. She wanted to preserve some of her dignity in front of him, at least.

Composing herself, she straightened back up, staring at him directly. “What was it that you needed me for?”

Albus sets down his Butterbeer, a line of foam coating his mustache. He seems to be thinking through actively how to communicate his point. Finally, he speaks, even quieter than his usual timbre. “The Order has become too high-profile, already. Some of the names of our members have been leaked. We cannot afford to lose the edge, the element of surprise against Voldemort.” Minerva shudders at the name, an irrational fear she still can’t quite shake. “What I propose is the development of another team, a sub-division of the Order, and I want you to be their leader.”

Minerva stares blankly at him for a moment before bursting out into laughter.

Albus, thankfully, doesn’t interrupt her.

Finally, wiping tears from her eyes, she looks back at him. “You want me? I’ve already made my intentions in this war clear, Albus.”

Albus leans forward on the table. “I want this team to be filled exclusively with witches.”

Now that, that is intriguing. Minerva can’t quite figure out the angle, here. “Why?” She asks, gaze scrutinizing.

He can tell he’s got her exactly where he wants her, that glint in his eye confirms it. Leaning back, satisfied, he takes a swig of his drink. “Less suspicion thrown onto them. A majority of our leaked names right now are the men, Moody and Longbottom and such. It would be a chance to enlist some of the more…gifted witches, who are hesitant to join the Order.”

“You can’t force these young women to join your war, Albus.”

“I can’t.” Albus holds her gaze. “But you can.”

~*~

Minerva does not like this plan.

It is cruel, to bring these young women in.

But it is not foolish.

From what the Order knows about You-Know-Who and his followers, they seem to hold women to a lesser standard. Minerva knows from her own past that it’s a custom among most pureblood families to begin with. Recruiting witches who already aren’t in the public eye with respect to the war may be an asset to the cause.

Dumbledore is not always kind. Minerva knows that first-hand. He is smart, though.

Above all, she trusts him. He would not be asking her of this without knowing all the risks. He knows that she will look after these young women even despite her trust, because she is wary.

So, she begins compiling a list. A shortlist, including every one of the gifted young witches she’s taught.

There are the women who have already joined the Order, only two:

Alice Fortescue. Established Auror, known for her use of Herbology. Preferred method of combat is long-distance, manipulating surroundings to cause damage. Clear dedication to the cause, alongside her husband, Frank Longbottom.

Dorcas Meadowes. Freshly minted Auror, protégé of Auror and Order member Alastor Moody. Described as the “Queen of Death.” Known for her use of fire and exploding charms. Gifted in both close and long-distance combat.

Then there’s some of the older graduates:

Andromeda Black. She’s no sure bet, given her family allegiances, but she could be convinced. Whip smart, with a proficiency for dark magic, like the rest of the Blacks.

Amelia Bones. Established clerk at the Order, probably the one Minerva knows best given her spying. Rational and even-tempered, holding a special gift for ancient runes and scripts.

Emma Vanity. Gifted flier and star Defence Against the Dark Arts student. Currently abroad in Sweden studying alchemy, had previously expressed an interest in fighting.

Septima Vector. Another student gifted in ancient runes and arithmancy, but also a polyglot. Had previously refused to join the Order and was studying up north to become a Runes Master. Quiet and studious, likely to refuse again.

Maria-Gabrielle McGonagall. Minerva’s own niece. Also a good flier, but with an aptitude for Transfiguration, like Minerva herself. Prone to recklessness and instability.

Then there’s the newest graduates:

Lily Evans. Best student of her year despite being muggleborn. Particularly gifted in Potions and Charms. Boyfriend James Potter had already attempted to join the Order several times while underage, likely a lock.

Marlene McKinnon. Talented spellcaster, shows great promise towards curse breaking. Known for her energy and willingness to fight but demonstrates a lack of maturity in her attitudes towards the war. A sure bet but requiring further supervision.

Mary Macdonald. Demonstrated prowess with protection and shielding charms. Is of flight risk to returning to the Muggle world due to clear impostor’s syndrome. Could be a valuable asset to the team, key to reaching Mary is likely through Lily Evans.

Emmeline Vance. Strong flier and has an eidetic memory. Good with magical creatures and magical theory. Has already expressed interest in joining the order. Takes orders well but isn’t as strong of a fighter in combat.

Hestia Jones. One of Poppy’s more gifted proteges with relation to healing. Uncertain where she stands in relation to the war. Her skills would be needed in the background.

She brings this list to Dumbledore, a week after they first spoke. She watches as his electric blue eyes scan the parchment. Finally, he looks up at her.

“Add Olivia Gleaves, and it will be complete.”

Olivia Gleaves…? Who is Olivia Gleaves? There was no student by that name at Hogwarts, certainly not one Minerva ever taught. But...

There isn’t time to spend wondering. Minerva gets to work.

~*~

From James’ house in Merlinspire, the three girls take the portkey together.

It’s a measure of safety, certainly. Dumbledore had requested that the three come on one portkey to reduce risks of being tracked or followed with too many magical traces. They would have come together anyway, Marlene knows that.

There’s an electric thrum in her veins. She’s an Order member already, sure, but no missions yet. Marlene wants to fight.

Lily and Mary are less certain. Over the telephone, minutes after receiving Dumbledore’s patronus, Mary had admitted quietly on the phone to Marlene and Lily, who were up in Marlene’s bedroom, that she didn’t want to go. Mary was back home in Woolwich since school ended. Neither of them had heard much from her, even though Marlene and James had both invited Mary to come stay with them.

The whole group had set up camp somewhat with James’ parents, Fleamont and Euphemia, while waiting for their official order summons. Only Sirius had his own flat, but he was over every day anyway.
Pete and Marlene had started sleeping at the Potters’, it was easier. Besides, it was good to know where each of them was at all times. Paranoia had already begun to set in, even this early on.

Mary had refused every attempt to stay with them. She missed her family, she’d said. Lily had shaken her head imperceptibly out the corner of Marlene’s eye when she’d asked over the phone when she’d be coming.

It’s the first time the three of them have been together since their leaving party back in June. Mary is all freckled across her shoulders and nose, curls cropped shorter and tied back. She greets them with
a smile, but Marlene catches her grimacing as they grab onto the Portkey, an old hat.

They appear in the deep woods, momentarily disoriented from the travel. Lily is the first to recover.

“Dumbledore said to follow the trees with the markings.” She points at a small X carved into the base of an oak tree. She glances back at them. “You coming?”

Marlene bumps Mary’s shoulder as they walk. “How are the kids?”

Mary keeps her head down as they walk, carefully stepping over branches while Marlene obliviously stomps over them. “Yeah, they’re okay. Rafe’s gotten really into skateboarding. Nico’s got a girlfriend, she’s super cute, very shy. And Ana just turned eleven…” She trails off, features settling into a frown. “I think she was waiting for a letter.” Her voice is small and cracks on the last syllable. Marlene hesitates.

Mary is unhappy. It is clear now, and Marlene has no idea what to do about it.

Were she a better, more perceptive person, she would take cues, match Mary’s body language to make her more comfortable. She could talk it through, gently, to understand what she’s going through.
Marlene doesn’t know how to do any of this, hasn’t throughout her life. She bulldozes through.

“You’re special, Macdonald! Nobody could match you. It’s why we keep you around.”

Mary’s shoulders slump even further down. She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the walk.

The cabin comes up ahead. Lily motions for them to stop, and moves forward first, wand at the ready. A figure is standing by the door, tall and white. Dumbledore, somehow looking older than Marlene has seen him in the month since leaving.

Lily, keeping her wand hand steady, aims for Dumbledore’s chest. “What is the wizarding candy that was confiscated from me in third year by Albus Dumbledore?”

Dumbledore smiles. “Fizzing Whizbees. I’m glad to see that someone has picked up on that practice. Your paramour seems prone to forgetting.”

Lily shrugs, lowering her arm while a smile dances across her lips. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t control him.”

“Nor would I expect you to.” Dumbledore inclines his head to Mary and Marlene. “Good evening, ladies. Ms. Macdonald, it is good to see you again.”

Mary smiles, but only with her lips. Her eyes are dark and sad.

“Please, enter. The rest should be arriving shortly.”

Lily and Marlene’s eyes meet. The others?

What the fuck is happening, Marlene wants to ask. It is Lily’s warning look that just keeps her from opening her big mouth, instead she just bows her head and follows Lily in.

The first person she sees is Alice Fortescue. Thank god for Alice Fortescue. She spots them coming in and smiles at them, but there’s something tight in her face.

Minerva McGonagall is muttering to her niece, Maria-Gabrielle. Marlene is also glad to see them both. MG doesn’t seem to notice them yet, but she’s waving with her hands as she speaks in hushed tones. McGonagall does not look thrilled.

Septima Vector is also here, which is surprising. She and Marlene grew up together, but Septima was always kind of cold and unwelcoming. Here, she’s nose-deep in a book, ignoring all of them. She and Remus would get on like a house on fire, surely.

Finally, the final figure, whose back is turned to them, tosses her dark braids over her shoulder and looks back at them. Marlene’s mouth goes dry.

~*~

“That’s Dorcas Meadowes!”

“Who?” Lily asks, trying to paint her toenails with one hand while the other fans in the air to dry.

Marlene bounces down off the bed, falling to her knees in front of Mary’s bed. “Only the most talented and intelligent and cutthroat Auror in a century!”

“What’s an Auror again?” Mary’s voice, muffled by the magazine she has covering her face.

“Wizard police.” Lily doesn’t miss a beat. "Isn't she still in training, though? Like, not actually a wizard police yet."

Marlene ignores them both. “She literally graduated and went straight into the Auror program, which is practically unheard of. She managed to get Outstandings in eight OWLS! Rumour has it, she disarmed Mad-Eye Moody when she was twelve, and managed to catch his attention! He’s been her mentor since she was our age, can you believe that?”

“Can’t tell if you want to be her or date her.” Ellie mutters from the furthest bed.

“Fuck off, Ellie.” Marlene makes a crude gesture in her direction. “Last I heard, you failed Potions so badly Slughorn was using you as an example to the first years of who not to be!”

Ellie’s ears flush, and she ducks back under her covers.

“I mean, yeah, she’s impressive Marls, but what’s with the raving?” Lily finally finishes her toenails and wiggles her foot around in the air to dry them.

“Well, my darling Lily,” Marlene turns to point at her. “Rumour has it that Dorcas Meadowes, known as the Queen of Death, is joining the resistance movement.”

“Isn’t she a Slytherin, though?” Mary levitates the magazine off her face, plopping it neatly in front of her crossed legs.

“Not all Slytherins are bad, Macdonald. Besides, Dorcas is more than just a Slytherin.” Marlene’s eyes glitter. “She’s a God.”

“Your mother would be so disappointed in you.”

“My mother can suck Jesus’ unbelievably huge cock, Lilith.”

“Marls,” Mary sits up to look Marlene in the eye. “We’re still underage. We can’t join the Order. Besides, Dorcas is an actual wizard cop. It’s not like we can just join with our basic DADA knowledge and expect to survive all so you can fight alongside Wizard God.”

Marlene waves a hand in the air. “Potter says the resistance isn’t doing so well, so there’s definitely room. Besides, we should fight. It’s not like we’re doing anything by just staying in school.”

“If you would think this through instead of being led by your lady boner—”

“Mary.” Lily demands, and Mary promptly shuts up.

Marlene leans back in bed, examining the magazine in her hands. Exclusive Profile on Rising Young Auror, Dorcas Meadowes. She’s glaring out at Marlene, sharp eyebrows menacing. Her hair is in twists, falling to her mid-back, and she’s in the Auror uniform. Even in the image, she looks tall and broad shouldered, arms so muscled it makes Marlene’s mouth water. She remembers those firm arms swinging the Beater’s bat in the first Quidditch match Marlene ever saw at Hogwarts: Gryffindor vs Slytherin. She sat in the crowd, James and Pete on either side of her, watching as powerhouse fourth year Dorcas Meadowes slammed a Bludger into Stephen Gould’s temple.

I want to be you, Marlene thought.

Later, she realized that what she actually thought was: I want to be with you.

~*~

Dorcas Meadowes is even taller in person. 6’, easily. Dark hair braided all the way down her back, accented with deep purple strands that make her look drawn with ink. Sharp eyes, sharp jawline, sharp scowl.

God, Marlene is so gay. Somewhere, deep down, a voice that sounds like her mother protests. She ignores it, too infatuated by the sight in front of her.

She doesn’t have long to drool. The door opens behind them, and three other bodies press in. Emmeline Vance, Emma Vanity, and Hestia Jones. The latter shoots a curious look at Mary, who studiously ignores her.

Dorcas is looking at her. Shit, shit. Her eyes are so dark, like pools of night. A scar runs down her cheekbone to her jawline. She looks so rugged and cool, like Ares, the god of war.

“Ladies, please.” Dumbledore is here now too, clapping his hands together to bring them to order. They’ve sort of gathered in a strange circle, Marlene between Mary and Lily. Hestia, next to Lily, is still eye-fucking Mary.

“We don’t have much time here, I’m afraid.” Dumbledore gives them his crooked half-smile. “But Professor McGonagall and I have a very particular request.”

“Is this about the Order again?” Soft-voiced Septima asks, having closed her book over her index finger to keep her page. “Because I already gave my answer.”

“Yes and no.” McGonagall responds, voice stern and comforting. Marlene’s missed her looming presence, like an overbearing mother. “This is about a different organization, one which is not known to the public.”

“An all-women team, led by myself and Minerva, fulfilling different roles both in conjunction with, but also separate from the Order, all with the ultimate purpose of defeating Voldemort and his agenda.” Dumbledore explains, spreading his hands out as though that makes him more welcoming. “Several of you are already Order members, but others have refused – as they are entitled to. Each of your skillsets are deeply valuable to the cause.”

“And what if we refuse?”

Everyone turns to Mary, who doesn’t shrink in on herself. Her eyes are trained on Dumbledore, unflinching.

“What if we say no? Will you accept that?”

“As this is a top-secret organization…” Dumbledore clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “None of you will be permitted to leave this cabin without accepting.”

“Albus, they’re just kids!” Alice exclaims, stepping forward with an arm out as though to shield Lily, Mary, and Marlene. “You cannot take away their choice!”

“I’m afraid I already have, but only in the service of good.” Dumbledore does, for a moment, look truly sorry. Next to him, McGonagall is silent, jaw clenched.

“I don’t want to join.” Septima declares.

“Me neither.” Mary agrees.

“Not without knowing what this means.” Hestia Jones, quiet but firm.

Dumbledore sighs. “I cannot disclose what each of your individual positions will be at this time. That will be determined later and relayed in private.”

“No.” Mary turns and goes to grab the doorhandle, but it refuses to budge. Lily is frozen, staring at Dumbledore, confusion and shock and horror playing across her face in real time.

Across from her, Dorcas’ face hasn’t moved. Her eyes suddenly shift from Dumbledore to Marlene. They stare at each other for a moment.

Marlene steps forward, still watching Dorcas. “I’m in.”

The ghost of a smile darts over Dorcas’ lips. It’s gone in an instant, but Marlene’s heart beats faster.

“Me too.” Maria-Gabrielle also steps forward. “I want to fight.”

“You already know my commitment to the cause.” Emmeline Vance adds, though her voice is shaky.

Dumbledore and the rest of the room look to Lily.

Her jaw is working, the cogs spinning quickly in her head clear to see. She does not look at anyone but Dumbledore, eyes narrowing and widening as she thinks.

In the past, Marlene has loved to watch Lily’s brilliant mind on display. Not so now, though. She feels the goosebumps rise on her arm in anticipation.

Lily, head and eyes unmoving, finally speaks: “Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”

Then, and only then, do her eyes dart to Mary, who is staring at her with such desperation, all crushed in an instant.

“Ms. Macdonald…?” Dumbledore prompts, not unkindly.

Mary is still looking at Lily’s side profile. Marlene has never seen her look this scared and vulnerable, like a little kid. For a second, she remembers Mary as a first year next to her in line for the sorting. Their eyes the same, now and then: big and dark and grieving all she had ever known.

“Okay.” Her breath punches out into a whisper. She looks so utterly defeated, the blood drained from her lovely brown skin.

Hestia, also watching Mary, echoes, “Okay.”

“I hope this bites you all in the ass.” Septima says, but her glare at Dumbledore reveals that he has won.

Dumbledore smiles widely now. “I am glad we are in consensus. Now, for the unbreakable vow.”

Everyone around the room has some variation of fear or trepidation on their faces. Not Dorcas. She is stone-faced, almost bored-looking. Her eyes keep finding Marlene.

So Marlene straightens her posture, tries to morph her facial expression into one of neutrality, desperate not to reveal either her fear or her excitement. She looks to Dorcas for confirmation.

Again, Dorcas almost smiles.

Maybe, once this is all over, it will be worth it.

Chapter Text

July-August 1978

Hestia takes the tube home every evening from work.

She could apparate, but there’s a certain comfort in the normalcy of the tube and the muggle world. Besides, they’re all on high alert to watch what magical traces they produce. These days, Hestia is too cautious to risk it.

She leans her head against the window, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds before opening them again to survey her surroundings. She’s grown cautious, much more than she’s ever really been.
Unlike Emmy or Van, who have already been dispatched on one mission each for the team, as of yet unnamed, Hestia has been sidelined. Her role, as explained by Dumbledore, is solely as a healer. He tells Hestia to lay low, keep her head down. She gets a job on Diagon Alley, selling herbs and plants. She rides the tube there and back each day. She waits.

Hestia does not want to fight, it’s not that. A thrumming heart pulsing against her ribcage at every point in the day does not excite her. Emmy came home last week with a black eye and a broken nose, and Hestia nearly crumpled with relief at seeing her, but was nearly inconsolable about the injuries, though Emmy waved them off.

She’s afraid, so damn afraid. That’s part of why she refused to join the Order: she would not be able to take it. People like Hestia Jones aren’t built for war. She is too soft, too easily bruised. The enemy could crush her like fruit in their palm, and still, she would not fight.

Already, she grieves the stability and comfort of Hogwarts. The memories take on a glazed, unfocused look, as though already fading from her grasp. Living in them again is warm and simple: the swoop of an owl in the great hall, the feeling of the wind in her hair, the bubbling of potions, the soft whispers in the library. Hestia yearns for it, the past. She hasn’t breathed properly since leaving. Hogwarts is her missing lung; without it, her breathing is shallow and insufficient. Time is running out.

The voice overhead announces her stop. Hands in her pocket, she gets off, keeping her head down. Even here, even now, a threat could be present.

The flat is close to the station. Hestia’s hand shakes slightly as she fits the key into the slot, pushing the front door open.

“Honey, I’m home!” She calls out sarcastically into the flat, setting her keys in the little ceramic bowl that Clara made when she was little. Clara. Damn, she should call later.

“In here!” Van’s voice, distant, but present. Hestia exhales a little.

Van’s in her tiny bedroom, back to the door while she scribbles at something on her desk. Hestia knocks lightly at the door to make her presence known, but Van doesn’t care much for formality. Hestia goes to perch on the corner of her unmade bed to wait for her full attention.

Van’s got sheets of parchment messily strewn across her desk, quill working furiously across the one in the centre. Around her, alchemy books are open to various pages, strange symbols abound. Van’s dark hair is piled up onto her head, broad and muscled shoulders open in her tank top, showing the long pale scar stretching across her back. She’s never said where that scar comes from, but Hestia assumes it’s a Quidditch injury. Van doesn’t like admitting when she has lost or been beaten.

“Okay.” Van finishes her scribble with a flourish, looking up to Hestia with a wide smile. “Welcome home schnookums.”

Hestia and Van have taken to calling each other ridiculous pet names as a way of embarrassing Emmy, who keeps calling her boyfriend, Tiberius McLaggen, the worst and most sickly-sweet monikers known to man.

“I’m amazed that you can understand any of those symbols.” Hestia gestures at the books. “They’re almost as indecipherable as your handwriting.”

“Makes it a perfect match, then. Maybe I was born for this.”

“Maybe.” Hestia swings her feet, then jumps up to lean over Van’s shoulder, scrutinizing the scribbles. “What is this, anyway?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Not as dumb as I look, Vanity.”

Van grins. “Essentially, I’m running calculations to see whether Flamel actually could have created the Philosopher’s Stone based on the properties required and the lack of the proper solvent available on the planet, and what he could have substituted in its place to achieve the proper density needed for the successful transformation.”

“Fuck, maybe I am dumb.” Hestia mumbles.

Van gets up out of her chair and thumps Hestia on the back. “Nah, it’s just complicated. Trust me, it took months to even figure out how to explain it, never mind do it.” She strides out of the room,

Hestia following in her stead. “What’s for dinner?”

“Benjy and Caradoc are coming over later, I think.”

“Then takeout it is.” Van closes the fridge door immediately. “I refuse to cook for those two idiots.”

“Is Emmy home tonight?”

“Fuck if I know. Probably out shoving her tongue down McLaggen’s throat.” Van pretends to gag. “What she sees in him, I’ll never know.”

“He’s…” Hestia finds herself at a loss for words. “Handsome, I guess?”

“Ha! You don’t believe that!”

“Look, I’m trying to be nice here!”

Van grabs a glass from the cupboard, smirking at Hestia over her shoulder. “Don’t bother. He’s a lug. Besides, you and I have other interests.”

Ah. That’s an indicator of Van’s emotional state more than anything. Hestia leans against the tiny island, choosing her words delicately.

“You, uh, haven’t heard from Juliette lately, have you?”

Van’s back, from where she stands at the sink, stiffens. “Why?”

You never mention our shared interest unless you’re thinking about her, Hestia cannot say. She clears her throat awkwardly, scuffing her shoe against the tiled floor. “Well, it’s just… I know you tried to reach out to her a while ago… and I was hoping you heard back.”

Van takes a long drink. “Family says she’s off the grid.” Her voice is low and rough, dangerous territory.

“You know…” Tread lightly. “Just because she’s gone doesn’t mean she’s joined them.”

The soft sound of glass touching the counter. Emma Vanity turns around, eyes dark and unreadable. Like this, there is nothing friendly or approachable about her, just pure Slytherin anger.

“Do not push me, Jones.” She articulates every word, teeth gritted. “Juliette is gone. Juliette is a Death Eater.” Emma keeps stepping forward, hands clenched at her sides. Hestia doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just stares. “No amount of prodding into my life will change that.” Their faces are inches apart. Emma’s pupils are big and dark. “Understood?”

Hestia feels a deep wave of sadness down in her stomach. “I understand.” She says as softly as she can. “I understand, Emma.”

Van’s eyes shift a little, some of the brown iris peeking through the black pupil again. She seems to have realized what she’s said, what she’s turned into, because a look of shame crosses her face. She steps back immediately, turning her head away. “I need some space,” is all she mumbles, taking off in the direction of her bedroom, the door closing quietly in the distance.

Hestia exhales and presses her palms against the counter, lowering her head to set her forehead against the cool marble. She is never afraid of Van, never, but the sadness for her is overpowering.

The truth about Emma Vanity: she is harmless. She may not look it, with her muscled body and expressive face, but deep down she is gentle. She channels her anger and hurt into her movements, working hard to keep them graceful and docile, not aggressive and overpowering. If anyone knows how fury can corrupt, it’s Van.

Hestia will need to apologize later, she knows that. Juliette is at the center of Emma’s hurt, her pain. Nobody can wound invincible Emma Vanity quite like Juliette Wilkes. Hestia will never know their history, but it ranges far beyond what she or anyone could ever understand.

Weeks ago, after the unbreakable vow, Hestia had pulled Dumbledore aside. He’d seemed surprised but allowed it.

She’d spoken barely above a whisper, afraid that Emma would hear. “Can you find Juliette Wilkes?”

Dumbledore had pulled back, scrutinizing her face with those electric eyes. “I cannot promise,” was his response. Hestia had taken that to mean that he would try.

But no news had come. According to her parents, Juliette Wilkes had gone missing on June 19th, 1978, and no one had cared to go searching for her.

Hestia does not trust that Juliette Wilkes has not gone to the Death Eaters. By the looks of it, Van does not trust that either. The way she speaks of her, with that perpetual wince and the hand at her breast, like her heart is bruised, confirms that Van truly believes that her lover is gone. She can see it, those blonde curls, always turning away from them.

“I couldn’t save her”, that’s what Van had muttered one night, very drunk at a muggle nightclub. “Nobody could save her, not even herself.”

Hestia holds Van’s pain in her chest, keeping it close so it will not hurt her more. She puts it right beside her own pain, her own loss, and nurses the wounds alone.

~*~

“Who chose your name?”

Deep in the soft blankets, Mary traces down Hestia’s inner arm with her forefinger, careful not to scratch. Hestia fights to keep herself out of sleep, the warm hazy world.

“My dad. He’s a, uh, history professor.” Her own voice floats slurred and quiet to her ears. “He likes Greek mythology a lot.”

“Is your dad magic?”

“Half-blood, like me.”

“Why did he choose muggle history?”

Hestia shrugs, but the motion is slow and languid. “He didn’t really like wizard history all that much. After he left Ilvermorny, he went back to the muggle world for a while before my mom came along, when they moved to Britain.”

“Did he teach you about Greek mythology growing up?”

“Oh, all the time. Those used to be our bedtime stories. Chronos eating his kids, the Trojan War, all that stuff.”

“Sounds pretty violent for kids.”

“He made sure to soften it for us. It wasn’t just Greek mythology, though. He liked other mythologies too.”

Mary’s other hand moves into Hestia’s hair, fingers cradling and massaging her scalp. “Like what?” Her voice is soft and buttery.

“Oh, Roman and Norse and Indian. Anishinaabe mythology, too. My dad’s Ojibwe, so he grew up with those stories in particular. They kind of inspired him to learn about other mythologies too.”

“What was your favourite story, growing up?”

“Mmm,” Hestia feels herself drifting further down, sinking into the world of dreams. “I liked the Valkyries. Warrior women in Norse mythology who brought defeated fighters to Valhalla.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I loved the Valkyrie stories when I was little. So powerful and so underrated.” Hestia’s breath begins to even out, catching her words in her throat. “You… you remind me of them.”

“Of the Valkyries?”

“Yes.” Her voice has turned breathy and absent, falling deeper into sleep. “So… powerful… and beautiful.”

“Shhh, sleep, darling.”

“You’re… my… Valkyrie. You… lead… me to… Valhalla.”

“Sleep, Jonesey, I got you.”

~*~

“I come bearing gifts!” Emmeline announces at the front door. Hestia, from her bedroom, pads out in her socks to come see her.

Emmy’s hair is pinned back, and her eye is still tinged green and yellow from the bruise, but she’s smiling and carrying two bags of the week’s groceries. Behind her, Benjy and Caradoc are holding cartons of Thai food.

Ben goes to set them down on the island, and Hestia hugs him first. His body is firm and he smells like cedarwood. “I missed you, Benj.” She whispers into his chest, and he pats her shoulder reassuringly.

Caradoc wraps her into his arms, even though he’s much taller than she is. “Staying out of trouble?” He asks teasingly in his deep voice, setting her down.

Hestia grins up at him, even though he can’t see her. “You know me, the troublemaker.”

Caradoc gives her his crooked smile and reaches into his pocket for his wand, which lights up at the tip with his touch. “Okay, gotta piss then we eat. Don’t start without me.” He tries to glare, presumably at Benjy, but just ends up giving a dirty look to the houseplant instead.

Hestia goes to help Emmy unpack, moving side by side in sync. They’ve spent so many years as friends that they know each other’s movements, precise.

“Careful with Van.” Hestia mutters, low enough that Benjy, obliviously whistling while sitting at the island behind them, can’t hear. “I accidentally touched a nerve.”

Emmy nods without looking up as she washes apples in the sink. “Gotcha.”

“I was trying to be delicate, I promise.”

“I know you were, Jones.” Emmy says, exhaling loudly out of her nose. “We’ll take care of it, I promise.”

Hestia looks down at Emmy’s long, delicate fingers. “I’m glad you’re home.” She whispers.

Emmeline does not tell her that she has only been at work today, or ask what she means. She just reaches over to squeeze Hestia’s hand. “I’m here.” She smiles, reassuring, and Hestia smiles back.

“Crocodile’s back, let’s eat!” Benjy says from behind them.

Hestia grabs a few containers and comes to dump them down on the coffee table in front of the couch, sitting on the floor. She hears footsteps, and Caradoc and Van come in. Van gives her a shaky smile, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Hestia pats the spot next to her and Van comes to sit, leaning her head against Hestia’s shoulder.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Benj, are you going to share your pad thai?”

“Only if you ask nicely, Emmy.”

“Crocodile will give me some, cause he’s a gentleman.”

“I think you have the wrong idea of me, Vance.”

In the midst of a war, Hestia cannot help but feel warm at the fact that the people she loves are here with her.

Well.

Not all the people she loves.

~*~

It is late. The building is dark and quiet. Only the soft click of heels on the marble floors can be heard.

Amelia, adjusting the files in her arms, picks up her pace. She hadn’t intended to stay late tonight, but time escaped her. It seems to always these days.

Click click click.

Tick tick tick.

She has dreams about these hallways, where horrible things jump out at her from every corner. It’s a stress response, surely. Amelia Bones isn’t afraid of the dark.

When she was little, Edgar and Oscar used to tease her about all her irrational fears. She was afraid of spiders, snakes, heights, open water. Oscar once pushed her into a lake and she nearly hexed him. All these things, and yet she never feared the dark. What was there to fear?

The unknown, she knows now.

It’s wise to fear the dark.

Click click

Her office is just up ahead. Her office, not a cubicle anymore. The promotion was essentially just because they’d had an empty office for her to use. Still, she likes having her own space. Growing up with older twin brothers, she’s learned to value the quiet moments of peace.

As she walks, she begins evaluating her mental checklist. Floo home, do the laundry, make supper, clean the dishes. Also, fill out reports for tomorrow’s meeting.

Amelia pushes the door open with her hip, reaching with one hand to flick on the lights while keeping the large stack in the other hand steady.

She’s not alone.

Minerva McGonagall is sitting in her chair, arms folded over the desk. She looks like she’s been here a while, staring at the door.

“Why are you in my chair?” Amelia asks first, setting the stack down on an empty chair by the door. She’s actually quite peeved that McGonagall’s in her spot. She doesn’t like people touching her things. The surprise bit is less alarming: her asshole boss likes to wait in her office to yell at her. Amelia’s not one to startle.

McGonagall’s eyes flick to the old clock on the wall. Half past twelve. Eyes back to her. “Happy birthday.”

Amelia looks at her. “Thanks.”

McGonagall pushes herself up off the chair, standing to meet Amelia at eye level. “I hear you’ve been working hard. Congrats on the promotion.”

“I’ve got things to do, Professor.” Amelia turns to grab her bag from the coatrack.

“I have an offer for you.”

Amelia doesn’t flinch. “Not interested.”

“The Ministry is in trouble.”

That stops her. Back still to McGonagall, she turns her head slightly to indicate she’s listening.

Tick tick tick

“You’ve got Death Eaters infiltrating in high quantities.” McGonagall’s voice is low. “The integrity of this office is at risk.”

“You’re not saying anything I don’t already know, Professor.”

“But I can offer you a way to remedy it.”

Amelia folds her arms over her chest, still not looking back. “Are you here from Dumbledore?”

“What if I were?”

“I’m not interested in what either of you have to say.”

“You paused.”

Amelia finally looks back. McGonagall is standing tall and firm, eyes over her glasses piercing.

“Look,” Amelia says, her tone neutral and flat. “I’m not like those kids that you’ve recruited for your resistance movement. I’m grown, and I have a job that I care more about than your war effort. I appreciate you paying me a visit Professor, really, I do, but there’s nothing you can say to sway me.”

McGonagall licks her lips, thinking. “You’re a smart woman, Amelia. I’ve always respected that about you.”

Amelia inclines her head slightly.

“We can offer you the position of Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, if you so wish. Both Albus and I have more than enough leverage to make that happen.”

“Are you trying to bribe me into joining your cause? I expected better of you, frankly.”

“I could be blackmailing you instead. Is that what you’d prefer?”

Amelia smiles tightly. “I’m not scared of what you can find on me, Minerva. I’m an open book.” She spreads her arms out.

“Oh, Amelia. We both know you’re not.”

The two women stare each other down. Minerva is smiling. She’s enjoying this.

“A top position.” Minerva repeats slowly. “Maybe even a spot on the Wizengamot. You’ll have the power to steer the Ministry in whatever direction you choose without getting your hands dirty. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I want very little, Professor.”

“Bullshit.” Minerva leans in close, her breath hot against Amelia’s face. “You want power and control. Don’t deny it. I’ve been watching you for a long, long time, Amelia Bones. This is your one opportunity to get everything you’ve ever wanted without any risk of your own. Cowards don’t get these chances more than once. Trust me.” These last words come out a hiss.

Amelia stares into Minerva’s grey eyes. There’s a moment of unwilling kinship, a spark that goes between them. I see you.

Amelia tilts her chin up, poised and collected as ever, her posture refusing to admit defeat. “What are you asking?”

Minerva cannot hide her smile. “A spy. You’ll report to me weekly. Anything within the Ministry comes to me. No risk, only information. Is that satisfactory for you?”

For the first time in a while, Amelia smiles genuinely, hiding the world of calculations running through her brain.

“Perfectly.”

~*~

Nico is the only one to come see her out.

“You sure you have to leave again?” he asks, standing in the doorway.

Mary looks at him. It’s hard to look at him, because she still expects him to be little. When she left for Hogwarts, he was only nine.

Now he’s sixteen. His dark curls shift gently in the wind over his forehead. He’s got these thick glasses that he keeps adjusting over the bridge of his nose, but the way he squints at her is the same as when he was younger. She wants him to stop growing up without her.

“Yeah, Nic. I’ve gotta go.”

He looks down and away, his hand twitching at his side; a nervous tic he’s never quite kicked. “I think you hurt Rafe and Mom’s feelings.” Sad and quiet.

Mary wants to shatter herself into shards, that would hurt less. Everything in her is open and raw, an exposed nerve. “I know.”

“You just keep coming back and leaving again.”

“That just means I’ll come back after this, right?”

Nico looks up at her with that squint. His lower lip is quivering, and he chews down on it to stop. “We never really know with you.” He says, and his face crumbles.

Mary makes a noise that’s half-gasp and half-sob and folds Nico into her arms, pressing her face into his shoulder and holding his back so tight that he’d never be able to get away. It hurts so badly, this pain. She wants to stay, she wants to stay.

But Dumbledore said she couldn’t. Dumbledore said it wasn’t safe.

How is this any better? How is breaking her family’s heart time after time any better?

“Mari,” her younger brother whispers into her hair, and it’s like she’s six years old again, holding him as he sobs over a skinned knee. Except this time, she’s the one who pushed him, and yet he still
comes to her for comfort.

“Tell them I’m sorry.” Mary says, muffled, into his chest. “Tell them I’m so, so sorry.”

She feels Nico nodding.

“Tell them—” she wants to say that she loves them, but the words stick in her throat. She hasn’t been able to say those words in a long, long time.

“Okay.”

Nico pulls back and holds onto her shoulders for a beat. He’s the one who looks most like her. Rafe looks like Dad and Ana looks like Mom, but Nico? Nico is Mary’s, through and through.

She reaches up to touch his cheek, trying to smile through tears. “You look after them, okay? I’ll come back.”

He tries to smile back, but it comes out more of a grimace. This is what makes Mary finally turn away, going to lift her suitcase up and down the stairs.

When she looks back, Nico is still standing there, watching. Waiting. She gives him a final nod and, understanding, finally goes back into the house.

Mary apparates away alone.

Chapter Text

September 1978

Dumbledore calls for a meeting.

It has been two months since they were first called together. Lily has been brewing potions for that and the Order. She’s technically not allowed to tell James about what’s happening, but she can’t help herself.

(James, eyebrows raised. “You guys really have an all-female alliance? Where’s our man alliance?”

“That’s the Order, nitwit.”)

In all honesty, Lily’s glad she hasn’t been on the front lines. Marlene’s been sent out a few times already, not for anything major, just busting a few outer circle Death Eaters.

Lily likes the quiet. Honestly, she likes living here in Merlinspire with James’ parents. She’d thought it’d be awkward, but it’s beginning to feel like home. Plus, Marlene and Mary are staying with them, and Pete’s just across the road. They’ve fallen into old routines, especially with the girls. Staying up late, sleeping in each other’s beds, just like they used to back at Hogwarts.

Except, it’s different now. Mary won’t really talk to her. She’s hurt, clearly, about Lily’s decision. Lily wishes it were different, truly, but she feels it, deep in her bones: a need to prove herself.

Lily Evans, smartest girl in her year. Lily Evans, muggleborn. Lily Evans, born to do great things.

She needs to fight, otherwise she isn’t Lily Evans.

Otherwise, she’ll have no world to call home.

And Lily Evans isn’t willing to give up the wizarding world, and her whole life here, just yet.

~*~

Euphemia is the only one downstairs when Lily, yawning and rubbing her eyes, enters the kitchen.

James’ mother is turned toward the stove, her silver hair long and down but pulled to one side, exposing her brown neck. She’s wearing an old cashmere sweater and sweatpants, probably the only one who could pull that off and make it look elegant. Lily admires Euphemia, her grace and ease, but most importantly her love. She loves Fleamont and James and Sirius and Marlene and Peter all so deeply, but without losing any bit of herself. Lily wishes she could understand that.

“Morning, dear.” Euphemia says with a smile once she sees Lily sit down at the table. “Sleep well?”

“Should’ve been longer.” Lily responds with another yawn.

Euphemia chuckles. “That’s always the case. Scrambled eggs okay?”

“You really don’t have to cook for me every morning, Mrs. Potter.”

“Nonsense.” Euphemia waves the spatula in the air. “You’re family.”

Lily blushes, but the word pierces deep in her soul. Family.

She got a letter from Petunia before she left Hogwarts. She has no idea how it got to her, and frankly she was more shocked to see who it was from than anything else.

It was brief and stilted, but no less damaging:

Mum’s ill. Terminal. Dad wants you home late August. –P.

Lily hadn’t gone back.

Her mom had been ill since she was little. It wasn’t surprising to hear that she was terminal. She didn’t particularly like Lily, anyway. It’s easier to examine these facts from a detached, clinical lens. Lily finds herself doing that more and more lately to cope.

She’s probably dead by now. Early September, the leaves slowly turning red and orange. Nobody contacted her, but that doesn’t matter. They know Lily can find out in other ways.

Is she supposed to be sad? All those emotions, once readily available, elude her grasp. She feels vaguely empty. Essentially, she tries not to think about it.

“Where’s James?”

“Out back with Flea, Sirius, and Marlene. Probably playing quidditch again, even though I told Flea to be careful with his back.” The last bit is grumbled under her breath. Lily laughs and Euphemia shoots her a wink.

“Thanks again for taking us in, Mrs. Potter. I really appreciate it.”

“Lily, darling, it’s Euphemia, please.”

“If there’s anything my parents taught me, it’s manners.” Lily says primly but no less coy.

Euphemia snorts. “You’re a good match for my boy, that’s for sure. Try as we might, but that boy’s manners never kicked in.”

“Actually, once he grew up a little, he became quite the gentleman.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise, I’d wholeheartedly encourage you to kick him to the curb.”

Lily mock-gasps. “Not your own son!”

Euphemia takes on a jokingly stern look, wagging her finger. “No tolerance, Lily. If my boy is being, as he so often complained about, an ‘arrogant toerag’, I would have no choice but to not accept that!”

“What about Sirius?”

“That’s just Sirius, take him or leave him.” Euphemia does a spin to place the plate in front of Lily, leaning in conspiratorially. “And, for the record,” she whispers, “take him.”

Lily giggles and lifts her fork to dig in. Euphemia takes a seat in front of her, hands folded on the table.

“I’m glad all of you have found each other.” She says softly, this time with earnest. Lily looks up at her. “It’s a difficult time to be alone, but you’re a good group.”

“I love them a lot.” Lily says, widening her eyes to demonstrate her emotion.

Euphemia smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “I know, Lily.”

Lily scrutinizes her face. “Do you think I made the wrong choice?”

They’ve spoken about this before, when the girls had gotten back from the cabin. Lily had been so overcome with regret and anguish that she’d doubled over on the doorstep, throwing up bile. All she could think about was Mary’s face, Mary’s heartbreak. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Mary, and yet that was all she had done.

Euphemia exhales slowly, moving her eyes around the room. She looks so much like James, but softer. Her dark eyes come back to rest on Lily.

“I think you made the decision that an eighteen-year-old would make in the face of war.”

“I think Mary hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s scared.”

“She’s scared of me. I put her in harm’s way.”

“That’s not true, Lily.”

“If I’d said no, maybe we could have left without joining. Dumbledore would respect my decision.”

“Dumbledore is the leader of a war.”

“Dumbledore likes me.” Tears spring to Lily’s eyes, a lump stuck in her throat. “He would listen if I said no. I could have protected her, could have protected Marlene.”

“Lily.” Euphemia reaches out to take Lily’s hands in her own. “It’s okay. This does not fall on your shoulders. You cannot take the blame for anything else but your own actions.”

“I would have lost her.” Lily whispers, guilt slipping its way into her throat and mind and heart. “If I said no, if we had said no, she’d go back home. Now she’s here, but I’ve lost her too.”

“I can’t speak for Mary, but I know she loves you. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen how she loves all of you. She’s not lost, Lily. You just have to reach out for her. You’ll find each other.”

“I’m scared.” Lily’s voice cracks in half, and it makes the tears stream down her cheeks in silent rivers. “I’m so, so scared.”

“I know. I know, love. Here, come here.”

~*~

“You don’t ever hug me anymore.”

Lily is twelve, standing in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom, watching as her mother puts on tights under her dress.

“What?”

Lily swallows down the tears. “You haven’t hugged me in a long time.”

Her mother stands up. She looks so tall and imposing. Lily wants to lift her arms and ask to be carried, just like she used to. Back then, her mother being big was security, comfort.

Now, she’s just afraid.

“I don’t want to hug you.”

“But why not?”

“I don’t even really know you anymore.”

Lily keeps standing there, even though she’s not sure why. Roots grow and tangle around her feet, cementing her in place.

“Mum, please.”

“Lily, don’t do this right now. I’m going out with your father.”

The roots chain her waist. It feels as though she’s been here for centuries.

“Do you still love me?”

Daisies start to grow in the roots, lacing up and down her arms.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Wrapping around her neck.

“Do you still love me?”

Petals in her lips.

“What do you think love is?”

A hug, lily says. But she can’t. the roots work their way around her head, sealing her in.

Mom?

Mom, do you still love me?

Mom, I need a hug.

I’m scared.

Please?

~*~

Euphemia walks the three of them to the door.

“Please be safe.” She says, looking each of them in the eye. Mary breaks eye contact first, nodding. Marlene hangs on until the end. Lily lingers even longer.

Euphemia is scared for them, truth be told. She knows Albus Dumbledore, and she knows that he cares about winning this war. She isn’t sure these girls know what it will take for him to win this war.
She and Fleamont had argued over this countless times. He felt Albus would protect them. Euphemia wasn’t so sure.

They have been a part of this war effort for longer than these girls have even been born. Euphemia has more than a fair share of scars herself, for that matter. She wishes she could do more, now, but her body has grown old and weary. She feels it, the need to help these girls survive. She loves them, truly, she does. Her boys love them and so does she.

The war will not end for a while yet, this she knows. There are still many sacrifices to come, many losses and defeats. It will not be kind, it will never be kind. It will just hurt more and more each time, one wound over another.

Lily Evans, she wants to hold her in the palm of her hand. Do not be so noble, my darling. You love so deeply, and you hurt so badly. Do not carry the weight on your shoulders, because you will crumble. Do you not see how everyone loves you? Destroying yourself will take away you, and all anybody wants is you, damn the rest.

Marlene McKinnon, the little girl I watched grow up, my little fighter. Gentleness is not a sin. You are not a sin. I know how you hide yourself in these walls, but just because love was complicated for you once does not mean it will always be. It does not have to hurt like you think it should. Love is a revolutionary act, because love makes you vulnerable, and there is nothing war fears more than vulnerability. Do not let war win, I beg you.

Mary Macdonald. I know you less, because you shy away from me, but I can tell you are afraid. You are lonely, and you ache with sorrow. You think yourself lost in the darkness, but you only have to turn on the light to find you’re right where you need to be, where you belong. I see how love is tender for you, how you keep your heart close. I understand. I hope somebody can hold you with the kindness you deserve.

Euphemia watches them go, and she wishes she could keep them, protect them from the dangers ahead.

They leave, and she feels she has failed them.

~*~

“I appreciate you all coming.” Dumbledore says, and there’s the implied threat lurking beneath his words: if you hadn’t, I would have come and gotten you myself.

Not for the first time, standing in the shadow of the old cabin, Mary thinks of Milton Mulciber, and touches her wrist, covered by bangles and bracelets.

Neither of them gave her a choice. Dumbledore just knows how to hide it better.

Mary looks at the back of Lily’s head, in front of her, where she’s worrying at her thumbnail. Good, she thinks spitefully. She is angry. Angry at herself, mostly, for going along with all this.

People usually think that because she’s loud and flashy, she’s a leader. Mary Macdonald would never take orders from anybody, right?

Deep down, Mary is a follower, to her very core. And for Lily? She would follow her into battle even at the prospect of imminent death.

She hates herself for that.

“The next time we meet, it will hopefully be in a secure location.” Dumbledore looks to his left at McGonagall, who gives the slightest of nods. Her lips are more pursed than usual. Mary always liked McGonagall, but she doesn’t trust McGonagall. She too is a follower.

“In the meantime, I must establish your official roles and squadrons:

You will be called upon for various tasks at random moments. These are not to be discussed with anyone else. Yes, Ms. Evans, that includes James Potter. (Lily flushes bright red)

We always have members in different places. Spying is a key element to winning this war. You will never really know if the people around you are allies or not. Remain vigilant and available. Any one of you could be called upon for this particular goal, and it could last hours or months.

With respect to combat, the following members will be primarily assigned to such roles: Alice Fortescue, Dorcas Meadowes, Emma Vanity, Maria-Gabrielle McGonagall, Marlene McKinnon, and Mary Macdonald. Your talents will serve elsewhere, and your fighting groups will be distributed as needed based on the situations at hand.

For the rest: Lily Evans, Emmeline Vance, Septima Vector, and Hestia Jones, you will play crucial roles in the background, but may be called upon to fight.

This is war. It will be bloody. I expect you all to do your part.”

Dumbledore’s eyes are glittering maliciously. A cold, sterilizing feeling moves through Mary’s limbs, tears flooding to her eyes.

No, no no no.

Mary does not want to fight. Not like this. The splinter of magic in her heart pulsates, and it hurts so badly. She has avoided casting spells for months now, and yet it doesn’t heal.

She thinks of Nico suddenly, his sad eyes on the porch of their home. You go back to magic, you lose them, it hums in her chest.

Mary is not ready to let go of them.

Dumbledore is watching her, she notices. She is a flight risk, she is a danger. But she is not brave enough to fight back. She glares at him through her tears, and thinks of sweet Ana, brave Rafe, and careful Nico. You won’t take them, I won’t let you.

“The Valkyries.” A soft voice mutters at a distance.

She feels herself look, but from far away. She’s begun floating off, shielding herself within the walls of her heart to be safe. Still, she looks.

Hestia is mumbling to Emmeline Vance, but suddenly stops short as all heads turn their way. Hestia’s amber eyes widen with fear.

“What,” Dumbledore says, and the calmness in his voice is more frightening than anything, “did you say?”

Hestia looks at Mary. She is openly weeping now, shaking her head. No, don’t do this. Do not give him ammunition. From above, Mary just stares.

“Valkyries. Mythical women in Norse mythology to bring warriors to Valhalla.” Hestia looks at Dumbledore. “Warriors themselves.”

Dumbledore smiles serenely. “Valkyries. An interesting metaphor, Ms. Jones. The Valkyries.”

“You’re…my…Valkyrie…”

What was once a shared secret between them, exposed for all to see. Like pulling a curtain open, showing the world just how small and vulnerable Mary Macdonald really is, and the one pulling the curtains is the only person who knows it.

“Apt, though, right?” Septima Vector spits from her spot in the corner, glaring viciously at Dumbledore. “That’s what we are to you, right? The women digging the graves for your precious Order to fall into?”

Marlene’s jaw drops. Emmeline and Alice stare blankly at Septima, standing between them. Dorcas Meadowes laughs, a low and gritty sound.

Mary does not trust men like Dumbledore. And Hestia has just loaded the gun for him, and Septima has cocked it.

Russian roulette, motherfuckers.

Dumbledore arches an eyebrow. “You agreed, Ms. Vector. I don’t understand the problem, here, unless it is that you are not aware of what you’ve signed up for.”

“Do not patronize her.” Emmeline Vance hisses through her teeth.

“Emmeline,” Alice says, warningly.

Septima is still glaring. “You gave us no choice.”

“But I did, Ms. Vector.”

“Minerva, please, can you—”

“Albus, stand down.”

“You forced us to take an oath to sacrifice our lives for you.”

“Jesus, Meadowes, stop laughing!”

“Shove it up my ass, Fortescue.”

“Septima, come on, just step back.”

“Albus!”

Somewhere through the haze, Marisol Macdonald and Hestia Jones stare at each other.

Fear and hatred and jealousy and loneliness and maybe a bit of love.

You did this, Mary says. You gave him what was ours, and you don’t even have the balls to fight your own fight. I will never forgive you.

I miss your pretty eyes, Hestia responds. I miss when you didn’t look at me like I’m the worst mistake you ever made.

You won’t get me back like this.

Will I ever?

Sometimes, Mary reaches down into the deepest part of her soul to find it: the early morning waking up with Hestia curled into her side, soft in sleep, and breathing in to find that it didn’t hurt anymore.

She keeps that locked up. Remembering it is worse than forgetting it.

~*~

They pile out of the cottage one at a time.

Alice pulls Marlene for a chat. Dumbledore has already left. McGonagall’s watching them all leave. She gives Mary a look, and it feels so heavy that she stumbles from it.

Hestia’s standing by the door, waiting, looking like a lost puppy. I’m sorry, she mouths.

“Mary?” Lily is by her side, hand on her arm. “Can we talk?”

She hates how corrosive her anger is, rusting away at everything before receding and leaving it all damaged. Nobody can ruin her but herself. Lily is the remedy, always, never the cause.

Mary doesn’t look back at Hestia.

“Yeah, Lils, we can talk.”

Chapter Text

October 1978

They all call her by the wrong name.

They call her Wilhelmina, even as she clenches her fists and grits her teeth. She must ease it, though. Nothing productive comes from an impromptu fight.

Most of the others discount her. This is a bad idea. She has always been slight for her age, sure, and in the light, she looks like a wisp, soft and delicate, but she is as deadly as they come. Sometimes, she doesn’t mind that they overlook her. That’s what Ferenc did.

She remembers the smell of blood, the tang in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to use her wand for it, besides it was much too impulsive to think of it. All she needed was her sharp nails and a vengeance.

They kicked her out of Durmstrang for that. Boo-hoo. Not like she liked it there anyways, much too cold. She’s a summer girl, through and through.

Hogwarts was nicer, less grueling. Durmstrang was determined to create fighters, while Hogwarts seemed to think herbologists and potioneers were the future of the wizarding world. She’ll beg to disagree with them there.

She threatened to kill herself if they didn’t bunk her with the girls. Her mom didn’t appreciate that, but they pulled some strings anyway. She mostly kept out of the way of her dormmates, especially since she was going in during fourth year, when friendships had already been established.

Despite that, she knows how to play nice. Coy winks, shy smiles, easy answers. She attracted a friend group in no time. She always liked to imagine them as a royal court: Neil as the king, Milton as his loyal soldier, Aurora the court advisor, Charity the princess, Evan the jester, and Severus the military strategist. She was always at the back, perhaps a steward or secretary. That was just fine. She likes to be unexpected.

Only one person ever caught her. But just like everyone else, they underestimated her.

Nobody knows that she killed a boy. They rumoured it at first, but nobody knows she actually did it. That’s a secret she likes to whisper in the ears of her victims as they bleed out. She likes the recognition in their eyes, the realization of oh, you are dangerous.

Yes, she is dangerous. And that’s how she likes it.

~*~

In some way, Alice Fortescue had always known she would marry Frank Longbottom.

Okay, well, maybe she hadn’t been able to articulate it then. She was a kid when they first met, back in the summer of 1963. God, it seemed like so long ago.

For most of the year, she and Dad lived in a small flat on Diagon Alley, so he could run his ice cream parlour. Alice mostly hung around him all day, kicking her feet on the tall stools and chatting with customers. Sometimes, she’d wander the streets, watching people move around her. She liked it especially when the alley got busy right before school, and all the students with their parents would hurry about grabbing this and that. She was especially fascinated by the muggleborn students, who wandered around gazing up with a sense of wonder. Dad had always been good at explaining the muggleborn thing, thank Merlin. She would appreciate it more when she was older.

Until Hogwarts, Alice never really got a formal education. Dad was an enthusiast about the witch trials from the past, and he used to talk her ear off about it over dinner. Everything else came from books.
Their flat was small, and so she kept a collection of her most useful and information-packed books on her nightstand, readily accessible. For the rest, she would go over to Flourish and Blotts, sit on the floor, and read all day. She was only really tolerated because of Dad, but that was okay.

Mum wasn’t around. They didn’t really talk about it, because it had been just the two of them before Alice could remember. Her father was often bumbling and accident-prone and oblivious, but she adored him dearly.

Dad was good friends with Mr. Potter for a long time, she remembered. She’d always found that funny, given that Mr. Potter and his wife were quite old, but Dad had glared at her when she’d mentioned it at dinner with the Potters. She liked them, though. Mrs. Potter always made her Indian sweets; her favourite was Besan Burfi. Mr. Potter was very funny and active, even though his hair was already very grey and his skin wrinkled. He didn’t mind her jokes about his age though, always rewarding her with a wink when she told a good one.

She liked their son, James, most. Alice was a whole five years older than him, so she was rather unimpressed when meeting him for the first time to find he was just a boring baby. It was cool to hold him, though, even though Mrs. Potter tended to hover eerily close in those moments. The baby, with his big brown eyes, looked up from the swaddle of blankets and cooed at her, and Alice became quite taken with him. She’d always wanted a sibling.

Other than occasional visits from the Potters, Alice and her father were basically alone. Even though she liked to chat with the students on Diagon Alley, they never saw her as anything but an annoying and clingy little girl. She was fairly lonely, in hindsight, but she’d never know it then.

In 1963, Dad decided to pack up the parlour for a few weeks to go visit the Potters. This was surprising, cause they didn’t really leave the Diagon Alley area ever, but Alice was so excited. She loved geography books, even the muggle ones, loved pouring over maps. She wanted to travel the world one day, not stay in one place like Dad wanted.

Merlinspire was a small wizarding village close to Durham. Compared to the business of Diagon Alley, Merlinspire was quiet and unassuming. She’d never really been in such nature, such silence. What was especially notable were the kids. Actual kids, not Hogwarts students, but real kids who wanted to play with her.

There were the three toddlers: James, Marlene, and Peter. Amos was just a year older than them, and Septima a year older than him. But there were also Frank Longbottom and Michael McKinnon, Alice’s first real friends.

She remembers coming up to meet them in the McKinnon’s backyard, where they were playing. For the first time in her life, she felt a tinge of shyness, holding her back. What if they don’t like me? She’d never really had to worry about that before, because the people she met usually would leave after one encounter. Every conversation she had with anyone back home would essentially be reset every time.

What if these boys, the closest thing she might have to actual, genuine friends, decided she wasn’t worth it?

Before she could say something, one of the boys turned. He had very brown eyes, and a gap between his teeth.

“Hey, are you coming?”

She took a tentative step forward. “Can I join you guys?” Her voice came out small and shaky.

The other boy glanced back, his auburn curls drifting across his forehead in the wind. “Well, yeah.” He sounded surprised that she was even asking. “We need a third person.”

“That isn’t in diapers.” The first boy added, grinning.

Alice took another step toward them, this time starting to ease. “I’m Alice.”

“Oh, you’re the one staying for the summer!” The first boy says.

“No, just a few weeks.”

“Same difference.” One shoulder shrug. “I’m Frank. That’s Michael.”

Something warm and loving glowed in her chest. “Hi.”

And that was how it started.

~*~

She loved Frank Longbottom more than herself, she knew. She loved him in the mornings, when, sleepy and blurry-eyed, she’d reached out to trace the slope of his nose, his cheekbones, and the curve of his jaw. She loved him when he sang, loudly and off-key, to their tiny radio while he made dinner, even though it always ended up burnt and crispy by the end. She loved him when he sat stooped over his plant book at the kitchen table, adding a detailed sketch of another plant to his collection. She loved him when they stood across from one another at the end of the aisle, holding his calloused hands, knowing they would spend the rest of their lives together.

She’d loved him since she was nine years old, when they first met. She knew that for certain now, even if she hadn’t known it then.

Dad brought her back every summer since, even after she started at Hogwarts. They stayed with the Potters, and played Quidditch with Mr. Potter, James, Frank, and Marlene in the backyard. When Amos was worried about going to Hogwarts, she sat with him and regaled him with stories of her time there and applauded the loudest of everyone when he was sorted into Hufflepuff with her. Michael helped her practice Potions, cause she was rubbish at the subject, and in exchange she would collect ingredients for him to use. Peter would chat her ear off about plants and Quidditch stats once he realized she wouldn’t cut him off or tune him out. Even prickly little Septima warmed up to her eventually, leaving books on the doorstep of the Potters so Alice could read them and discuss with her. Even though Diagon Alley was home, Merlinspire was the place she remembered as an adult: green grass, warm summer air, the sound of feet slapping the cobblestone paths.

She’d kissed Frank on one of the swingsets in the field, installed only a few years prior by a resident. She was thirteen, he was twelve. They’d agreed to never speak of it again, but Alice remembers how flushed and pretty he looked right after, mouth agape and freckles red, even in the dark.

Maybe they wouldn’t have spoken about it again, if it weren’t for the other thing. But Alice still isn’t over that yet.

The focus is Frank, her husband, not whatever happened in the past. She needs to think about him, about his crooked pinky finger and his star-shaped birthmark on his ankle and his gentleness when caring for plants and his love for curry. He is hers, and always will be.

No sense dwelling on the past, now is there?

~*~

After a particularly grueling stakeout mission, Alice brings Marlene and James out for a drink.

They apparate together to the Hogs Head, which Alice has become weirdly fond of lately. The barman, Aberforth, seems to have taken a liking to her, often comping one of her drinks. Alice always glows
with a weird sense of pride when it becomes clear she’s won someone over, even now into adulthood. It’s a childhood thing she’s never able to shake.

“Fuck me, that was exhausting.” Marley groans, pushing her way into the bar. “Why couldn’t something have happened? Maybe just a measly Unforgivable?”

“I thought the point was to avoid the Death Eaters.” James points out with a crooked grin, wedging himself into a tiny booth. Over his head, Alice flashes three fingers at Aberforth behind the bar, who grunts and nods at her. A happy greeting, surprisingly.

“I haven’t gotten to fight yet. I thought today would be the day.” Marlene sulks, flopping down onto the table.

Alice pats her back. “There’s still time, firecracker. The war is far from over.”

“War is sooooo boring.”

“If I get a mission where I get to fight a Death Eater, I promise I’ll ring you.” James says, hand to his heart, looking so endearingly earnest that Alice melts a little.

“I expect the same of you, Alice.”

Alice nudges her up as Aberforth brings the drinks, glaring suspiciously down at Marlene before harrumphing and turning away. Alice takes a swig, liking how it settles warm and comforting at the bottom of her stomach. Frank probably won’t appreciate her drinking tonight, especially on a work night, but that’s a problem for future Alice, who will hopefully be too drunk to care.

“How’s Lily, James?”

“Gotten weirdly obsessed with cooking, lately. Mum’s been teaching her some of our family’s recipes.”

“They’re delicious.” Marley interjects, holding up her glass as though to cheers, making some slosh out. “God bless Effie Potter.”

“She says the two of you need to go out for coffee this week, I think she wants to talk to you.”

“Won’t even tell me what it’s about.” Marlene has faceplanted on the table again. Alice suppresses a grin.

“I’ll have Frank stop by yours then, so he’s not in the house alone. He’s like a dog.”

James brightens up noticeably. “We can play Quidditch!”

Alice feels something small wilt inside her at his joy. He should have been a Quidditch star, one of the best in the league, but instead he still lives in Merlinspire with his parents, fighting a war that shouldn’t even be his.

Instead of thinking about this though, she reaches over to muss his hair. “Atta boy, Jamie.”

He ducks out from her touch, grinning like a little kid. It’s dangerous for Alice to be sent out with these two: she always sees them as they were when they were young. Sometimes, in the rush of battle, she catches a glimpse of little Marlene, her two front teeth missing, and she tips off her axis.

She prefers missions with Dorcas and Maria-Gabrielle. Dorcas, for all her stoicism and mystery, is a reliable partner. They know each other well in this realm, their movements carefully choreographed on the battlefield like a dance routine, gliding around each other to shoot curses. Maria-Gabrielle is an enigma but laser-focused in a fight. You can see it, when her being clicks into place, activated for battle. She’s saved Alice’s ass more times than she can count.

They’re good partners, but even better: there is no history Alice can fall back on. All that exists between the three is the present, and that keeps them grounded. Nothing else interferes.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? The past likes to barge in when it’s not welcome.

Alice knows a thing or two about that.

“Oh, by the way.” She says loudly between sips of her Firewhiskey, gesturing her hand between James and Marlene. “Frank and I are having a little Halloween thing at ours. You guys are invited, Order associates only.” Alice drinks again, then adds: “Mary can come too, obviously.”

James pumps a fist in the air. “First Gryffindor party since leavers!”

“I’m still a Hufflepuff, nitwit.”

Marlene is looking at her, sort of starry-eyed. “Who’s invited?”

“Ah, the usual crowd. The boys, Lily and Mary, MG, Georgia and Amos—”

“Is Dorcas going to be there?”

“Merlin’s beard, Marls, you’re almost pining over Dorcas Meadowes like I did with Lily!” James exclaims, but his voice drops an octave when he says quickly: “Not that that’s not okay, you know.”
Marlene’s cheeks are flaming red, and she ducks down under the table. James and Alice exchange a look.

They’ve both known that Marlene’s gay for a while now. For Merlin’s sake, they grew up with her. Nobody could really miss Marlene’s gigantic crush on Euphemia Potter, especially not Euphemia herself.

And it’s never been an issue, obviously not. She’s still Marlene Sophia McKinnon, with her bright eyes and coarse laugh. Alice could never not love her, nothing could stop her love for Marlene. Especially not when she sees so much of herself in the younger girl, that she just wants to push her in the direction and say “go, go be happy and out, because I never could”.

No, it’s always been about Elspeth McKinnon. The story of Marlene McKinnon begins with Elspeth Sullivan McKinnon and her love for God. God hates the sin, and not the sinner. Nobody has to say it, but everybody knows Marlene carries that shit deep in her chest, even if she doesn’t let on.

Maybe the biggest issue with it all: Dorcas Meadowes. Alice has worked closely with Dorcas for the past few years now, first as Aurors and now as Order and Valkyrie members. Dorcas is a solitary creature, a lone wolf. She relies on no one, not even Alastor Moody. She is silent and guarded, a fortress heavily protected. For someone like Marlene, loud and brash and in such need of love and acceptance, Dorcas would not be right for her. Beautiful and strong as she is, Dorcas Meadowes is unavailable.

Looking at her now, Alice doesn’t have the heart to tell her this. So, she reaches an arm down to yank Marlene back up with a yelp. “You’re ridiculous, but yes. I’ve invited Dorcas.”

“No way. Do you think she’ll talk to me?” Marlene’s voice is giddy, like a puppy.

Alice suppresses a sigh. “She hasn’t confirmed that she’s coming yet, don’t get your hopes up.”

But, of course, Marlene does, and she does not stop talking about Dorcas Meadowes the entire night. By the end of it, Alice is staggering drunk and needs to cling to James to leave the bar, Marlene still yammering away.

~*~

On Halloween 1978, a front door is flung open, except this time, it’s the other pair from the prophecy which will one day ruin their lives.

Alice Longbottom, standing in the doorway, grins at the three boys. “Well, don’t you look nice!”

Peter Pettigrew, glaring at her through the eyeholes in his ghoul mask, says very slowly: “Please don’t make us say it.”

Alice leans against the doorframe, folding her arms. “I’m afraid entry to this party requires the password.”

Peter glances at Remus and Sirius, who are standing very solemnly next to him as Frankenstein and Dracula, and who are unwilling to say it. Sighing, the ghoul turns back to Alice, waiting expectantly.

“Trick… or treat.”

Alice claps her hands together excitedly and sweeps out of the way. “Go ahead in, boys!” She lets Remus and Sirius in first before jumping in to bear-hug Pete before he expects it. He shrieks and tries to duck out, but she keeps him in a vice grip until he eventually hugs her back.

“You’re a good sport, Petey.” She mumbles into his hair playfully and lets him go, enjoying how disgruntled he looks.

“You’ve messed up my robe.” Peter says sadly.

Alice waves a hand. “I’m sure Frank’s got the iron somewhere in the house. Now, come on! You’re the last ones here.”

Inside, Frank already has music playing, but she can see Sirius and Remus moving directly to the record player, probably to shift out songs. That’s fine: her darling Frank has shit music taste, anyway. Merlin, she loves him, but it is pretty bad.

James and Amos, dressed as a devil and a werewolf, seem to be having a competition on who can dance the worst. Their judges, Marlene in a knight’s outfit and Mary as a pumpkin, cheer them on. Peter has already downed half a bottle of Firewhisky and is clumsily explaining the rules of wizard chess to Georgia Clark-Day, Alice’s Hogwarts dormmate, who looks thoroughly unimpressed, though it looks especially funny given that she is dressed as a clown.

Lily is lounging on the couch in her crumpled muggle witch costume, having already drank quite a bit. When she’d showed up at Frank and Alice’s five hours early, grumbling about an assignment she had to do requiring an especially difficult potion, Alice had felt it appropriate to break out the good Cuban rum Frank had gotten her for their anniversary. What, like he’d notice it was gone?

Speaking of, she feels beard hairs tickle the back of her neck, and she giggles. Frank’s warm arms settle around her waist, his head slotting in perfectly into the groove of her shoulder. Even in his silly chicken costume, which he made by tearing up pillows and sticking the feathers to himself with a spell, he is still her Frank.

“You need to shave, love.” Alice teases, and Frank hums, settling his chin in deeper.

“You don’t like the beard, darling?”

“It’s barely a beard. More like… some straggly chin hairs.”

“You wound me, Allie.”

“Somebody’s gotta tell you the truth sometimes, love.”

The music changes to Bowie. Frank jerks up. “They fucking changed my music!” He exclaims and darts off toward the record player, where Remus and Sirius have conveniently disappeared.

In the kitchen, she finds MG, sitting on one of the counters, eyes glazed. She’d expected this would happen, really. Unless in battle, MG never fully seems… there. Not that Alice can judge. Everyone copes with the stress of the war differently. Hey, maybe it helps.

Gently, she taps MG’s knee, which shocks her eyes back into lucidity, blinking up at Alice in a way so reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall herself, waiting for Alice to answer the question in Transfiguration.

“Oh, hi Alice.”

Alice smiles warmly. A lot of people find MG odd or off-putting; certainly, she felt a similar way the first time she met her. She knew of her, the Quidditch prodigy, McGonagall’s eldest niece, but MG was strangely quiet in person, far from the loud and flashy persona she held on the pitch or in Gryffindor parties. It took a particular person to warm up to her. Sirius and James liked her, very much so. Even Dorcas liked her, however much Dorcas liked anybody. Alice thought she was sweet in a quiet way, maybe a little unstable – she laughed a lot in strange points of the conversation, or her eyes would glaze over as though she was departing her body – but a good person. Certainly, a wonderful flier and fighter too.

“Hey MG. You hiding from the party?”

MG looks very serious. “Amos Diggory would not stop talking at me about the Chudley Cannons.” She says darkly, and Alice laughs.

“You would have thought he would have learned by now.”

MG didn’t laugh along with her. That was the thing, most people didn’t like how out of sequence her reactions were. Alice thought it was very endearing: she didn’t pretend for the sake of others.

“Have you had anything to drink?”

“No. Sober tonight.”

Alice clicks her fingers at her. “Wise choice.” She grabs the countertop and hoists herself up onto it beside MG. “You doing alright?” She bumps MG’s shoulder with her own. “You’re quieter than usual.”
MG doesn’t say anything. She’s drifted away. Alice nudges her again. “MG?”

“My sister’s afraid of the war.”

“Oh. I see. How old is she?”

MG stares down at her hand, opening and closing in her lap. “Nine.”

“Man. It’s gotta be scary for her.”

“She’s afraid of me.”

Alice tilts her head, scrutinizing MG’s side profile, her head drooped and dark hair falling into her face like a waterfall. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s what my dad says.”

“Your dad told you that?”

“He’s a Legilimens.”

“Shit.” Alice sits back. The kitchen is quiet, save for the sound of music and loud belting from the living room. James and Frank, no doubt.

MG laughs suddenly, a sharp, piercing sound. “I started sleepwalking. Apparently, I held my wand at Elsie’s throat in her bed.”

Something thrums in Alice’s chest, a low and steady beat. Carefully, she starts, “Hey, MG?”

“I love her very much, though. That’s the weird bit. And I don’t remember doing it. But she won’t be in the same room as me anymore.”

“She’s probably just a little frightened right now. Once she realizes that wasn’t really you—”

“Do you think I’m scary, Alice?” MG looks her directly in the eyes, the first time since they’ve met. Her eyes are bright blue, like electricity. It is shocking.

“Maria-Gabrielle, I have never met someone less scary than you.” Alice says slowly and gently, pressing her palm flat against her chest, where her heart is.

MG’s eyes blink rapidly, processing. She sees the film cross over them, sliding into place, and then she laughs a little, looking back down and away and mumbling something she can’t quite catch.
Alice feels it deep in her core, the concern. MG is a good kid, and clearly the war hasn’t done her any favours. Patting MG’s knee gently, she slides down off the counter and leaves her be.

~*~

She and Frank had both tried to persuade Dumbledore not to let these kids fight on several occasions.

Frank had gotten emotional, begging Dumbledore not to let them into the Order on his hands and knees, tears in his eyes: they have a future, we don’t, just let them be kids for a while yet. Alice, finding herself numb in response, had threatened. If you let them fight, Frank and I are out. We will not stand by this exploitation.

Dumbledore had just smiled at them and said no, we need the numbers and skills, and he sent them away. Alice hasn’t quite forgiven him for that yet, especially not after the Valkyrie stunt.

McGonagall, she felt, would be easier to persuade. Quietly, standing in her office at Hogwarts, Alice had clasped her hands in front of her and said:

“Please.”

McGonagall had just looked at her, unable to say what she had to. Something like sadness or pity flickered in those grey eyes, but she slowly shook her head.

“I’m sorry.”

It would be the same if she went to them about MG. She was a good fighter, a valuable resource. Who cared that the war was tearing apart her sanity, her family? She was a number, and that was all that mattered.

Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she’ll hear a voice. She hears it soft and gentle, even though at the time, it was hurled at her like a curse, vicious and angry.

Why do you even want to fight?

Alice has the same answer then as she does now:

She wants to fight to protect all the people who cannot or do not want to fight. She, Alice Fortescue, pureblood, is willing to fight, and so she will. She will never look down upon Mary Macdonald for shying away from the Order. Mary is vulnerable in this fight; her blood status is a part of the stakes in this war. Alice fights for her, and for every other muggleborn who is too scared or already dead. Alice stands up for them.

She includes these kids in the umbrella of her protection. Lily, James, Sirius, Remus, Peter, Amos, Marlene, MG, Mary, they shouldn’t have to fight. Alice is an Auror, she is trained for this. Put her on the front lines, not these newly graduated children.

They should be protected by those older than them. Alice, Frank, Dorcas, Dumbledore and McGonagall. Alice can never forgive that abandonment of their oath as professors to look after their students.

They have failed them, all of them.

~*~

Now, Alice goes back to the party. She drinks firewhiskey with Georgia, dances around with Marlene, helps Sirius to the bathroom to puke, kisses Frank on the lips, laughs until she cannot breathe.

It is Halloween 1978 and here, in this small pocket far away from the war, all is well.

Chapter Text

Late November 1978

Mary is standing on a cliff. Below her, the dizzying sight of tiny trees and green grass sends shockwaves down her spine. The dirt beneath her feet starts to crumble, and she lifts her head up to the sky as though to ask for help.

Something brushes her shoulder. She knows who it is, as the jasmine wafts across her nose.

“Come with me.” Lily whispers into her ear, and Mary turns to see her but her heel slips, and she plummets downward into nothingness.

Gasping, Mary comes back to in her bed, arms flailing. The room is dark, the sheets around her damp with sweat and shoved away from her. It takes her a moment to realize this is not her bed, her room, but one of the Potters’. She is at the Potters… where she lives now. This is home, for the time being.

As her heartrate calms down, the overwhelming feeling she’s grown so familiar with spreads across her limbs and chest: loneliness. Mary is surrounded by people she loves and yet she is desperately, terribly lonely.

She swings her feet over the side of the bed and sits there for a while, the soles of her feet pressed firmly against the cool floorboards. She tries not to think about anything, tries to keep her mind completely blank. It is easier, this way.

The window is cracked open slightly, the air turned cold and biting in the night. It is November already, probably about five months since she left Hogwarts. Mary feels much older than she ought to. She turned nineteen a month ago, but it was no celebration. It was a grim reminder of the passage of time, while she stands here, frozen in place, petrified.

Not for the first time, she thinks about Hestia. She hasn’t seen her in months, not since September. Everything feels so distant now, like a half-forgotten dream. It is strange to remember that there is a past, that everything is not this present moment.

Mary presses her hands into the bedsheets for a moment before standing up, fishing a sweater off the vanity, and padding down the cool hallways to the kitchen for a glass of water.

A soft glow comes from the kitchen, and Mary freezes in the doorway. Remus is standing against the countertop, eating an apple. He blinks at her. His eyes are sunken in, dark circles below.

“Hi.” Mary says, too exhausted to turn and abandon this fight.

Remus, slowly, inclines his head to her. “Hi.”

They stare at each other. Remus reaches behind him and produces an apple. “Want one?”

“No, thank you.” Mary shifts from one foot to the other. “I feel bad taking food without asking.”

“Oh.” Remus glances down at the half-eaten apple in his hand. “Right.”

Mary goes to the pantry on the other side of the fridge to grab a clear cup. “How long have you been awake?”

Remus shrugs, his left shoulder stiff. “Few hours. Not much of a sleeper.”

“Really?” Mary says, lifting the filled glass to her mouth. “That’s not what James and Sirius say.”

“Not much of a sleeper anymore, then.”

“Ah, right.”

It is an open secret that Remus is sent on solo missions for the Order. He’s already been gone on at least two, since he spent about a week away for both. Sirius was so antsy that he also vanished for a night, coming home completely trashed on James’ shoulder.

Everybody seems to know something except for Mary. It is the other secret about Remus Lupin, where whispers turn to loud small talk once Mary enters a room. Remus gets ill a lot, that’s fairly well known. Truth be told, Mary thinks she knows, but more than anything she hates being left out. This feeling has grown more acute since they all got involved in the war.

Mary leans on the counter. Remus watches her warily, like a wolf stalking its prey. He is the only other person she knows who watches others so closely.

“You have a secret.” She says, draining her glass.

Remus’ eyebrow twitches.

“You don’t wear anything but baggy long-sleeved jumpers. You get ill once a month. Everyone is super protective over you and your reputation.” Mary lists, ticking each point with her fingers. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re a girl.”

Remus chokes on his apple. “I’m a what??” He says through coughs, eyes bulging.

Mary lifts her palms to stop him. “It’s fine, really. I won’t tell anyone. But… you’re not so good at hiding it.”

“Mary, I’m not a girl.”

“I knew a kid when I was little. He was born a girl, so he wore a lot of big clothes so nobody could see his chest. I didn’t mind. Plus, you get more ill than any of us for our monthlies.”

“Mary.”

“That’s why you were so weird around Lily when we were at Hogwarts. You liked her, but you didn’t know if she’d like you because of it.”

“Merlin.” Remus mutters under his breath, then louder: “Mary, I’m a werewolf.”

Mary pauses, lips still shaped around her next word. “What?”

Remus glances around the kitchen, even though they’re alone, and then hisses, “I’m a werewolf. I transform at the full moon. I’m not a—I don’t even know what to call it.”

Mary blinks once, twice. “Huh.”

“Yeah.” He swipes a hand over his eyes.

Neither of them says anything. Mary processes, Remus rubs his temples, apple core on the counter long forgotten.

“So, you’re a—”

“Yes.”

“And everybody else knows?”

“The guys found out in second year. Lily figured it out in sixth, and Marlene caught me over the summer.”

“How old were you?”

Remus glances down at his hand, the broad silvery scar running across his knuckles. “Five.” His voice is small. He looks like a little kid. He looks like Rafe.

Mary tries to keep her voice from quavering. “Does it hurt?”

Remus’ jaw ticks. “Yeah.”

Unconsciously, Mary’s hand moves to clutch at her other wrist. Remus glances at her. There’s a strange spark in the air.

Something occurs to her. “In fifth year, you guys all stopped talking. Was that because of the werewolf thing?”

Something dark and vicious flashes in Remus’ yellowish eyes. “I’m not talking about that.”

“It was about Snape, though. I remember.”

Remus doesn’t say anything.

“Snape was shit to me. He was shit to you too, right?”

“Mary, we aren’t the same.”

“I know. But you get it.”

You get it. Severus Snape’s two favourite targets: Loony Lupin and Mary the Slut. She remembers it, the feeling of profound isolation when no one else even batted an eye at his insults. No one except for Remus.

Remus’ eyes were a strange yellow in the soft light. “Mary, you don’t know me. Please don’t think you do.”

Mary stares at his side profile, the long Roman nose. “Okay.”

The undercurrent in the room thrums between them: trust is not so easily earned.

Remus leans down to throw out the apple core. “Sleep well, Mary.”

Mary stands there for a while after.

~*~

“He’s my friend, Mary.”

“You’re my friend, too.”

Mary hates crying. She hates the shame of it, how weakness becomes so visible. Lily is standing there, unreal and ethereal, and Mary hates her now, hates her weakness.

“He calls me a slut and a mudblood.”

Lily shakes her head, as though she’s trying to convince herself. “No, no, he doesn’t mean it. He’s good, I promise, Mary. He’s my friend.”

“He’s your friend, but he’s not mine.” Mary feels like she’s about to crawl on her hands and knees to pray at the temple of Lily. “How can you let him treat me like that?”

“He’s all I have from home.” Lily says, tears spilling down her cheeks now too. “He was my only friend.”

“You were my only friend when I came here!”

“Mary,” Marlene says behind her, trying to coax her away, but Mary is too sad to listen. She keeps staring up into Lily’s eyes, those lovely green eyes.

“Are you going to pick him over me?”

“I shouldn’t have to.” Lily says stubbornly, sticking her upper lip out like a little kid.

“He hates us, Lily. Everyone here hates us!”

“He doesn’t hate me.”

Mary stares at her from far away. Marlene has gone quiet. Lily’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything. The words hang in the air, creating the divide.

Slowly, Mary says, “So it’s okay that he hates me, and muggleborns, because he doesn’t hate you?”

“Argh!” Lily screams, turning suddenly to sweep the clock and books off her nightstand. It clatters to the floor in a cacophony of sounds. Mary is barely aware that she is crying anymore.

“Lils,” Marlene says in a low, warning tone. “Go take a breather.”

“No.” Mary says, standing up, drawing both pairs of eyes to hers. Lily’s darts away, ashamed. “I’ll go. It seems I’m the wrong company here, anyway.”

“Mary—”

She keeps walking, walking, walking, down the halls. This is the opposite of numbness: every inch of Mary’s body is screaming, on fire. She can barely contain her sobs.

When she first came here, Lily was the one who understood. Lily was like her.

But Lily is good at magic. Lily belongs here. Lily has transcended mudblood status; Mary has not.

“Well, well, well, look what we have here, gents?”

Mary looks up into the dark eyes of Milton Mulciber. He grins, sharp like a knife.

“A mudblood plaything.”

And everything goes quiet.

~*~

Mary has made the executive decision to forgive Lily Evans.

Sitting on the back patio, watching Lily freak out as James tries to coax her onto a broom for Quidditch. The unsteady smile that spreads as she soars up into the air, grabbing the Quaffle from Sirius. Making a goal and cheering, fist up in victory, grinning down at Mary and Effie, watching below.

Mary watches from underneath her lowered eyelids, unable to face her directly. It is easy to forget about Lily Evans’ flaws when she fixes you with that smile and charm, when you are in her good graces. Mary finds it easier and easier these days to hold a grudge, especially against Lily. Beautiful Lily, intelligent Lily, talented Lily, perfect Lily.

You hurt my feelings; Mary thinks. Not just once, but several times. Because you don’t see us as equals anymore. You belong here, and I don’t. you know that as well as I do. You are going to hurt me again, and I will say thank you, because it means you have thought about me.

“Did you see that! I got a goal!”

Lily is running across the field towards them, red plaits swinging behind her. In her peripheral vision, Mary sees Euphemia glance at her.

Mary manually tugs her lips into a smile. “Shit, well done Lils!”

Lily, out of breath and red faced, starts to move for a hug, but hesitates. They linger there in awkward space for a moment, before Mary closes the gap, leaning in and inhaling the jasmine perfume.

~*~

“Mary?”

“Mh, yeah?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I know.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“…”

“…”

“Lily, I’ll always forgive you.”

~*~

Late evening. Mary is leaning against Lily’s shoulder, listening to her even breaths as she sleeps. The television is playing some movie. James is passed out in Lily and Sirius’ lap, Remus and Pete in the armchairs, Marlene on the floor. Mary’s cheek is pressed against the bare skin of Lily’s arm, and she starts to wonder why she could ever consider not loving Lily. At this, Lily sighs in her sleep.

The telephone starts to ring in the kitchen. Marlene, who is spread eagle on the floor, groans and clambers to her feet, hair frizzy from the carpet. Mary watches her go lazily; her head too tired to move.

Marlene murmurs in the kitchen. Lily shifts a little and leans her head against Mary’s. Mary wonders if this is what peace is.

Footsteps. Marlene comes back in, her face strange and twisted.

“Guys,” she says loudly, rousing the sleepers. Lily pulls herself up with a yawn. Mary stares at Marlene’s face as though in a dream.

“Alice called. She says nobody’s heard from MG in weeks. They think she’s gone missing.”

Chapter Text

Early November 1978

“You’re not a bad person, Maria-Gabrielle.”

The world comes rushing back to her, suddenly and vividly. She picks at a loose thread in the carpet.

“Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

~*~

walking home, feeling numb. Hair whipping into her face, raindrops hitting her forehead.

You’re not a bad person.

What is a bad person, then, if not her?

~*~

“I want to live… I think.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not sure.”

~*~

Maria-Gabrielle tries to kill herself when she’s thirteen.

It all becomes too loud, too dark.

She chases sensations, the feeling of it all. She likes the rush, makes her feel alive.

The same approach makes her feel dead.

There is little she remembers, but she is awake the next morning.

And life goes on.

~*~

Nobody really knows who she is.

Sirius Black tries to kiss her when he is thirteen. She rebukes him, but likes the attention.

She wins an award her first year on the Quidditch team. She flies hard and fast, as though she has something to prove.

People know her, but she has no friends.

She’s never been able to tell what loneliness feels like, perhaps because she’s never known anything else.

Nobody knows what to make of her. She is beautiful from afar but a mess of sinew and bone marrow up close.

~*~

She’s a drummer in a band.

The rhythm of it is soothing, the tap of a heartbeat against her ribs.

Her music is booming and harsh to the ears, it is beautiful.

Perhaps this is part of why she likes the Marauders, those young Gryffindor boys: they appreciate sound.

The sensory experience is unmatched. Even without her drumsticks, she is searching for it everywhere.

~*~

Dumbledore approaches her in seventh year.

He makes a request.

She complies.

Maria-Gabrielle, contrary to popular belief, makes a good soldier.

She can be rude and headstrong, but she takes orders. She can’t lead herself.

But she can kill.

~*~

Somewhere, someday, her mind fractured.

Shards of mirror cascading through the sky, revealing only a glimmer of her reflection.

Life comes to her only through these glimpses, the rest lost to time.

All she knows is fragmented beyond belief.

~*~

The smear of blood on her upper lip.

Alice tosses a chomping cabbage out onto the field, screams echoing around them.

Hiding behind the barrier, hands over her ears.

Dorcas shouts something over her exploding charm.

Her nose is broken and streaming crimson. She likes how it hurts.

Wood goes flying past, splinters soaring through the air like bullets.

Here, in the fight, her mind comes together to mend, the world sharpening back to focus.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

~*~

Alice Fortescue has kind eyes. She likes Alice.

Dorcas Meadowes is strong. She likes Dorcas, too.

She likes a lot of people, whatever “like” means.

To her, it means she sees them in the flashes most.

Alice, mending her leg on the battlefield.

Dorcas, leaping to her defense.

They make a good team.

~*~

“She shouldn’t be fighting.”

“I’m worried about her, Minerva.”

Jabbing the point of her wand into her inner arm until it reaches the bone.

“I thought for a while there that we’d bring her home limp.”

“She’s impulsive and reckless.”

“I don’t think she’s all there, truth be told.”

Blood springs to the forefront. Blood, vivid like sharpness and explosions and all-consuming fury.

“Can you pull her from the lines?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

~*~

Elsie is afraid, she is told.

Gentle sister, little lamb.

In her dreams, the little lamb is covered in blood.

All she sees is blood, everywhere. Dripping, staining, corrupting.

Little lamb, bright future, why do you cry?

The wolf will not hurt you if you do not hurt it.

~*~

“You wanna join, MG?”

“Here, MG, I saved you a spot.”

“C’mere, I’ll do your hair.”

“I’ll show you how to do that maneuver, sure.”

“You’re a good kid, MG. I don’t think we tell you that enough.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Love: a strange feeling she’ll never quite get used to.

Alice and Dorcas: friends.

Unused word, tender as a peach and bringer of sunrise.

~*~

Dad cannot read her mind.

It frustrates him; her unknowability.

She wishes he could tell her what she was thinking, what she felt, if only to put the puzzle together.

There are no pieces, though. There was never a puzzle.

Humpty-Dumpty fell off a wall, but they could never put him back together again.

When did she crack?

~*~

The girls clean her wounds. She does not remember their names.

Inwardly, she has taken to calling them Flower and Angel.

Flower murmurs while she works. It is soothing. Angel works in silence, but is kind.

They try to scrub the blood off her hands.

It is everywhere, seeped into her pores. There is no removing it.

She is made of blood, forever impure.

~*~

Auntie tries to hug her.

Every nerve in her body rejects it immediately.

Auntie does not usually hug. It is wrong, all wrong.

“Are you worried about me?”

“I always am.”

It is strange to know that someone cares about you. Vulnerability, like an exposed nerve.

Her Achilles heel is always love.

~*~

Knives slip into her hands with ease.

The thrill of the kill is more satisfying with a blade.

The wand has never really enticed her.

The squelch of the blood, the groan of the skin, that is the sensation she seeks.

~*~

She doesn’t see Alice much anymore, or Dorcas.

That’s a shame. She likes their company.

They start appearing in her dreams too, when she slits their throats.

~*~

“Maria—what? What are you doing?”

“Can you lock me in this room?”

“Why are your wrists bound?”

“It has no windows.”

“Who did this?”

“No sharp objects, please.”

“What did you do?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

“Come with me. I’m getting Dumbledore.”

“I don’t want to do it.”

“This is unacceptable. He has to understand that.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

~*~

Baby girl in the snow, cold air and shaking hands.

Snow is white and searing, sharp and cruel.

Do not plunge into the frozen lake.

It can never be taken back.

Little lamb, do not cry.

I am protecting you.

~*~

“Maria-Gabrielle, can you look at me?”

“…”

“Is it St. Mungo’s, is that where we have to take her?”

“I hope not. Maria?”

Hands squeezing her own. Bright light peels her right to the core.

~*~

James Potter shakes her hand.

Quidditch captain, lovely boy, heart of gold.

Safe with him, the great protector.

He and his men lead like King Arthur, royal heir, Excalibur in hand.

Fighters are good.

They understand the sacrifice.

~*~

Brown skinned hands weaving dandelions.

Warm, pulsating, inevitable sun.

Girl hiding from war, too gentle to fight but too angry to run.

“I’m almost done. It’ll be yours, then.”

No blood, no flesh, no guts. Soft hands, peaceful hands, dangerous hands.

“There we go. Your crown.”

Yellow dust makes it all real and alive.

“My crown?”

“Yeah. You’re a princess, MG. Don’t forget that.”

“Princess.”

~*~

A princess never killed anyone, never held aloft a still beating heart.

Princess weeping salt and red paint.

Trembling, shaking, quavering, shivering.

~*~

Dandelion girl asleep.

Crown makes her glow and dance.

Princess, safe in her castle.

~*~

Alice and Dorcas have no eyes. They do not see her.

Ghostly, invisible, unreal.

Have they ever even existed?

~*~

Fangs dripping the elixir of life.

Soul taker, heart stopper, death purveyor.

~*~

No guilt for the dead. No guilt for the living.

~*~

“I love you, do you know that?”

Little lamb, you have no head. How can you speak?

~*~

Battle makes the mind ring clear as a bell.

Alive, alive, alive.

~*~

Loyal knight, defending her kingdom.

Protect the princess, Angel and Flower. Protect auntie and friends. Protect baby lamb, keep her safe.

Be a good person.

~*~

Fight.

~*~

Dying is the ultimate sensation.

Blood everywhere.

Holding the shard of glass to her face.

Catch a glimpse before it is over.

At the end, her mind comes together for one final second.

I did what I could.

~*~

Forgive me.

Chapter Text

December 1978

For the first time in a while, Marlene goes to her mother’s house for Christmas.

For the past few months, she’s been living with Pete at his, in Merlinspire. Even during her time at Hogwarts, on break, she’d usually end up at Pete’s house anyway. Staying with Mum… bad idea.

Dad won’t be in town this year. Right now, he’s in France, negotiating a contract with their Ministry. If anything could make this experience better, it would be him. Alas, Marlene has to go it alone.

Mum lives about a half hour bus ride outside of Merlinspire. Marlene presses her forehead to the cool window and tries to calm her breathing. Showing up already antsy would just start a fight quicker than it ought to.

She wishes she could stay with her friends. The Potters are hosting everyone for Christmas. Their group, of course, plus Alice and Frank, and Florean too. When the letter came, though, she knew she had to go.

Fleamont had walked her to the bus station on Christmas Eve, just outside the magical bubble. It was nice, just walking in silence with him. Had it been anyone else, she knew it would have been harder to go. Fleamont’s calm and steady demeanor always seemed to keep her from freaking out.

He’d taken her by the shoulders once they reached the station, looking her directly in the eyes. “I don’t care what she says to you,” he said, very softly. “No matter what, you come home to us. Understand?”

Marlene had just stared at him, tears welling in her eyes, and nodded.

She doesn’t want to see her mom again. Not since last time.

~*~

In the back pew of a church, for years on end, Marlene prays.

“You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.” (Leviticus 18:22)

“Or do you not know that wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men not thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.” (1 Corinthians 6:9-11)

“Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error.” (Romans 1:26-27)

Marlene goes to confession. She tells the priest about her sinful urges. Nothing seems to ease the pain.

I don’t want to go to Hell, that phrase on repeat as she walks home every week. I don’t want to burn. Please, God, help me.

Mum says the queers have to burn. She always looks straight at Marlene when she says it. Marlene thinks of Jesus on the cross, dying for all our sins. Her sin is not forgiven.

She tries to do as Mum says. Nobody loves Jesus more than Mum, so she must know.

When she was fourteen, on Christmas Day, Marlene put a lighter to her skin, on her upper arm, trying to fill her veins with fire hot enough to purify her. She wondered if Jesus was watching her, and if he was proud.

The flame flickered into life.

And she burned.

~*~

By the time she’s off the bus, the wind has become blustery and piercing. Marlene wraps her scarf tighter around her neck and trudges through the snow. Her eyes sting, and she lets herself cry a little before she reaches the house. There’s no room for tears for the next few days.

Walking up to the townhouse is like a dream she’s had over the years. Standing at the door, trying to decide what to say, how to knock at the door. In these dreams, she is every version of herself she has ever been. She’s small and vulnerable, already crying when she knocks but unable to speak. She’s big and angry, fist ready to punch. She’s forgiving and gentle, ready to accept whatever love she can get. Sometimes she knocks, sometimes she doesn’t, but the door always opens. The dream ends before she ever gets to see who’s on the other side.

Now, she’s standing on the doorstep, and she is none of the versions she has dreamed of. This is just Marlene McKinnon, eighteen, fighter in a war, afraid of her own mother. She cannot bring herself to knock.

The door opens.

“Shit, Marley. How long have you been standing there?”

Coming back to life from the cold, Marlene looks up into the eyes of her older brother.

“Hi Michael.”

~*~

One day, before either of them ever realized it, Marlene and Michael McKinnon went down diverging paths. Through the woods, they’ve never quite found each other again.

Marlene cannot help thinking about this as Michael guides her in, peeling off her snow-soaked clothes for her and seating her down on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket she remembers from her youth. She feels stunned and quiet, staring at the paintings on the walls that are the same as before. Everything feels wrong, disjointed. She wonders if this is just the cold.

“Mum’s upstairs with Sally and Ilsa.” Michael is saying, tucking the blanket tighter around Marlene’s shoulders. “I should let her know that you’re here. We’ve all been waiting for you. How long were you outside?”

Marlene stares at him. Why does he look so different? His jawline sharper, smile lines around his eyes, the curls cut short. It has been a year since she saw him, and already he has changed.

“You must be in shock. Shit. I’ll get Mum.”

“Please don’t.” Marlene croaks before he can dart out of the room.

Michael hesitates, leaning on one leg as he turns back. “Are you guys still not…”

Marlene shakes her head.

Michael exhales heavily, glancing around the room, clearly uncomfortable. “I mean, you have to address it at some point.”

There is something in his tone that suddenly stings. Marlene, hand shaking, bundles it in the blanket. “What did she tell you?”

Michael’s eyes are unreadable. “She says you’re beyond salvation.”

Marlene spreads her trembling arms out, ignoring the blanket slipping from her shoulders. “What else is there to address?”

“Marley—”

“Should I just go?”

“No.” Michael’s voice is clipped. “Stay. You haven’t met Ilsa yet.” He turns on his heel and strides out of the room. Marlene watches him go, and her chest hurts.

~*~

She’s known since she was little, deep down.

She knew when her stomach flipped when she saw Euphemia Potter one morning, in a casual t-shirt and jeans, tidying up the kitchen. She knew when her cheeks got all warm when she had to join hands with a muggle girl in church. She knew when Sirius Black tried to kiss her when they were thirteen.

More importantly: she knew in October 1974, when she first met Dorcas Meadowes.

Rumour had already spread fast that school year that Dorcas Meadowes, Slytherin prefect and quidditch star, was going straight into the Auror program out of graduation. Marlene already knew about her, of course, watching her on the pitch. But it was one morning, as she and Peter headed to Herbology late, as usual, that Marlene walked straight into Dorcas Meadowes.

Somebody had yelped. Peter said it had been Marlene, but she refuses that part. All she knows is that one moment she was walking, then the next she was on the ground, staring up into the dark eyes of Dorcas Meadowes.

“Jesus, you okay?”

Marlene tried to say yes but a strange high-pitched giggle came out instead.

Dorcas glanced back at Peter. “The fuck is wrong with your friend?”

“Her mother dropped her as a baby.” Peter said, helpfully, as he gathered up the contents of Marlene’s schoolbag. Marlene could not stop staring at the girl above her, her long dark braids swinging.

Dorcas looked back down at Marlene with a strange, disgusted look. “Okay.” She straightened up. “Tell her to watch where she’s going.” And with that, Dorcas Meadowes was striding down the hallway without a single look back.

“Well, she’s a right prick.” Peter said, extending a hand to pull Marlene to her feet.

“I think she’s fantastic.” Marlene responded, a giddy grin spreading across her face.

It was easiest to be of two minds about the whole thing. The outward Marlene didn’t seem to mind it at all. Her friends didn’t seem to mind, even when she’d declared her aversion to men during a camping trip the summer before seventh year. This Marlene openly fawned over Dorcas Meadowes, cracked jokes about Christ, was loud and proud. This Marlene had given up her faith long ago, free and happy.

The inward Marlene was the smallest she had ever been. That Marlene hid in every crevice of her bones, every movement reminding her of the darkest black hole in her chest. She refused to let that Marlene rule her body, expose her greatest vulnerability. When that Marlene speaks, she sounds like her mother. That Marlene is the truest expression of herself she will ever know.

Being two Marlenes was the greatest balancing act she’d ever accomplished. Hiding one in the depths of the other was the only way she knew how to be. Never would they be reunited, she knew, not so long as she or her mother lived.

It was the only way to survive.

~*~

“What did you do to your hair?”

Marlene opens her eyes.

Unlike Michael, Mum looks exactly the same. This is not comforting.

“That’s all you have to say to me? About my hair?” Marlene fights to keep her voice from wobbling.

“We had agreed on blonde.” Mum tuts and walks over to grab the teal tuft of Marlene’s hair, not gently. “Seriously, Marlene, blue? This is unacceptable.”

“I think it’s cool.” Marlene says, like a little kid, wincing at the feeling of her mother’s nails scratching her scalp. “Can you let go?”

“You will not dye your hair such a…” Elspeth fights for the words. “Sinful colour. It is unnatural, Marlene. I will not accept that in this house.”

“I don’t understand why it’s unnatural.” Her voice is small and unsteady.

“That wouldn’t be the first time.” Marlene flinches a little. Elspeth is still holding onto her hair, and it tugs a little at her scalp. “You are going to change this as soon as you leave this house, you understand?”

“But it’s my hair.”

“You are being deliberately insolent right now. I won’t stand for this. You are my daughter, and you will follow my rules.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m of age then.”

Elspeth’s eyes flash. “How dare you!” Her grip tightens in Marlene’s hair.

Marlene starts to yank away. “Jesus, Mum, let go!”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain!”

She sees the hand go up, watching it as though in a trance. Part of her starts to close her eyes, just to accept it. Her body still trembles from the cold.

“Mum!”

Marlene looks up at Michael, standing in the doorway with Sally, holding the infant in his arms. They both look horrified, as though this has never happened before. Liar, Marlene thinks, despite herself.

Elspeth lowers her hand as though nothing has happened, and grimaces at Michael. “I see Ilsa’s up from her nap. Isn’t that a little early for her? She’s going to be fussy very quickly.”

Sally, a saint, just smiles patiently. “Not to worry Mrs. Sullivan, she’s alright.”

“Mum, why don’t you start on supper?” Michael says, sounding exhausted.

Elspeth shoots a final look at Marlene, still sitting on the couch with her shoulders hunched, and finally walks away.

Michael runs his free hand over his face. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Marlene feels empty, lifeless. She looks up at Sally, leaning on her crutches. “Hi Sally.”

Sally makes her way over, sitting down next to Marlene and leaning her crutches against the coffee table. “It’s good to see you, Marlene.” She opens her arms up for a hug, and Marlene leans gratefully into her. Sally smells like vanilla. She has always liked Sally.

“Hey Ilsa,” She hears Michael whisper. “You want to go meet your auntie Marlene?”

Marlene looks up to see Michael bringing the infant over to her. She stares into the big blue eyes of the toddler, who gargles and smiles gummily up at her. Despite everything, her heart thaws a little.

~*~

She goes up to her childhood bedroom. Not that it’s really hers, anymore. All her rock posters and trinkets are back at Pete’s place. This room is empty in character: grey walls, white duvet, wood furniture. On the dresser, the only thing out of place, is a silver cross necklace. Marlene stares at it for a long, long time.

She used to wear that necklace. Usually, witches and wizards aren’t religious, as magic tends to go against most of the big faiths, but for a few years at Hogwarts, Marlene kept that necklace around her neck. It was a comfort, then, a reminder of home, before home became just a house she returned to against her will.

Dad was never particularly religious. He was pureblood, anyway. It was from Mum, a muggleborn, who grew up in Catholicism and never wanted to leave it. They came back to the church after the divorce. Marlene was just six: Catholicism was all she really remembered or knew.

The cross, sitting in the palm of her hand, glimmering just like Dorcas Meadowes’ eyes do.

She puts it down and leaves the room.

~*~

In the presence of this house, Marlene becomes a very dimmed version of herself.

James once told her it was like she’d been doused in water repeatedly as soon as she stepped through the front door. It was when they were fourteen, coming back from dinner at Marlene’s with James and his parents. Euphemia’s lips were drawn tightly together as they left, and Fleamont held on very tightly to Marlene’s shoulders when they apparated, as though to be sure she wouldn’t take off running.

She did run away from home once, when she was nine. She was trying to get back to Merlinspire but got turned around and ended up stranded in Durham somewhere. It took a day and a half to find her, sitting in a run-down diner, eating pancakes while a kindly old woman looked after her. It wasn’t Mum who came to collect her, but Euphemia. When Marlene asked why, Effie had smiled kind of sadly and said Elspeth had just assumed Marlene was with her father, and didn’t seem concerned about her being missing. That stung.

She’s pretty sure Effie and Monty tried to get her out at one point. She remembers hearing yelling one random evening while home on break for Christmas in fourth year, after the dinner and James’ comment. Whatever happened, it wasn’t successful. Mum never called them by their names after that, just “James’ parents”, with a dour look on her face. It was easier not to poke that bear.

Effie and Monty and Pete’s parents, Maura and Nate, seemed to collectively take in Marlene during the winter and summer breaks. She usually sleeps at Pete’s, goes over to the Potters to eat. She comes and goes as she pleases, no longer a guest but a bonafide member of both households. It fills her with a strange sense of warmth to think about that.

Here, she just feels small again, like a six-year-old child. Even now, she folds her shoulders in around her mother instinctively to make her presence less known. It hurts.

Mum doesn’t hit unless she’s trying to make a point. It seems hard to rationalize it like that, but Marlene knows her mother better than anybody. She’s not intentionally trying to make Marlene or Michael hurt, but she is trying to convey a message. Or, probably more appropriately, trying to bring to light both of their flaws. Michael doesn’t work hard enough at school. Marlene doesn’t dress conservatively enough. Michael did not begin working in the church soon enough. Marlene skips mass. Michael had premarital sex. Marlene likes women.

There are no secrets in this house. Everything is open, spread out for Mum to pick and choose what to address next. That Marlene hides in the corners of her body from everybody, but that Marlene is exposed in this house against her will.

The only one who really understands this feeling is Sirius. She never really liked him at first, mainly because first-year James was so enamoured with him. She and Peter used to make fun of Sirius at first: his posh accent, his easy charm. Peter got closer with him that year though, and Marlene was pushed out of their three-person group. Sirius didn’t like girls, was the excuse from James. They used to get into bratty fights a lot.

It wasn’t until third year that they really got over their weird vendetta. Sirius always got very loud when he talked about his family, usually insulting them and laughing along with whoever was listening, but there was a strange look on his face once everybody turned away. Marlene’s face usually twisted into the same kind of expression to mirror him.

When Sirius moved in with the Potters, Marlene knew. She’d come into his room a few nights later and sat on the edge of his bed. They breathed in tandem for a while. That was enough.

Marlene wonders sometimes how much of this is God, and how much is Mum. She tends to confuse the two. Mum and God, God and Mum. When Mum screams at her in the middle of the night because she found a note from a girl with a heart scrawled clumsily on it, is that God speaking through her? Does God hate Marlene as much as Mum seems to?

This line of questioning never really goes anywhere. She fears and loves them both more than she can ever express. Sometimes, when she prays, she’ll accidentally send it to Mum. Those prayers are never answered.

~*~

They sit down for supper, Michael and Sally on either side of her. Marlene fiddles with her sweater, slipping her hand down the collar to feel the angry raised scar on her upper arm. It’s shaped like a starburst, or a poorly drawn sun, scar tissue stubbornly reminding her of her greatest weakness. She used to pick at the scab until it bled, refusing to let it heal. Blood meant that she was not stuck like this. Maybe, she could bleed the queerness out.

Mum clears her throat, and Marlene jerks back to life. Michael is already putting his palms together, shooting her a look so she’ll do it too.

“Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive through Christ, our lord. Amen.”

Ilsa gurgles a bit, and Mum opens an eye to squint at her.

“Sally, she should not be interrupting grace.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Sullivan.” Sally leans over to start spooning food into the baby’s mouth. “Here you go, lovey, eat up!”

Marlene helps herself to some turkey. She can feel Mum’s eyes on her, watching, ready to pounce as soon as she slips up. Her hand shakes as she reaches for the mashed potato bowl.

“So, Marlene.” She feels her body tense up, an automatic response. She can feel her sharp incisor dig into the meaty flesh of her inner mouth. “We need to talk about when you are coming home.”

This is strange. This is a new tact. Marlene lifts her chin to stare up at her mother, eyes focused on her. In her peripheral vision, Michael straightens up in his seat and shoots a warning look to Sally.

“What?”

Mum leans her head into her interconnected hands, smiling sweetly. It is horrifying. “Well, when Michael graduated, he came back home to the church. Met a lovely girl,” she shoots a winning smile to Sally, whose eyes have gone wide as saucers. “Had a baby and joined the church. Michael is looking to become a pastor now, aren’t you, dear?” This is directed to Michael, who stares grimly ahead without even a glance at Marlene, who is staring at the side of his face desperately, looking for solidarity.

Elspeth looks back to Marlene. “Michael has renounced the Devil’s work, that which you call magic.” She uses air quotes around magic. Marlene thinks about melting into a puddle and her soul retreating into the core of the Earth. “He has become a Holy man, and has repented his sins, that which were taught to him at that wicked school.”

Now she’s more puzzled than anything. “Mum,” Marlene says slowly, as though her mother is a rabid animal easily provoked. “You went to Hogwarts. Dad went to Hogwarts. I don’t understand—”

“I have repented for my sins, and God has forgiven me.” She folds her arms on the table. “Your father rebukes our Lord and Saviour, and we cannot save him. You are not beyond saving, my beloved daughter.”

Something sinister slides up Marlene’s spine, like a snake. Bite the apple, it whispers. Ask what she means.

“What are you talking about?”

“Mum.” Michael says, but his eyes are now frozen to his plate, paralyzed with fear. Ilsa starts slamming her fists on the highchair with glee, and Sally moves quickly to stop her.

Elspeth smiles, and Marlene thinks suddenly of Monty, holding her shoulders just that morning, and what he told her. You come home to us. Understand?

“It’s time you walk away from sin, Marlene. Father John has a son your age. He and I agree that you should be wed as soon as possible. If you will not save yourself, we must save you. It is the only way to cleanse you of your sins and bring you to Heaven.”

Marlene opens her mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. That Marlene starts to scream in the back of her mind, drowning out everything else. She thinks this might be what dying is.

“Mum, stop, we talked about this—”

“I will not have a sinner for a daughter. I will not have a queer for a daughter. I will not have a f—”

Dorcas Meadowes has a chipped front tooth. Marlene noticed it in October 1974. She thinks of it now.

“Mum, stop!”

“Look at me, Marlene! You look at your fucking mother when she speaks to you! You hear me? You are going to burn in Hell for eternity! You are an unnatural, foul creature! You ungrateful piece of shit, I am trying to save you! LOOK AT ME!”

Her vision goes white, then red. Somebody shrieks.

On the floor, Marlene barely registers the pain in her wrist, bent awkwardly under her side, or the warmth suddenly spreading down the left side of her face. She thinks about Merlinspire, about James and Lily and Mary and Pete, Sirius and Remus and Alice and Frank, Monty and Effie and Florean. She thinks of them laughing around the big table, Monty recounting a story from his time at the Ministry, Lily snorting alcohol out of her nose and Mary falling out of her seat in laughter.

Mum keeps screaming over her. Michael is trying to block her from getting closer to Marlene. Ilsa is wailing in the background. Marlene keeps thinking about the Potter Christmas tree, the star on the top that she and James always fought over to put it up. Which of them put it up this year?

Marlene, staring in the mirror at fifteen, imagining the act of gouging her heart out while Jesus watched, all so she could not love anymore, because her love was a sin. But it always would be, no matter what she did.

Marlene was a bent, sinful thing. There would be no salvation for her so long as she was still Marlene.

Somewhere, deep in the pit of her stomach, something speaks:

Get up. Go. Leave, now.

And so she does, staggering to her feet, ignoring everything behind her, and running as quick as she can, exploding into the blustery weather, running with no boots or coat. Go, the pit of her stomach urges, do not slow down. Don’t let her catch you. Don’t let her catch you.

“Marlene!”

Across the church, Marlene and Michael McKinnon make eye contact during mass. He smiles, she does not. This is his world, but it is not hers.

Somebody grabs her shoulders and Marlene lashes out, flailing her arm blindly until it connects with something fleshy. They don’t let go, though.

“Marlene, stop—”

She’s spun around, a blurry figure standing before her. She tries to focus her eyes, but the left one is all dark. The world seems so flat.

“Stop struggling—you’re going to make this harder.”

She doesn’t listen, keeps trying to wiggle out of the grip. A dizzying feeling washes over her suddenly: Apparition. It’s only once her feet are planted on the ground again that she leans down to vomit violently into the snow. Even in the blur, she can see the blood staining the pure white ground.

Something starts ringing. A door opens.

“Michael? What—”

“Mum hit her. Please let me in. I think she’s in shock.”

Big warm hands lift her up, her head lolling. She thinks about Father John’s son, a violent flash in her mind, and lets out a weird, strangled sob.

“Merlin, is that Marlene?”

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“Is she okay?”

“Why is there so much blood?”

“Guys, please, go upstairs. Give us a minute.”

~*~

Marlene is sitting on a wooden chair in the Potters dining room.

Her head aches, a sharp pain in her temple. Fleamont cleaned up and healed the wound on her face, no scars, but it doesn’t make the pain go away. Euphemia’s making a pain potion for that right now. At least she can see again.

She hasn’t been able to move. She doesn’t know what time it is. Fleamont left the room, and she doesn’t know if it was just now or four hours ago. Time is flowing weirdly, now.

The door is pushed open. Michael stands in the doorway. He seems so far away, across a chasm too big to traverse.

He fidgets anxiously. Marlene cannot bring her face to move, not even a twitch.

“Are you okay?”

A laughable question. Marlene just blinks at him.

Michael laughs humourlessly and scrubs a hand over his face. “Shit, of course you’re not.”

“You knew?” Her voice is flat, toneless.

Michael drops his hand and looks her in the eyes. “Yeah.” He says, softly. “Yeah, I knew.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me to leave early.”

“Look—” Michael glances away, out the window. “I told her it was a bad idea. I didn’t think she would actually go through with it.”

“But she did.”

“Marlene, I—” He has the decency to sound guilty.

“Do you agree with her?”

“No, no, I can’t believe she would try and marry you off like that—”

“I’m not talking about the marriage thing.” Marlene stares up at his face, the scrunched-up brows, the dark eyes. Once upon a time, she knew him so well. They looked alike, even, before she dyed her hair to match Mum’s. they were once so similar.

“Do you hate me for being gay?”

Michael hesitates. It’s all she really needs.

“Marley—”

She shakes her head robotically. “No, please don’t. Don’t bullshit me.”

“I love you. I really love you, Marley. You know that.”

“Hate the sin, love the sinner?”

“Shit.” Michael swings his gaze around the room, as though looking for a way out. “Marlene… it is unnatural. The Bible says—”

“I don’t care what the Bible says. I care what you say.”

Michael’s eyes land back on her. He looks so sad. She wonders what she looks like to him now, in this moment.

“I know it’s awful, but… she’s trying to save you. She really is, in her own way.”

“You know I can’t ever go back there.”

“I wish you would.”

“I can’t.”

Michael sighs and drops his head. There’s a beat of silence.

“I’m not giving up on you, Marley. I won’t let you go, no matter what you—what you choose to do. But that’s all I can offer. Not acceptance, not pride.”

Marlene shrugs. “I don’t expect anything more from you, anymore.”

Michael scuffs his boot on the tiled floor. Marlene watches him.

“I thought she said you don’t use magic anymore.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not true, is it?”

“No.”

Marlene feels the inside of her cheek with her tongue, the wound from her teeth already forming. “Why do you lie to her, then?”

Michael sighs very deeply. When he speaks next, he sounds about a thousand years older than he is: “We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good, Marley.”

“I think you should go.”

Brother and sister look at each other from across the divide. Neither of them will ever reach the other side.

Michael slowly pulls a slip of paper from his jacket pocket, and grabs a pen lying on the counter, scrawling something down before setting it next to Marlene on the table. Out the corner of her eye, she can make out letters and numbers in Michael’s familiar, spiky handwriting. There’s something else, too, that glints in the light, but she can’t quite decipher the shape.

“That’s mine and Sally’s address, and our phone number. If ever there’s anything, just call. Please. I want to hear from you.”

Marlene doesn’t say anything.

“I love you.”

She refuses to look up at him again.

“Okay.”

She waits until he is gone before the warm tears begin to slip down her cheeks, like blood. Somewhere above, Jesus weeps blood alongside her.

The silver cross glimmers on the table, one final reminder.

Chapter Text

January 1979

Poppy understands war.

She remembers it, from her youth. She knows it took her father, with his gentle eyes and big hands. She knows it took him, and she’ll never forgive anyone for that.

She can still remember the sound of her mother’s sobs. It’s her first real memory, standing at the door, watching these tall wizards take off their hats while Mum weeps on the floor.

Maybe that’s why she gravitated towards healing. Maybe she saw the blood and guts and thought: this must be how my father felt.

She understands that better than she ever thought she would now.

~*~

Poppy is still in bed when the phoenix comes.

She startles awake at the whoosh in the room, having always been a disturbingly light sleeper. Minerva was the one who could sleep through an earthquake. Not Poppy; it was as thought she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially when she was unconscious. That childhood fear, immortalized in her basic patterns.

The silver phoenix is perched on the bedpost, head slightly cocked as though it is truly watching her. It is eerie. Poppy’s never been able to conjure a corporeal patronus – a source of frustration for the teenage Poppy, for whom academic success was the only goal – and so she feels a strange mix of envy and discomfort at the sight of one.

The beak opens, and Albus’ voice comes out. “Coming to you shortly. Blood moon tonight. Get Minerva.” With that, the patronus dissolves into whisps of blue air.

Blood moon tonight, a codeword: there has been a werewolf attack. And if they are coming here, then that means…

Poppy does not allow herself time to think. She springs into action, dressing quickly, and tearing out the door as fast as she can. No time to waste.

~*~

Poppy is old now. She’s 44, greying at the top already. Not graceful streaks of silver, like Minerva, but ugly grey. she keeps her hair up and tucked away as much as possible.

She wonders sometimes how she is no longer seventeen, running through the halls of Hogwarts with Minerva and Alphard and Lyall by her side. Sometimes, she hears giggling and pounding steps down the hall and wonders if it is her past self, and if this whole life has been but a dream.

Not a dream.

In his letters, Alphard would add something small at the end, right before his name. she would trace those words over and over again until they imprinted into her fingertips and mixed into her bloodstream: you are still here.

You are still here. A simple reminder of her existence, her body in motion. Alphard knew she needed it without ever asking. They understood each other like that, in a way they could never have with other people. It made sense; so much of their lives had to be spent in silence, hidden from the public eye. So many secrets makes one particularly adept at non-verbal communication, it seems.

Sometimes, Poppy will wake up in her bedroom at Hogwarts, and she will reach over for a body that is not there. Alphard was never there, not like this. It’s not Alphard she’s reaching for, but the guilt that floods her body when she realizes makes her wish she wanted him instead.

The ring still sits on her dresser, next to a photograph of the four of them at Hogwarts. She’ll pick it up and turn it between her fingers for a while. She’s never worn it properly, just for show, but so many years later and nobody cares about the marital status of Hospital Wing Matron Pomfrey.

Alphard had told her it would die down. “Once they see us married, they’ll be off our case.” He’d assured her late one night, at an engagement party thrown in their honour at the Black mansion. “We’ll pretend I’m infertile – it runs in the family anyway, open secret – and we can get away with living separately, cause of your job. It’ll be fine, I promise. They just want to get me out of the way.”

Poppy had stared at the outline of his aquiline nose in the dark, and wondered if it would be easier to force herself to love him properly. Sometimes the tidal wave of doubt would wash over her, leaving her waterlogged and trembling just off the coast of the beach of acceptance.

He was the best of them, the Blacks. She’d watched that family from the periphery, a cousin by blood but not by name. He was the strangest: not Walburga, a girl desperate to become her family’s legacy, nor Cygnus, the sickly child. Alphard stood alone, his eyes dark sterling, both the prodigious heir and also an outcast, not quite a proper Black. Her mum told her the story about the ugly duckling as a kid, and she felt it the most apt. Alphard was the ugly duckling, hiding in the skin of a dead beautiful duckling.

Maybe that’s why Sirius Black was so fascinating to her and Minerva. This boy, the proud and haughty heir to the throne, throwing it all away for Gryffindor and the boys he loved. Alphard, but not quite. Alphard was never so quick to throw it all away, always hesitating on the line, never quite daring to cross it. Sirius was bolder, braver, more reckless. He reminded her more of someone else, which meant she could never get too close. She let Minerva have her boy.

Poppy had hers.

~*~

It takes several shakes to rouse Minerva. Grumbling, she tosses and turns while Poppy, steadily losing patience, nudges her shoulders harder and harder.

Finally, Minerva straightens up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Poppy just stares. It’s been a while since she watched Minerva sleep. So many early mornings, waking up in the same bed after sneaking into the other’s dorm, watching as the soft light danced off her face and the smoothed out wrinkle between her eyebrows, a phenomenon which only happened now that she was deeply asleep.

They’re not young anymore. They are not in love anymore. They are not those people anymore.

“Albus is bringing Remus here.” Poppy says quietly, even though there’s nobody else in the room with them. Secrecy comes as a habit these days.

Minerva’s eyes widen, squint, and widen again. “Fuck.” She mumbles sleepily. Poppy’s chest tightens suddenly, and she turns away.

“Get dressed. I’ll meet you in the hospital wing.

~*~

Lyall Lupin had also gotten old.

He was younger than her, still, but his face was prematurely lined, and he was greying at the temples. It was strange to see him here now, in the Hospital Wing, an adult man who was as close to a stranger to Poppy that he could ever be.

On his arm: the pretty woman, with a honey-coloured bob and a round, friendly face. Hope Howell looked almost the same as she did when they were twenty or so, one of the last times they all hung out as friends, when Lyall had introduced them to the shy muggle girl from the Welsh countryside. She was beautiful and kind. She fit so perfectly at Lyall’s side: a picturesque couple. The tightness around Lyall’s eyes suggested he knew this too.

Poking out from behind Hope’s flowery red dress were dusty brown curls, the same shade as Lyall’s.

“I believe you three already know each other, yes?” Albus asked from between the two parties, his shining eyes turning to Poppy indicated he obviously knew the answer. From behind him, Lyall inclined his head to her slightly; Poppy nodded back. How far we’ve fallen, she thought silently. Once upon a time, I held you when you sobbed, and you loved me like a sister.

“Remus, this is Madam Pomfrey. She’ll be the one taking care of you during your transformations.”

A pale forehead popped out and disappeared again. Poppy tilted her head, trying to appear as gentle as possible.

Hope leaned down and guided the boy out. He was slight for his age, with a long, pointed face, a crooked nose, and a mop of brown hair. Along his temple was a shiny scar, probably newly healed. He was clearly Hope and Lyall’s son, it made her chest hurt to look at him.

Poppy knelt, keeping her eyes on the boy’s and holding her hands out palm first. Not a threat, she wanted to signal. The boy, Remus, watched her warily. He seemed much older than 11, like an old man transplanted into a child’s body. There was something wolfish in his eyes, this close to the full moon. It broke her heart.

She’d spent the summer researching lycanthropy. It ashamed her that she knew little about it, besides what they’d been taught at Hogwarts years before. Irma Pince had set aside a number of books for her, on Albus’ request. Poppy had poured over them for nights on end, feeling remarkably like she did at 15, studying until dawn for her OWLS and NEWTS.

There was no kindness towards werewolves. Everything described them as vicious, animalistic creatures, even before the full moon. She thought of Lyall’s rantings about their destructive tendencies over drinks. This kid, pointy and knobbly though he was, had a sort of softness of youth that was rarely afforded to the subjects of the cruel studies and descriptions.

What could make him most comfortable now? There was no sense in treating him like an innocent child; he would know that was fake. This was a boy on the cusp of adolescence, a boy who transformed every month, who tore at his skin and howled in pain. She refused to be another person who did not meet him on his level.

Poppy held out her hand, like she would to an adult. Lyall sucked in a breath. Remus thought about it, and put his thin palm in hers. This, the simple shaking of hands, was it: Remus John Lupin, the little Welsh boy from a farm in the countryside, a werewolf, and Poppy Saoirse Pomfrey, the old Irish witch, the Matron of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, sealing their first pact of trust.

~*~

As Poppy is opening the floo network in the hospital wing, she can hear the rustle of Minerva’s robes as she hurries in. Keeping her back to the door, she closes her eyes and silently prays to whoever happens to be listening. She’s not religious – purebloods usually aren’t – and she doesn’t know what she’s praying for, but Minerva’s presence usually has this effect on her, where she silently begs everyone else for help to survive the encounter.

Things are… fine between them. They had always been fine. No, that was a lie, but easier to believe in hindsight. Even the worst moments were tinted with rose. There was just so much history between them, enough to fill a hundred scrolls. Every encounter, every look, that was something. Poppy pretended she had long stopped keeping track, but every time they locked eyes while passing in the halls, Poppy kept a note, tucked away in the back of her mind in the folder named after Minerva.

Minerva probably thinks it was Alphard dying that severed things between them. That is classic Minerva: never quite seeing the rain before the storm. She’d had to have known it was heading here: childhood sweethearts turned cordial coworkers. There is no world in which they didn’t go down this path. It is inevitable and inescapable.

Still, if it makes her feel better to believe this was because of Alphard, who is Poppy to deny her that simple comfort?

Poppy pulls back from the floo at a crackle of the fire. Minerva is loudly worrying at her thumbnail in her mouth. Poppy shoots her a look; Minerva drops her hand.

A green flame. A tall figure steps through, carrying a slumped body. Albus Dumbledore, holding Remus Lupin in his arms. Albus’ brows are tight with worry: a tic he’d never quite been able to shake. Poppy moves instantly to his side.

Remus’ face is streaming blood, but what is more concerning are the growing bloodstain across his jumper and coat, right over the heart. Poppy’s voice catches in her throat. “Table, over there. Quickly.”

As Albus moves to set Remus down, there is another pop. A girl steps through the fire next, dressed in sweats and a jumper. Hestia Jones. Something maternal and protective swells in Poppy’s chest: before she knows it, she’s stepping forward to shield Remus from Hestia. “Albus,” she demands in a low, warning tone.

Minerva has also stepped forward too, arms folded over her chest, eyes barely hiding the panic blooming there. “Albus, what is she doing here? How did she get access to the floo—”

Hestia’s eyes are wide with shock and fear, almost folding in on herself. It’s the strangest feeling, staring at her now. Poppy has always liked Hestia best of her proteges in the Hospital Wing, but in the face of her boy, Hestia means nothing.

“She’s with me.” Albus sets a hand lightly on Poppy’s shoulder from behind. “She knows.” This was murmured, just loud enough for both to hear. They exchange a look.

Keeping Remus’ secret was of paramount importance. As few people as possible could know: Minerva, Poppy, Albus, and the professors at Hogwarts. She knows some of Remus’ friends had figured it out – the Black boy, Monty and Effie’s son, Pettigrew. Then there was the matter of Snape and the incident, but that had been an accident. Nobody else was supposed to know, not only for Remus’ safety and privacy, but also because of his usefulness in the war effort. Remus, a werewolf, is a perfect spy. Betraying his secret meant giving up their advantage, at least to Albus.

“She’s here to help you, Poppy. Our strongest healer in the war effort. We need someone on the inside who can help him in the direst of situations.” Albus nods to Hestia, who shuffles forward and over to Remus’ side. Poppy chews on her lip. Minerva frowns deeply.

Albus meets Poppy’s eyes. You don’t have a choice, he seems to say. If you don’t let her in, he will die.

Nothing could have been worse to hear.

Poppy steps to the bed, feeling her body slide into work mode, where all other cares melted away besides the patient before her. “Do you know what happened, exactly?” She demands, directing her question at Albus behind her.

“Face wounds appear to be regular work, probably by himself or another who got too close. Sounds as though the pack got a little too close to a wizarding village. As he was transforming back, Remus got a spell to the chest while the others fled. He managed to send a patronus before he passed out.”

“Do we know what spell?”

“Unsure. Something to cause external and internal wounds. Likely something created by the wizard himself.”

“Get his jumper off.” This is to Hestia, who had been hovering uncomfortably. She launches into work, vanishing the jumper while Poppy gently prodded at his chest.

Once the jumper and shirt are off, the damage becomes clear. It's as though a hole has been blasted through him, a crater of oozing blood and mangled flesh. She hears somebody retch behind her; she assumes it’s Hestia (it is actually Minerva, who is notoriously bad with blood and gore). Emanating from it is a strange greenish glow, making Remus’ tanned skin seem wan and sickly.

“What do we do?” A little voice whispers at her side. Hestia, fearful and trembling, is staring down at the wound. Poppy looks at her and sees herself in every dream she’s had of the battlefield, standing over her father’s body, diagnosing every one of his injuries in the hopes of saving him. She never does.

“Put pressure on the wound. I’ll get some healing salves. We need to stop the bleeding before we can extract whatever’s causing the glow in there. Probably something lodged, we need to get that out before we can actually treat the flesh wound.” Poppy says, as though a disembodied voice is coming from her. Inside, she feels slightly numb, staring down at her boy like this.

Hestia nods, a grim set to her mouth. “Okay.”

They work like this in tandem, mostly silent. Handing flasks and jars back and forth. Behind them, Minerva scans through Poppy’s journals, looking for something with a similar set of symptoms. Albus left not long after he arrived, claiming other duties. Poppy is too busy right now to resent him for that.

Every so often, Remus will give a twitchy groan, and it is the worst sound in the world. Worse than all of his transformations; Poppy never thought there could be a worse sound. She stares down at his face, twisted in agony, and thinks: hang on, my love. You’re not done yet.

~*~

Alphard Pollux Black died on September 18th, 1977.

She thinks it was then, anyway. She’d gone to his flat the day after for their weekly dinner, and had found him unresponsive in his armchair, a bottle by his side.

She hadn’t cried. She’d known immediately, because he could never have looked so peaceful in life. She’d stared at him for a while, before cleaning up the bottle and the flat. She’d sorted through all of his letters from her, and a few mementos of his, things she refused to let anyone else see. Then she sent a owl to Albus.

And that was it: the death of the Black heir. Quiet, orderly, procedural. Nobody spoke much of it. Poppy and Minerva exchanged somber glances in the halls. Poppy felt as though she had died inside, just a little.

It was September 28th. Remus Lupin, recovering from the full moon, nose in a book as Poppy bustled around him with a fresh pain potion, who said very casually: “You knew Sirius’ uncle, didn’t you.”

Not a question, but a statement of fact. The past tense stung a little. Poppy paused in her tracks, trying to decide how she could possibly respond.

“I did the math. You two were the same age, so you must have been at Hogwarts together.”

She wondered briefly how Minerva would react to this, before remembering she was not, in fact, Minerva.

“Yes. We were classmates. Friends, even. He is—was – a distant cousin of mine.” She turned slightly to face him. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

Remus’ face was scrutinizing, the cogs turning in that lovely head of his, chewing on that information. She knows it isn’t enough, knows he wants something more from her. It hurts to talk about him like this, especially with Remus, the boy with the same face that Alphard loved so dearly.

“I was looking over some records the other day.” He says casually, as though this is a regular thing to do. Were he not himself, Poppy would hardly believe it. “It says Alphard Pollux Black married a Poppy Saoirse Pomfrey in 1954.”

She feels her body deflate a little. Casting a glance around the rest of the wing to make sure it is empty, she quickly sits in the side chair and draws the curtains around them. Finally, she meets his eyes.

“You can lie to me, you know.” Remus says this offhandedly, but she can tell by the set of his jaw and shoulders that he doesn’t mean it.

Poppy leans forward a little. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” This is a solemn promise, one she cannot always keep. “We were married not long after graduation. It was a marriage of convenience, to satisfy his parents. We always led separate lives.”

“Does Sirius know?”

“I doubt it. When they realized neither of us would be productive in making heirs, his parents decided to just ignore the marriage. Only records from around that time I think have me listed not as a cousin but a member by marriage.”

Remus tilts his head a little. “You weren’t in love?”

Poppy laughs, and it startles Remus a little. Clutching her side, she wheezes slightly, imagining the prospect of being in love with Alphard Black and finding it utterly amusing. “God, no. We were close friends, that’s all.”

“My dad knew him, too.”

This sobers her up a little. Dusting off her apron gives her a moment to consider what she’ll say. Remus goes on:

“My dad saw it in the Prophet. Said they also went to school together. That’s how you knew my dad, right?”

Poppy swallows a lump down. “Yes. Your father was a year above me, in Ravenclaw. By extension… he knew Alphard.”

That was a lie. Lyall didn’t just know Alphard. Lyall craved Alphard, needed him like a drug. Lyall and Alphard, Alphard and Lyall, like Minerva and Poppy. Bound together against all odds, sewn together. What was one without the other?

One without the other: Alphard becoming a shell of himself after Lyall’s wedding. The way his cold grey eyes seemed to reflect the ghosts of the past, the shape of the two of them curled together on the couch. Poppy hadn’t much known what to do with him. Had she not done the exact same thing as Lyall? Sure, it was different: Lyall was truly in love with Hope, but Poppy felt the same heavy burden of guilt settle onto her chest.

How could she tell Remus the truth? Your father, one of my closest friends as a teenager, was so madly in love with the heir of the Black family, and shattered his heart by marrying the entire antithesis to the heir: the beautiful blonde muggle girl? How can I explain to you this truth, that Alphard was so hurt by this he turned to drinking, and never quite smiled the same again?

How could Remus ever understand this? How could he know what it meant to love a Black, with stars in their eyes and the sharpest grin? How could he know how that story ended: with heartbreak and pain and still endless love? How could she put that on him?

Especially now, barely a year after Hope died. She remembers Remus collapsing into Minerva’s arms, Lyall’s somber face in the Floo delivering the news. His mother, sweet and generous Hope Howell, how could she tell him that for years after the wedding, Alphard and Lyall would meet secretly for one night every so often, vowing never to speak of it again but always finding themselves tumbling into bed together?

No, she cannot tell him.

So, she stands up and fusses at his pillow. “Are you comfortable like this? Take your pain potion. Don’t read, you’ll strain your eyes.”

Remus just watches her, as though he knows she is keeping something from him. But, as Remus does, he doesn’t belabour the topic further, just takes her cue.

That’s the kind of man he is, and Poppy appreciates it.

~*~

Stay alive. Stay alive.

Poppy never wants to feel Remus’ blood on her hands again. Part of her starts to panic, the image of her father flashing before her eyes. Her father, shot on the battlefield. Her father, bleeding out on the ground. Her father, all alone in death.

Stay with me, Remus.

The little boy, hiding behind his mother’s skirts, peeking out at her with concern far beyond his years. The gangly teenager, weeping on the rug in a way she has never heard before, as though every sob is agonizingly being torn from his chest. The eighteen year old, bringing her a bundle of flowers charmed never to wilt with a shy smile on the eve of his graduation.

And with him, she sees Lyall. Lyall, curled up in the library with his thick reading glasses, droning on about dangerous fish. Lyall, the boy with rumpled clothes and messy hair, soaring through the sky on his broom. Lyall, jaw clenched tight with fury and eyes concertedly blank.

How did Lyall feel now? Checking the paper that morning, seeing the news that he’d never dreamed he’d receive so soon. Tears in his eyes, openly weeping at the quaint dinner table over a lost love, so soon after his other love
had gone. Poppy hadn’t even sent him an owl; he’d had to find out from the Prophet. How cruel was that? It had never even passed her mind to tell Lyall, and her heart bloomed with shame. Whatever loyalty she’d had to him once was gone, blown away on the winds of time.

When Hope and Lyall had entrusted Remus into her care, many years ago in this very room, Lyall had looked her in the eyes very seriously. “Guard him with your life,” he had said. And she had, hadn’t she? She was there for every transformation, every scrape and bruise. What would happen if she couldn’t guard him now? Would Lyall beat at her chest with barely contained fury and grief of losing his final love? No; more likely he would stand before her in resignation, all light gone out of his eyes. That was even more heartbreaking of a vision.

Through the bubble of her thoughts, Hestia’s voice grows louder and more frantic. Poppy hears her distantly, unable even to look up from the body – the boy, he’s not dead yet – before her.

She sees it before she hears it: the explosion of blood and guts all around her. With it: the strange slurping noise of a straw. It feels as though her brain has disconnected from her body, leaving her stranded in the space of her mind.

Then, Remus gasps back into life.

It is the most beautiful sound.

Poppy lets out a choked cry and whirls around. Hestia, splattered with blood, is holding the bolt, still glowing green. Her eyes are wide: she must be in shock. Slowly, her gaze shifts to Poppy, staring in wonderment at her, and makes a weird shrugging motion.

Poppy looks back down at Remus, the sweat beading on his forehead, fitfully murmuring. Their work isn’t done yet, but Remus – beautiful, sweet, intelligent Remus – is alive.

~*~

Once the wound is healed up, and McGonagall and Pomfrey are outside with Dumbledore, Hestia finds herself sitting at Remus’ bedside, staring at his face.

It would be foolish to pretend she knows him; she doesn’t. One of Mari’s—one of the boys in her year. Gangly, bookish, always sick. This was the key point, where Madam Pomfrey never let the students get quite close to Remus’ bed. Hestia has always wondered, sure, why Pomfrey’s face got so tight during those lessons.

She only knows because Dumbledore had appeared to her suddenly at the apartment. “He needs somebody else who can care for him,” he’d said. Despite not being in the Order, she’d obliged.

What else was she to do? He was a boy in need of saving; wasn’t that why she’d been drawn to healing in the first place? Besides, Mari would never forgive her if she didn’t save him. That’s a big part of her decision-making these days, even if she likes to pretend it isn’t.

Remus keeps mumbling in his sleep. Hestia looks at him and wonders why people are so afraid of werewolves. Emmy is, almost comically so. Hestia can’t understand hating another person, even a supposedly dark creature.
Besides, is this boy not a person? He is so real, flesh and bones under her palms. His knitted brow and tense shoulders inspire pity, not fear.

He has a mother, and a father. He is a kid, just as much as Hestia is, stuck in a terrible situation. How could she not feel for him, in this moment?

There is a strange sense of pride in having saved him. She wonders if this is just part of the job. Pomfrey’s face had looked so relieved, and she’d even patted Hestia on the shoulder afterwards and thanked her in a soft voice. She wouldn’t apologize for being angry at Hestia’s arrival: Hestia got the sense she would never apologize for protecting Remus Lupin. She’d always quite liked Madam Pomfrey, she seemed to understand how deeply a person could love.

Remus’ eyes flutter open, landing on her. Panic flits across his gaze, and he tries to straighten up. Hestia immediately places a hand on his chest, just under the thick bandages, to keep him from sitting.

“Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself more.”

Remus, surprisingly, obeys her. Warily, he settles back down, staring at her with a strange, unreadable expression. Hestia nods, hoping that a non-verbal cue will settle him. It does: the light goes out of his eyes, and he lays his head down on the pillow, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

“You, uh, kept mumbling in your sleep.” She says quietly, casting a quick glance at the door.

Remus starts to sit up again, but again pauses when she reaches over to stop him.

“You kept repeating ‘Romulus, Romulus’ over and over again.” Remus’ eyebrows tighten, and he suddenly looks so young and vulnerable that her heart shatters a bit for him. “Don’t worry, I made sure Pomfrey didn’t hear you. I just clattered some pans around when you got particularly chatty…” Her voice trails off, unsure how to proceed.

She thinks suddenly of her father at her bedside, recounting the greatest tales from around the world. She recalls the smell of his neck, the inflections of his voice. She models his kindness as best she can:

“It’s only—I, uh, I know the story of Romulus and Remus. Twin brothers raised by a wolf; Remus killed by Romulus before the founding of Rome?”

The look Remus gives her will haunt her for the rest of her life; the leading memory she’ll always hold with respect to Remus Lupin. She could go on, draw the conclusion, but Hestia Jones would never consider hurting a person like that. She just stands up suddenly, drawing Remus’ eyes with her, and says “I’m going to get you some water.”

She thinks she hears a soft, raspy “Thank you” as she turns on her heel and leaves.

This moment will stay between Hestia and Remus for as long as they live. Hestia will save Remus’ life; Remus will save Hestia’s life. Here, a tree sprouts as a sapling, curling up towards the sunlight with tentative longing. One day, it will be a majestic oak, providing shade and protection to anyone who needs it. But today, it is just a sapling, as deserving of sunlight and love as the oak, looking forward to the future.

Like the building of Rome, so the friendship between Hestia Jones and Remus Lupin takes many years to develop. Once it has, it is more powerful than anyone can imagine.

Chapter Text

February 1979

There is, perhaps comically, a doormat reading “the heart is where the home is” at the foot of the door leading to Andromeda Black’s house.

Andromeda Tonks, Alice reminds herself mentally. It is hard sometimes to reconcile the thought of these two people as one: Andromeda Black, with a haughty tilt to her chin and pride seeped into her very marrow, and Andromeda Tonks, a name that implies softness and friendliness. The Andromeda Alice remembers was not soft nor friendly, though perhaps she was an acquired taste, if she managed to get married, anyway.

Alice has been standing on the front steps for several minutes, deliberating how to knock. It is cold, and the wind nips at her exposed cheek, so she bundles herself even tighter into her scarf, glaring at the doorknocker and willing it to open with her mind. People tend to be surprised, but Alice isn’t very good at wandless or even wordless magic. Dorcas has that shit down, but it’s as though a mental block sits on Alice’s brain every time she tries. Frank lets her practice on him, but more often than not she just gets so frustrated she doesn’t even want to fuck afterwards. That is a big deal.

Bite the bullet, Alice. Open the door, you coward. Always that same voice in the back of her mind, always her voice. Her inner monologue, mixed with memories. That’s why she’s here, isn’t it?

Before she can do anything else, Alice steps forward and knocks. Two decisive raps on the door.

A beat.

Two.

A brown-haired man opens the door. He looks soft and rumpled, in a brown jumper and corduroys. In a flash, she remembers him at eighteen, that stupid Head Boy badge pinned to his robes, rolling his eyes fondly at her when she got caught sneaking out past curfew again.

Alice smiles. “Hi, Ted.”

Ted Tonks shakes his head as though in disbelief. “Alice Fortescue. Look at you now. It’s been… what, seven, eight years? C’mere.” Without a second thought, he swoops her up into his arms, hugging her tightly. Alice holds him back, a strange feeling settling across her guts.

“It’s good to see you again.”

Ted finally sets her down and sends a hand through his mussed hair. “You know, you could have come to visit us sooner. You’re one of the few with our address, anyway.”

Alice shifts a little awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure if you guys would want to see me.”

“Pshaw. I always want to see you, kiddo. Andy too. Speaking of, c’mon in. Andy’s in the kitchen with Dora.”

The house is small but quaint. Earthy tones abound, a squashy couch wedged in between bookshelves, a collection of toy trains scattered across the floor. It is all so… domestic, Alice thinks, following as Ted weaves his way through the organized chaos. Hard to imagine the second Black daughter living here.

And she sees her. Andromeda Black, sitting at the tiny dining table, watching fondly as her six-year-old daughter zooms trucks across the floorboards.

“Andy, we’ve got a visitor.” Ted announces proudly, going straight to the fridge and leaving Alice exposed in the entrance. Andromeda’s silver eyes snap to hers. She gets the peculiar feeling of being scanned for information; a look she’s come to understand as purely Black.

Andromeda tilts her chin up. “Hello, Alice.”

Alice nods a little shakily. “Hi, Andromeda. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nonsense. Come meet Nymphadora.”

At the sound of her name, the little girl’s head snaps up, and her hair goes from black to bright red. Alice takes a startled step back, suddenly having a strange sense of déjà vu.

“Shit, a Metamorphmagus?”

Ted shoots her a look. “Language—” but the damage is already done.

“Shit!” Nymphadora proclaims proudly, as though she has just snatched up a pretty rock to show everyone. Alice, cheeks red, feels Andromeda’s gaze get a little sharper. That is not what she needs right now, especially not with… that memory.

Thankfully, Alice is good with children, her one saving point, and so she manually shifts her brain into her easygoing-friendly mode.

“Merlin, your hair is so cool! Woah! Can you change it on command?”

Nymphadora grins, displaying two missing teeth. “Yup!” Her hair goes green, then purple.

“Wow! Can you do other things too? Can you—” Alice leans in close. “Can you look like me?”

The kid studies her face with a concentration akin to a very old man trying to read. Alice tries not to laugh at the visual. Slowly but surely, she begins to see her features reflected on the small face of the little girl. She grins widely.

“Is that me, standing in front of me? Hey, stop impersonating me!”

Nymphadora giggles, and Alice suddenly wonders what it must be like to have her own child laugh like that one day.

“Ted, I think we are out of bread.” Andromeda announces. “Why don’t you take Nymphadora with you to the market?”

Alice glances up. Andromeda is staring at her, eyes piercing. She knows what you’re here for, the voice whispers. a shiver crawls down Alice’s spine. She hates the feeling of being perceived.

“Aye aye, captain.” Ted salutes and swings Nymphadora up onto his shoulder. “Say goodbye to Alice.” Alice wiggles her fingers at the kid. “Shall we play pirates on the way?” His voice trails off down the hall, until silence.

Alice turns slowly to look at Andromeda.

“Sit.”

Alice sits.

The strangest thing about Andromeda’s eyes is that they aren’t like hers. Hers, when she wasn’t changing them to fit in, settled in an icy blue shade that made her look even more ethereal. There was the same look, the slight squint as they analyzed everything that made you tick, but hers, at least once, was tinged with love.

There is no love in Andromeda’s gaze.

“Why are you here?”

Never one to mince words. Alice sighs, tries to compose her thoughts so as not to come across a blubbering fool. Andromeda is intimidating, always has been, and despite herself, Alice feels that desperate need to win her over.

“I need your help,” is what she settles on, because it most easily encapsulates why she is here. She wouldn’t be if she didn’t need to be.

Andromeda’s eyes narrow even more. “Why mine?”

“Because we have a common interest.”

“Don’t weave riddles around me, Alice. Come right out and say it.”

Alice’s heart is beating out of her chest. To say it means no going back, no repairing this relationship. Andromeda will send her out from her home with a demand that she never return.

But… she needs something. Closure, perhaps. A bridge to the other world. And only Andromeda can provide it.

“I need to speak with Narcissa.”

Narcissa, daffodil. Alice cannot say her name, cannot pick that flower any longer. It will fill every inch of space in her brain if she lets it, memory upon memory of skin upon skin. Alice drowns and chokes on it all, and comes up coughing yellow petals.

Andromeda has not moved. Her arms are folded on the table, possibly concealing clenched fists, or a knife. With the Blacks, you can never be sure. Alice has at least once been on the receiving end of a knife held by the deadly charming Bellatrix Black (she does not recommend the experience, mind you).

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. Please.” She sounds desperate, but it is beyond hiding.

“Alice, I no longer speak to her. To either of them.”

“But you know how to reach her, don’t you? Please, Andromeda. I’ll never ask anything else of you again.”

Andromeda’s eyes flash. It is that which always feared Alice about her, when she would fly off into one of her rages. That glint was the first clue, the first clue that the girl Alice loved was about to morph into the most terrifying monster she could ever imagine, using every vulnerability she knows to strike.

But Andromeda does not begin screaming, does not hurl the cruellest words she can at Alice’s head. She stays perfectly still. “Why?”

This is progress. Alice pulls herself back down to earth, away from the headspace where her voice keeps whispering, tries to mull over a suitable answer.

“The war is getting worse.”

“Wars tend to do that. Next answer.”

“She’s in danger over there, Andromeda.”

“Would she be in less danger here?”

“With me, yes.”

Andromeda laughs, a strangely flinty sound. “You have a saviour complex, Alice Fortescue.”

“But it’s true. I can protect her.”

“She made her choice, over there. You cannot lure her over with the promise of flimsy love.”

Alice’s cheeks burn. “It’s not flimsy.”

“Aren’t you married?”

They stare at each other from across the table. Andromeda’s lips curl into a slight smile. She is winning, and she knows it.

Alice presses her palms together. “Please, Andromeda. I have to… I have to at least talk to her.”

“Do you know that she would even want to speak with you?”

Alice falters. The smile grows wider.

“I… don’t know. But, I have to try.”

“Alice.” Andromeda leans in. everything about her is sharp and biting. “She is a Death Eater. She is not yours anymore, in any way. She is not fourteen anymore. You are a fool if you think this will change anything.”

“Have I asked you for anything before?” This catches her off guard. Alice knows how to play the Black verbal spars too. After all, she spent two years face to face with one. “Have I given away your location to anyone? I hear Dumbledore and McGonagall are particularly interested in getting you on their side. Wouldn’t it be easy to bring them here?”

Andromeda arches an eyebrow. “That would accomplish very little. I’m a better witch than you are. Threats don’t scare me, Alice.”

“No, but you’re a coward.”

Something pained and complicated flits across her face, covered almost instantly by the Black mask. Alice remembers that vulnerability, and pounces.

“You’re too much a coward to face the side your family all fled to, where your sisters are. Bellatrix has the fucking balls to fight, at least. They both have conviction. Meanwhile you don’t give two shits if the wizarding world lives or dies, if muggles are slaughtered, because all that matters is that the precious Black daughter gets to live out her cottage fantasies with her muggleborn husband and half-blood daughter. What if it was them, huh? He would stop at nothing to watch their brains splatter across the walls, and still, you wouldn’t lift a finger. That’s not self-preservation, Andromeda. That is being a fucking coward.”

Andromeda’s jaw clicks. An almost primal look is in her eye, something base and instinctual. Every bone in her body is rejecting that, family arrogance and pride unable to cope with the truth.

There are two things that a Black values above all: family and greatness. And Andromeda, however much she likes to pretend now that she is a simple housewife, raising her daughter in peace and harmony in the countryside, is a Black down to her very core.

You lot are so easy to manipulate, Alice thinks, that vicious side of herself reveling in her success. She is ashamed of it usually, but here all she can feel is victory.

Finally, Andromeda runs her tongue along her sharp molars. “You are really serious about this, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question, but Alice nods anyway. Andromeda sighs, lowers her head for a moment, considers.

“I have stayed in communication with my… my cousin. I can speak to her and see if we can get her out of the manor to see you.”

“What if I go in?”

Andromeda’s eyes flash warningly again. “Out of the question. If I hear that you took any steps to get into that building, it’s off. I will not have any part in that.”

Alice considers, then nods firmly. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Thank you.”

Andromeda looks at her and slowly shakes her head. “You are one stupid son of a bitch, Alice Fortescue.”

“I know.”

“You need to go. Ted will be back soon with the bread. I’ll tell him you had to leave early.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

The flicker of a cruel smile on her lips is smoothed out quickly. “It does not concern him. By the way, you are no longer welcome in my house.”

Alice smiles sweetly at her as she stands. “I expected as such. When you’re telling Nymphadora bedtime stories, be sure to tell her how you won’t risk your own ass to ensure her future. Isn’t that a cute story?” She points down the hall. “I’ll let myself out, don’t worry.”

As she treks further from the house, Alice shoots a cursory look back. The lot is empty, the wards reinforced. She snorts to herself and keeps walking, letting her anger and cruelty melt away, replaced by that familiar thrum in her chest beating her name over and over again:

Narcissa, Narcissa, Narcissa.

God, those Black sisters drive her mad.

~*~

Amelia gets used to finding the cat outside of her flat every week.

The funny thing is, she’s never really liked cats. Oscar used to play with this stray cat on their street when they were little, always bringing it a bowl of food to eat, but Amelia always found it kind of off-putting: the mangy fur, the jutting spine, the sharp eyes.

This cat is much healthier looking, sleek and gorgeous. There’s the distinct markings around the eyes, so Amelia knows who it is. Not that she wouldn’t anyway, as most cats generally don’t look so stern all the time.

Amelia glances behind her as she walks to the door, making sure no one is looking. It is late and cold, the only people out are a group of teenage girls drunk and giggling down the street. She feels only a brief flash of contempt before her brain moves swiftly along.

“Come on, then.” She says in a dull voice to the cat, who just keeps staring. Fucking animagi, so creepy.

The flat is sparsely decorated, the only sort of indication that someone lives here is a coat strewn across the back of an armchair. Amelia doesn’t spend much time here besides sleeping, admittedly. Right now, it’s all hands-on deck at the Ministry.

She goes to the tiny kitchen, grabs two chipped mugs from the pantry, and turns on the kettle for tea. Behind her, she listens for the pad of cat feet in the hallway, and the soft popping sound of transformation. Minerva only
switches back in the safety of Amelia’s flat.

Safety is a relative term. Her boss, Crouch, has insisted on everyone installing security measures in their homes, given the growing threat. Amelia refuses to do this, not least because she’s fairly certain Crouch would have access to surveillance if they used the spells he recommended. Besides, she can protect herself.

The kettle whistles, and Amelia fills up the mugs with hot water and teabags, bringing them out to the small table. An interesting note she keeps filed away: both she and Minerva take their tea with no milk or sugar.

Minerva, sitting across from her, has dark circles under her eyes, her tight bun slipping loose. She looks completely exhausted. Amelia would be lying if there wasn’t any smugness in her heart as she sits down with her mug pressed against her palms, arching a brow up at Minerva in curiosity.

“The attack on a muggle bar last week. You have a lead?” Minerva asks, sipping at her tea.

Amelia shrugs. “Death Eaters, like we suspected.”

Minerva lets out an exasperated huff. “And?”

“No charges being levied against anyone. It’s being referred to as simple muggle-on-muggle violence. Not our jurisdiction. Scrimgeour keeps pushing for more investigation, but it’s being held up by Malfoy.”

“Is that all?”

Amelia smiles thinly. “Corruption is not common in the Ministry, Minerva.”

Minerva waves a hand in the air. “Humour doesn’t suit you, Amelia.” She says brusquely and drains her cup. “I’ll be back next week. Stay vigilant.” She stands up to go. Amelia follows her with her eyes.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Professor?”

Minerva’s shoulders slump just imperceptibly, and she sucks on her teeth before responding. “We’re still working on it. Crouch is a difficult man to get rid of.”

“Sounds like you’re not trying hard enough.”

Minerva turns her head slightly to glance back at Amelia, still sitting at the table. “Always a pleasure.” She says through gritted teeth and strides away.

Amelia drums her fingers on the wood table, one hand still curled around the mug, deep in thought. It is rare she can actually sit like this, without work, these days. These days. Such a phrase Amelia hopes to never think again. She does not wish to be a part of “these days.”

Before she can think more, she dumps the rest of her tea down the drain, grabs her coat from the chair, and heads back out to the Ministry to spend the night.

~*~

“You really kissed Billy Weasley?!” Nora half-whispers, her eyes wide.

Julia nods proudly, a tinge of pink on her cheeks. “Fuck yeah, I did. And guess what?” They all lean in a little closer, nobody can resist the pull of Julia’s orbit. “I definitely felt his boner too.”

“Ewww!” squeals Claire, recoiling so hard she topples onto her back, feet kicking the air. “That’s so gross!”

“What’s a boner?” Little Kate asks inquisitively, sitting up straight against the headboard as though staying totally still will keep anyone from noticing her curfew has long since past. Sister code, however, overrules anything else.

“You’ll understand when you’re older, Kit.” Julia reaches over to run her knuckles over Kate’s hair, making her try and yank away only to fall off the bed. Nora reaches down quickly to grab her, still looking at Julia.

“What was it like to kiss him? I mean… I haven’t kissed a boy yet.”

“Imagine two soggy pieces of bread on your face, and it keeps making soft moaning noises that suggests it is enjoying it a lot more than you are.” Julia leans back, satisfied at the grimaces her sisters pull.

“That doesn’t sound very pleasant.” Nora’s voice is faintly sad. Kate, wise beyond her years, lightly pats her shoulder in comfort.

Emma shifts her gaze away lazily. The room has a strange, languid feeling to it, as though time has been dipped in honey. Her eyes meet Audrey’s across the room, who winks. Emma doesn’t respond in turn. She has the vaguest sense that she is floating, unable to move her limbs. She doesn’t want to move, though. She wants to stay here forever, under the warm buttery glow of the lamp on Nora’s bedside.

“Who do you want to kiss, Nora?” Audrey asks softly, with that gentleness none of the Vanity sisters have quite learned to master.

Nora blushes deeply and pulls the blanket up over her head to avoid answering. Claire grabs a fistful of Nora’s hair and tugs, pulling her head back up.

“Fine! Fine, I’ll say it… but you can’t laugh at me.”

“It can’t be any worse than Jules’ crush on Warden Bulstrode.” Audrey cracks.

“That was second year, and I was an idiot!” Julia screeches.

Kate sticks her finger against Julia’s mouth. “Shhh, Nora’s trying to talk.”

Nora is beet red, twirling a strand of hair quickly around her finger. “Well—uh.”

“Just spit it out!”

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”

Nora shakes her head, and suddenly leans into Audrey’s ear to whisper. Audrey’s face goes from neutral to barely suppressing giggles, eyes bulging.

“Corban YAXLEY????!?!?!”

The girls erupt with laughter. Nora, nearly purple, slides off the bed and underneath it.

“Yaxley, that slimy git? You want to kiss Yaxley???” Julia is clutching her side, leaning her head against Claire, who snorts a laugh.

“Shit, Nora. I mean I could see Longbottom, or even the second Lestrange guy. But Yaxley?”

“I’m never telling you guys anything ever again.” Nora says very solemnly yet muffled from under the bed.

Emma’s hands start to tingle. This is the sign. Every fibre in her body begins to protest, pleading: no no no, let me stay here, I want to stay here, please!

“Emma, where are you going?”

“Emma?”

~*~

She wakes up drenched in sweat back in bed. Laying there, paralyzed under the weight of her memories, she thinks about killing herself today.

But, no.

She gets up, rips her bed sheets off the mattress, and dumps them in a pile by the door of her room. She goes to shower for the first time in about a week and a half, running her fingers through her thick dark hair. She refuses to think because to think means to remember, and to remember means to exist. Emma refuses to exist, not now, not ever.

It is still early in the morning; dawn has not yet arrived. Hestia and Emmy are still asleep, thank merlin. Emma can never quite bear facing them like this. Of course, she always does, not that it isn’t always miserable to do so. She lies and smiles and thinks constantly how terrible it would be for either of them to find her dead body. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

It is this cycle: Emma thinks of jumping off the ledge of their small flat, she doesn’t, she pretends everything is fine, and life goes on. Rinse and repeat. Not a day goes by that this doesn’t inevitably happen.

Predictable, boring, depressing. Holy trifecta, a sarcastic voice says in her head.

She makes coffee, burns her tongue on it while she tries to decide what to write to Audrey in the letter. “Hey, sorry if I’ve been off the grid for a while, I keep thinking about dying. How’s the pregnancy going?” Emma considers chucking her quill across the room.

She hates this. She hates this place and she hates her flesh and she hates how much she hates everything. The blood in her veins should never have been this corrosive.

Sometimes, if she pauses long enough, she can feel the serrated knife slotting into the vulnerable space between her shoulder blades. That was when she was poisoned. She remembers the soft tongue swiping up the blood from her back and grinning at her in the mirror, teeth stained red, a beautiful and arousing and horrifying and infuriating sight, all because it was her.

Emma wants to kiss her. Emma wants to kill her. Emma wants to burn everything to the ground and live forever in a honey-coated memory that she isn’t all that sure now ever really occurred. Emma wants a lot of things that Emma will never get.

She doesn’t notice the quill’s sharp end digging into the fleshy bit between her thumb and index finger. She doesn’t notice the blood or the pain from behind the strange, glazed feeling. She wants it to hurt; it distresses her that it does not.

A happy memory. It was a happy memory, with her sisters. The last time they were all together. 1972, before beautiful Julia ran off to Taiwan and sensible Audrey settled down in their hometown and little Kate and brave Claire went off to Hogwarts and bashful Nora’s body lay marked in a grave somewhere and reckless Emma came back to fight a war.

This is where she begins to slip again, back into the pit of darkness and anger and blood and salt. The Vanity sisters, long since scattered to the winds, as though someone has kicked a dandelion and spread the seeds across a field.

Emma wants to raze the field to the ground. She wants to scream and cry and burn and die

“Van?”

Emma looks up at Hestia Jones. “Wouldn’t you believe it, my dearest cupcake,” she says, as though nothing has ever been wrong, gesturing at her hand, now overflowing with blood, “that I have gotten myself into a bit of a predicament?”

Rinse and repeat, the cycle goes on.

Chapter Text

March 1979

Lily Evans wakes up to soft kisses being pressed against her neck, around the curve of her ear, her jaw.

“Mmm.” She hums, letting James work his way up to his temple and her eyebrow. His hair is damp with sweat – James runs incredibly hot while sleeping, perfect for the perpetually cold Lily – and brushes against her forehead lightly. She inhales him in, stretching her arm up over her head, knuckles tapping James’ headboard.

“Morning, love.” James whispers, finally reaching her mouth. Lily savours the kiss hungrily, feeling the dream state slip from her eyes, waking up to her boyfriend beside her.

“How long have you been awake?” Lily murmurs, reaching to entangle her fingers in his hair.

“Not long. You should get up, though. I have the day planned out for us.” James’ eyes twinkle mischievously.

“I’d forgotten how much that look used to scare me back at school.”

“Back when you didn’t know my virtue? I know, Evans. It wounded me terribly.”

Lily pokes her tongue out at him. James, grinning, sits up. The sheet slips down his chest, revealing a distinct lack of shirt. Lily’s mouth starts to water.

“Do we have time—”

“Not now, love.” James leans in to peck at her nose before pulling the covers off himself and padding to the curtain. “We are on a schedule.”

Lily props herself up on one elbow, watching James’ lean, brown torso as he lets the sunlight flow in through the window and walk to the dresser. “What’s the plan, then?”

James presses a finger to his lips, grinning, before marching out to the bathroom down the hall.

Still in bed, Lily blushes ferociously, shakes her head to herself, and finally decides to get up. Fuck it, she’s curious.

~*~

James Potter sort of snuck up on her.

Anybody who knew Lily Evans as a teenager knew about her enduring and unadulterated hatred of James Fleamont Potter.

He was perhaps the antithesis of her entire experience starting at Hogwarts. James: the rich only son of older parents, practically guaranteed a position in wizarding society. Tall and lean, even as a boy, admired by everyone. Barely had to try to get good grades but wasted all his effort on playing stupid pranks. Worst of all, he was cruel to anyone that didn’t fit his strict definition of who was worth being nice too. That was reserved for pureblood boys exclusively, save for that Lupin boy. She wondered sometimes how he wasn’t placed into Slytherin; everything she saw seemed to confirm her confusion.

Lily wasn’t anything like James Potter. Her parents were young, barely adults when they’d had Tuney, living in a mining small town, barely making enough money to put food on the table each night. She worked her ass off to get good grades; even though she was good at it, she needed to prove that she deserved to live in this world. If nobody would stick up for her, then Lily would stick up for herself.

She could never quite understand how somebody with his privilege couldn’t help those beneath him. It went against everything she believed. James Potter, who snorted when she’d said her name on the Hogwarts Express that first time and had told her she’d “have a rough time”.

She was desperate to prove him wrong.

Severus had wanted revenge. She wanted to rise above.

She hated James Potter the more time passed. She hated how he taunted Sev, how he condescended to Mary, how he would shoot off hexes at first years in the halls and laughed. It was cruel, and Lily hated cruelty, so she hated James Potter.

She hated how he treated her, too.

Lily has struggled with her body image since she was a kid. Petunia was always slim, bony faced, much sharper looking. Lily was softer, curvier, her hips and breasts wider sooner. One time, during an argument, Tuney had told her she’d never be liked by a boy because she was fat. Lily had sobbed in front of her mirror for hours.

Severus had tried to convince her it wasn’t true. Of course, in retrospect, Lily can see why he would argue that point. He wasn’t particularly kind about it, though. Nine-year-old boys aren’t exactly known for their tact.

Hogwarts didn’t help. Lily was used to going some nights without food, back at home, depending on the season. Hogwarts provided good food, and comfort, and Lily was happy. The side effect of this was, of course, gaining some weight. Eleven-year-old Lily was not thrilled about this.

The girls in her year didn’t quite look like her, either. Marlene was stick thin for several years, at least until she joined Quidditch and grew into her wiry, well-defined frame. Emmeline never had much in the way of curves. Even Mary, who had breasts and a butt like Lily’s, had a somewhat narrow waist which contributed to her hourglass figure. Lily found all of them beautiful, but with a tinge of sadness.

And then there was James Potter. Eleven-year-old James Potter, with his dishevelled hair and lopsided glasses, James Potter, who thought the world revolved around him and relentlessly bullied her closest friend, would not stop calling after her, demanding her attention. Lily assumed it was a cruel prank, obviously. Those boys were known for that, and Lily must be another of those. Who could love her?

When she was 13, she’d attempted a litany of diet and slimming potions. This resulted in her violently throwing up for days until Mary brought her, shaking and sweating, to Madame Pomfrey to be healed. She’d gotten a stern look and, later, a few Muggle books about body positivity sent to her dormitory. Lily had hidden those at the bottom of her trunk immediately.

Everybody around her seemed to grow into their bodies, like a sapling becoming a tree. Lily stopped looking in mirrors and made sure her robes were oversized enough to cover the outline of her body. She rejected James’ calls and focused on what she could control: her mind.

James loved her body, she now knew. He’d said as much during sex. In those moments, she’d briefly been grateful for her softness, because James treated her skin and curves and fat with such reverence, it nearly made her cry. She’d been doing better with it, lately, but it was hard to reconcile this James with the James of the past, who’d said everything with a taunting smile, never expecting any consequences.

How had he emerged from a cocoon, suddenly gentle and handsome? When had the date proposals turned genuine in her mind?

It is this that Lily hates: the rumination, questioning every little detail. Growing up, it had seemed she had to work to be loved. Now, it was hard to believe somebody just… could, without challenge or difficulty.

James Potter seems to be at the center of all these enigmas.

~*~

These days, there is no world where Lily Evans does not love James Potter. It’s astounding to her that she could not ever feel complete. James completes her, undoubtedly. She wonders if all those years of silent tears were because of the lack she didn’t know was there.

James grew up, and Lily did too. He stopped tormenting first-years in the halls, and she let down her guard a little. After the whole thing with Sev… Lily thought she hated James Potter more than ever, but it seemed to have sobered him a little. That fifth year marked a metamorphosis. James stopped talking to Sirius, started putting his head down to work, left Lily alone finally. It was strange to witness the change. Mary remarked that for the first time in years, there wasn’t a lazy smirk on his face.

Maybe the first time Lily Evans decided she didn’t much mind James Potter was the beginning of sixth year, in Care for Magical Creatures, watching him gently tend to a Kneazle’s matted fur. She watched his face, the soft smile that spread across his lips as he ran a hand down each untangled section. It appeared there was some kindness in him after all.

Lily’s two liasons, Marlene and Remus, agreed that James was not playing an elaborate prank on Lily with respect to his alleged affection for her. She tended only to agree with Remus; Marlene had two very noticeable blind spots in her judgement, and those blind spots were named James Potter and Peter Pettigrew. But Remus… Remus, to an extent, understood how deep James’ flaws ran.

She spent a lot of time that year debating the pros and cons of James Potter, every detail of his that she could see. A good list is Lily’s greatest skill, after all. She wondered what could make him so special, so deserving of love and attention, and why she now felt compelled to give him all of those after years of hatred.

He was observant, certainly. For that year’s Christmas, he’d gotten her a specific pair of muggle earrings she’d been wanting and had only mentioned briefly in conversation. He was caring, in how he looked after Remus during full moons. He was whip-smart, even if he chose not to show it.

She scrutinized every little bit of James and came away with one unfortunate conclusion: Lily had some seriously hopeless feelings for James Potter.

~*~

They spend the morning waltzing around London. James apparates them there, taking her almost immediately to a Parisian restaurant for breakfast. He frowns when she douses her French toast in maple syrup and laughs when she pours some onto his croissant, wiggling his eyebrows impressively as he eats it anyway.

When he holds her hand walking down the street, Lily thrums with joy. Their hands fit so well together, like a broken locket completed, and it feels right. It feels right to love him like this.

They go to see some old movie rerun, and Lily tucks her head into the crook of James’ neck, letting his hands thread through her hair, tilting her chin up to kiss her softly. He traces the shape of her lips, her collarbones. He knows her so well, knows every intricacy of her body, how her hips buck slightly when he ghosts a finger along the back of her ear, how she moans softly when his lips move to her inner thigh. He makes her feel good, he makes her feel beautiful, he makes her feel alive.

Today, they aren’t a teenage witch and wizard in the midst of a war. They are lovesick teenagers, giggling and kissing in a theatre, with no cares in the world.

~*~

James opens the door before Lily even has a chance to knock.

“Nobody’s home,” he says before she can say anything first. Lily stares up into his eyes, big and brown and framed with long dark lashes. He is gentle as a deer in these moments, and she thinks of their joined patronuses back in DADA class, when his cheeks had gone red as his deer pranced around her doe.

Without hesitation, Lily crashes into him, sucking at his lower lip and swiping her tongue across his teeth. He whispers something she doesn’t quite hear, tanging his hands in her hair, cradling her head so tenderly as they move through the house together as one, pressing up against the kitchen counter. Lily moves fervently down his body, licking every ab and pressing her thumb into every divot of his skin as though to memorize it. James doesn’t let her get too far, pushing her back gently to go down on her instead. Lily’s vision explodes into vivid colour.

This is not the first time that summer, nor is it the last. James brings her home, or they hide away in public, desperate for a taste of one another but terrified of being caught. To this day, Lily does not know where the shame came from, but it was there, nonetheless.

The first boy Lily kissed was Tilden Toots, a year above her, on the astronomy deck in third year. His lips were dry and all she could focus on was the way his hands gripped too hard at her back, at her love handles.

It wasn’t immediately easy with James either, but they knew each other well enough by that point to navigate it without judgement. Lily had spent so much time watching James that she knew which fingers he used most, the sensitive spot on his bicep, where exactly to press kisses to make him shiver. Still, it took time to get so comfortable like this, for Lily to stop trying to cover herself when naked.

Lily wants to grow old with James, to have two rocking chairs side by side, watching their grandchildren play in the yard. She wants to trace James’ palm and have it be exactly how she knows it, to be familiar with it even beyond the new wrinkles and scars. She wants to know him inside and out, and to be known inside and out too.

It is strange to admit, but she had thought as a kid that she would end up with Sev one day. Nobody knew her like he did, nobody could reach down into the depths of her soul with a single look, a half-smile. She’d loved him like nobody else, back then.

Except, she’d grown up, and he hadn’t.

James knew what it was like to grow, to mature, to change. Lily knew she and Severus would have been caught in the same patterns, over and over again, the same back and forth of childhood banter and love. That could not be enough to sustain a human relationship, she knew, but it hurt all the same.

James surprises her constantly, and she loves him for it.

~*~

They are walking down a pier. Early march snowflakes still fall around them, sticking in James’ messy hair.

“James, that’s not how televisions work.”

“I’m most certain that’s exactly how they work.” James argues, an arm wrapped protectively around Lily’s shoulders as they walk. “Sirius has one, anyway.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t be surprised if he just had a painting up and thought it was a TV.”

“Hey, insulting my best friend is off-limits, love.”

“I’m serious!”

“No, he’s Sirius.”

Lily glowers at him until his face cracks into a grin. “Didn’t I say no more serious-Sirius jokes?”

“I believe that was only in place when we are together, not just you and me.”

“New rule.” Lily sticks her finger up in the air.

James suddenly stops walking, lifting a hand to stop her.

The sunset, directly in front of them, paints the sky into gorgeous shades of orange, pink, and yellow. Lily stares, jaw open.

“It’s… beautiful.”

“Yeah.” James sounds distracted, but Lily does not take her eyes off the sunset, watching it change and shift before her eyes. Growing up, when Lily thought of magic, she thought of this: the beauty of space and the universe. These days, she still thinks this is the simplest and most enchanting form of magic out there.

“Are you seeing this, James?”

“Lil—”

Lily looks over.

James is kneeling on the pier, looking up at her, holding a box.

Lily’s jaw drops.

James smiles sheepishly and bites his lip to keep from fully grinning. “Lilyflower—”

“Pause.” Lily says, reaching to cup his cheek with her palm, wiping at her own wet cheeks with the other. “Please. Just let me live in this for a moment.”

James Potter, the first boy to smile at her at the Sorting.

James Potter, who soared after the Snitch with determined passion, even as his eyes flitted to her for just a moment during the chase.

James Potter, sneaking a hand down her shirt, murmuring how beautiful she is.

James Potter, hiding a smile from across the common room when they met eyes.

James Potter, who gave her a home, who gave her a family, who gave her nothing but endless love.

“Okay,” Lily says, nodding through her tears. “Go ahead.”

James can do nothing to hide his giant smile as readjusts his position on his knee and looks back up into her eyes. “Lilyflower, from the moment I saw you on that train that very first time, I knew I would marry you… even if I was an idiot back then.” Lily laughs wetly. “I saw how intelligent you are, how kind and caring, how loyal and brave, how wonderful you are, and I knew I would do everything in my power to make myself deserving of your love, because you deserve nothing but the best. You have challenged me, and pushed me, and given me your total heart and soul, and I am the luckiest man in the world.” James’ eyes glitter with unshed tears. “I love you, Lily Evans, and it would be my greatest honour if you would agree to marry me.” He holds the ring up higher. “Will you marry me?”

Lily cannot explain the bursting of her heart inside her chest. “James Potter, I will marry you.”

James laughs, a bright and vibrant sound, and shakily takes the ring, sliding it up onto Lily’s finger. His hands are on her face, in her hair, on her neck, kissing and whispering and thanking her. Lily cannot stop laughing and crying, holding him so tightly, listening to their heartbeats sync up in their chests, beating a single word: love, love, love.

~*~

Mary keeps a journal filled with letters she’ll never send.

Most of them are to Nico or Lily, a few here and there to Rafe and Ana, or to her parents. In all of these, though, there is an element missing, something excluded. No mention of magic here, no talk of home there.

That leaves several letters, growing in number, that Mary addresses to “You”. This is the only person who knows the truth of Mary’s identities, who knows her as well as anyone can.

“You” isn’t around right now, and Mary will never send her these letters anyway.

She writes about everything she remembers and misses. She writes about the softness of her bed at home, the smell of her father’s laundry detergent, the way Rafe used to whisper her name so she’d pick him up.

She writes about sharing a bed with Marlene and Lily during first year when Mary got homesick, about the time that Peter hugged her silently outside the third-floor girl’s washroom when she got her first period.

She writes about Remus and the apple, Marlene teaching her to fly, Sirius spinning her around at a Gryffindor party. She writes about leaving home, about Euphemia pressing a hand to Mary’s head with affection.

She writes about Milton Mulciber, where the hesitation with her wrists comes from. “You” already knows the story, but Mary tells it again anyway, trying to rid herself of the poison.

She does not write about the two of them. “You” remembers, and Mary remembers, and she does not want to put it to paper.

She does not write about seventh year together. That is off-limits.

Mary wants something so badly that her chest aches constantly. She does not know what it is that she wants, but it hurts regardless. That’s all she does these days: hurt.

Was it any easier back then? Hurting and bleeding so openly within safe walls, surrounded by love? The walls are still safe now, and the people she loves are still here, but it is all different. Everything has changed, and Mary cannot go back.

Everything has changed, and Mary will never be able to go back.

~*~

Pandora Rosier knows that she will die.

Of course, everybody knows that they will die, unless you are Nicholas Flamel, in which case, kudos.

But Pandora knows how, and why, and even roughly when. She knows her daughter will witness her death, too. That bit is harder to chew on.

Even though some part of her wishes she didn’t know, that doesn’t really matter. It’s her responsibility to hold onto the knowledge, and maybe to do some good with it. The ending is set in stone, but the in-between can be changed.

The war will end, Pandora will live for a while before she dies, and the world will go on.

Sybill does not know how to control what she sees, and she has fits in the dorm room where she says things she doesn’t remember. Benjy Fenwick, for all that he pretends, sees something too. As far as she can tell, Pandora is the only one who knows the end destination.

Is it lonesome? She doesn’t think so. Sure, people think she’s weird and crazy, but in their defense, she is weird and crazy. Pandora isn’t hurt when people tease or mock her, because they are just reacting how kids do. And Pandora is kind in return, because that’s what Pandora does.

Kindness doesn’t bring people back. It won’t make Evan nice or happy again, and that stings. But Pandora still loves him.

It is hard for regular people to understand the truth of prophecy. Most people laugh when she makes off-handed comments. Not Xeno. When she plopped down next to him during dinner in first year and stated that because they’re going to marry one day, they’re basically engaged and should get to know each other, Xeno had blinked, shrugged and smiled.

Xenophilius Malfoy. Pandora suspects that her soul was cleaved in half at birth and given to him. Her heart is half-Evan, her soul half-Xeno. She would find him anywhere, among the stars or beneath the earth. Pandora Eurydice Rosier and Xenophilius Orpheus Malfoy, intertwined like honeysuckle around a hazel tree, meant to be.

If she were someone else, maybe it would be difficult to know the future before it comes true. Pandora likes to think of it as a little extra time she gets. There is no need to rush, nothing to fear. Pandora can rest her head on Xeno’s chest and know that she is right on time.

~*~

“Do you want to know a secret?” Pandora asks, tilting her face upwards into the sun, squinting in the light.

Xeno, head in Pandora’s lap, fiddles with a dandelion crown. “Always.”

“Our daughter’s name is Luna.”

“Do you name her or do I?”

Pandora deliberates. “Undecided.”

Xeno’s pale lashes catch the sunlight. “Since you said her first name, I think I should pick her middle name.”

“That seems fair.” Wordlessly, they lift a hand to shake on it.

“Do you know it already? Her middle name?”

Pandora shakes her head, running her thumb absent-mindedly over Xeno’s eyebrow. “No. I think we like it, though.”

“Certainly.” Xeno drops the crown on his stomach, fingers tapping the air as he hums along softly to a inaudible song. His fingers stall suddenly. “Do you know more than you’re letting on right now?”

“Mmhm.”

Xeno shrugs and goes back to tapping. “Alright. All in due time.”

“All in due time.” Pandora echoes, settling her thumb in the crease between his eyebrows, where it fits perfectly.

~*~

Lightning will signal the end of the war.

What sort of lightning, Pandora isn’t sure. Maybe Lord Voldemort strikes on a stormy night.

She feels a sort of sadness for Lily Potter—Lily Evans, she is now. She was always kind to Pandora, and she looks a bit like an angel: cherubic and good. When they still went to school together, Pandora used to leave her flowers around the school, charmed so Lily would be drawn over to find them. She wanted Lily to know she had somebody who cared for her, even if they didn’t speak.

Pandora can’t imagine dying without being known she is loved, and so she is that person for others.

Barty Crouch Jr. doesn’t realize he is loved. She can see it in his eyes, the blankness. When he and Evan were still friends, he was civil to her. When he came crawling back, fifteen and bags under his eyes, kicked to the curb, Pandora extended him a hand without hesitation.

He’s a broken boy, and he is misguided. Pandora thinks his father has lived in his head longer than he himself has. Despite it all, Pandora loves him. She holds him upright between herself and Xeno at dinner and plucks the cigarettes from his lips and tries her very best to keep him from hurting others or himself.

Sometimes, all you can do is love someone, regardless of what will happen. His path is bad, she knows that even without knowing the future: a gut feeling, like falling off a cliff.

She felt that way about Evan since they were little, that thin little boy with a purple bruise on his cheekbone, holding up a rock for her to see. Those years of just the two of them, together in the meadow, catching frogs and climbing trees, when there was no war to be fought.

When their mother left, the bundle that was Pandora’s baby brother in her arms, she didn’t see it coming. She was eight, already burdened with the future but not quite understanding what it all meant. When she left, the light went out of Evan’s eyes. He stopped protecting Pandora from the blows, started attending those top-secret meetings with their father.

Pandora was never brought to those meetings. Her father used to spit in her eye, calling her a freak, a disgrace. He leaves her alone these days, because he has realized she will not change. Evan, the perfect Rosier heir.

Evan will die, and their father will be imprisoned for life, and her mother will never come home, and baby Felix will never quite understand it all.

All of this is the future. Pandora holds it tightly so nobody can corrupt it, even when it burns her hands.

~*~

When she was ten, it was decided that she would marry Regulus Arcturus Black.

Regulus, the cousin of her cousins, thin and pointed, face carefully painted blank. Pandora watched him from across the room, at the way his eyes flicked to hers and away again, curiosity dulled either intentionally or without effort.

Pandora will not marry Regulus Black. That is simply a fact, one that she was well aware of at the time. And yet, she knows that they will work together in some way, somehow.

Barty says Regulus is strange, indifferent, incapable of kindness or empathy. Pandora watches him closely, the choreography of his movements, everything meticulous and perfect for the new Black heir.

He is gone these days, absent from the halls. Xeno confirms Regulus got the dark mark, based on what he heard from his cousin Lucius. He could go on to be the greatest Death Eater in the history of the wizarding world.

Except, Pandora knows something: Regulus will betray the Dark Lord, and he will use her help.

And so, she loves him too, in a way. She was kind to him always, even when his arched brow communicated nothing but contempt. She smiled at him as he walked away with Evan and Barty, and knew that it didn’t much matter what he felt, because he could come around one day.

~*~

She creates spells sometimes, her and Xeno. Rosiers are known for their proficiency with spell-making, something about keeping everyone on their toes. Evan was never that good at it, he lacked creativity. Pandora imagines worlds that could never exist, and sparks fizzle from her fingertips.

Regulus has noticed, she knows. She finds pages tucked into library books, cursive scribbled in every blank space, calculations and symbols and bits of spells here and there. She takes them out of the library, perfects the calculations, gives the book back with the pages in there. It’s like a game, a matching of wits. Much more engaging than gobstones, that’s for sure. A part of her likes the challenge, likes opening books to a chapter on horcruxes, and trying to understand what clue this is.

Pandora is strange, peculiar, odd, but she also knows how to play the game. A pureblood instinct, she presumes. All of the pureblood families stuck in a constant game of chess, and Pandora suspects that she and Regulus Black are aligned in their movements.

Xeno has never really been a Malfoy. He is much too mild-mannered, for one, lacking in conviction or passion for the cause. He is bizarre, awkward, none of the charm or ease characteristic of his family. Even Xanthe, his younger sibling, knows how to play a crowd better.

She senses his disconnect, holds him close to her, but she does not pretend she understands how he feels. Because sure, the Rosiers have splintered long ago, and they are a broken, rotten bunch. But Pandora is too, isn’t she? She is a Rosier down to her very core: an innovator, an observer, only risking her neck if there’s a reason to. Unlike Evan, Pandora has a reason not to get involved. All she can do is make sure the future goes on as it should. That means not fighting, only steering from the sidelines.

If she had to make a decision, true free will, Pandora doesn’t know what she would do.

~*~

Once, Pandora couldn’t tell the difference between dreams and the future.

That was mostly wishful thinking, waking up in the dorm with visions of a complete, happy family, feeling it wash away like the tide on a beach.

The future exists alongside the present, simultaneous, both existing all at once. She can see her death as she spoons bananas onto her plate, because both are happening right now.

Dreams are like pieces of porcelain Pandora can only hold so long before it begins to cut into her skin and draw blood. Dreams are not worth indulging, like believing Mother will come home or Evan will hold her again. It’s simply not real, and it never will be.

It is easiest to look onto the other side of her vision, at the crooked house on the top of a hill, with a broken fence, where her pale-haired daughter will chase Nargles and her husband will make her coffee and she will finally be happy and complete. There is no war, no violence for Pandora to concern herself with. Just a quiet, happy life.

Until then, though, the work is not finished.

Pandora is seventeen, and there is still time. There is time to hold Xeno close, to push the hair from Barty’s face, to remember her brother, to continue creating spells and learning all she can.

There is still time, she knows. Time, endless and sprawling, is all Pandora knows.

And so, she lives.

Chapter Text

Late March 1979

The ambush goes bad almost immediately.

Alice doesn’t think it’s a good idea, as she so loudly protests. Trying to jump a group of Death Eaters at their camp in the middle of the woods, magical woods which are notoriously known to prevent magic within it? Yeah, not exactly built for success.

But it promises excitement, it promises thrill. And all Marlene McKinnon has been wanting for months is a little thrill. Especially when that thrill comes with the closeness of Dorcas Meadowes.

There’s four of them: Marlene, Dorcas, Alice, and Emma Vanity. Dorcas does not even so much as look Marlene’s way, muttering quietly to Alice. Emma Vanity sidles up to Marlene, with a sharp smile and even sharper eyeliner. Marlene decides she likes her immediately.

The mission is fairly simple: get into the camp, incapacitate the Death Eaters, get out. It’s made slightly more complicated by the fact that these woods are so thick and dense that magic and apparition rarely work, and they have very little idea where the camp is.

Still, Dumbledore thinks it’s a priority, so they go.

On the outskirts of the forest, where they land, Dorcas scowls up at the sigils carved into the trees and starts moving ahead.

“Rumour has it, these trees were planted back in the 1600s by a rogue squib clan wanting to keep wizards out.” Emma says into her ear, spinning her dagger lazily in her hand as they walk. Alice and Dorcas are up ahead, both of whom are holding knives with many others strapped to their bodies. Marlene has never really fought with anything but a wand – if you don’t count butter knives and forks with Michael – and so the dagger strapped to her thigh feels strange.

“Well, it didn’t really do its job if we got in.” Marlene responds, a corner of her mouth lifting up.

Emma snorts. “We aren’t wizards, that’s why. We’re witches.”

“Guys.” Alice shoots them a look, and they both sober up. Alice is different on missions: stricter, less personable. It’s as though she shifts into full Auror mode, and Marlene can’t really see the Alice she loves. It’s jarring, looking into her eyes and seeing a strategic blankness.

Marlene never wanted to be an Auror, honestly. Everybody assumes she would, because she likes to fight, but she never liked the strictness of it all. Dad was an Auror once, and so was Gramps, and she could see the stiffness in their movements, like machines, even long after they retired. She wants nobody to rewire her brain like that to their command.

She thought she would maybe become a curse-breaker, but truthfully, Marlene never saw much of a future for herself. After the war, what would she do? Nothing seems right, even now, looking forward.

It’s easiest just to focus on the now, what she can control: herself, her body, her mind. Hide mini-Marlene deep in her bone marrow and keep eyes on the prize: the thrill of the chase.

They trudge on through the foliage, careful to keep their tread light (this is a challenge for Marlene, a notorious stomper). Emma mutters something over and over again under her breath, turning the dagger repeatedly.

Dorcas lifts a hand, and everyone pauses.

There’s noise, people talking, laughing. Dorcas makes a complicated sign that Marlene understands to mean hiding in the bushes, letting her make the first move. When she looks at Marlene to be sure she comprehends,
Marlene’s cheeks flame red.

Marlene sinks into a bush next to Dorcas, their shoulders brushing from the proximity. Dorcas smells like lavender, and her braid tickles at Marlene’s arm. She holds her breath.

The Death Eaters clearly aren’t expecting company: their hoods are off, a bunch of dudes cooking and chatting. It seems to be a nice set up; a few tents, a fire, decent living quarters. Marlene counts five, which is about what they were expecting. Without wands, it’ll be uncomfortable to fight, but Alice and Dorcas are trained in hand-to-hand combat anyway. Marlene and Emma are here for backup mostly.

Dorcas slides a knife out from her boot so she has one in both hands; a glance at Marlene indicates she should do the same. Marlene watches as Dorcas peers through the branches, lines up her shot, and throws.

The knife lands cleanly in the closest man’s forehead, exploding with blood.

There are screams, the sound of weapons being grabbed. Dorcas, without hesitation, steps out from the bush, launching herself at another man. Marlene throws herself up, seeing out the corner of her eye Alice and Emma do the same.

Somebody whistles. Marlene hears this distantly as she tries to stab at a guy, only for him to knock her down with his forearm. Marlene rolls out of the way as he slams his mace down, leaving a dent in the ground. Staring up into his crazed eyes, Marlene tries to predict his next move, until a knife point pokes through his chest and he collapses, Marlene getting out just in time. Above her, Dorcas Meadowes doesn’t pause, face splattered with blood, whirling to get another.

“There’s more!” Alice hollers, and it’s true: dozens of men are swarming the camp, clearly having been nearby. This was not expected, Marlene knows, especially from the panic in Alice’s voice, the frantic energy of Dorcas’ swings. One of her knives is abandoned, and she’s started throwing punches.

“Fuck it, retreat!” Alice’s voice starts moving away, and Marlene can’t process it all, dodging out of the way of a newcomer and swinging at his face, catching his shoulder with her dagger instead.

“Marlene!” Somebody screams, and Marlene feels herself becoming surrounded. Too many bodies, pressing in, and there’s blood on her clothes from the man on top of her before, and there isn’t enough of her to fight all of them. Her knife slips from her grasp, and she can’t find it, swinging her head wildly, panicking. How did they predict this so badly?

A hand grabs her wrist suddenly, yanks her out of the crowd and into a run. Marlene isn’t in a place to process anything, she just follows, running as fast as she can after the body next to her. She is slightly out of shape, no longer the excellent endurance she built up after years doing Quidditch training, but she knows how to sprint.

Bodies crashing behind them, Marlene can’t look back, can’t think of anything but survival, but getting the fuck out of this stupid forest.

“The safe house.” The body next to her mumbles between heavy breaths. Marlene sneaks a glance over: Dorcas Meadowes, blood all over her face and body, laser focused. She doesn’t have to tell Marlene to keep following, she knows Marlene will.

They run for a while, still being pursued, but Marlene sees a building rise up before them. “In there!” Dorcas says, huffing. Regardless of how fit she looks, this is a fuck ton of running, and adrenaline only gets you so far.

Dorcas makes it to the door first, wrenching it open and shooing Marlene in before slamming it shut behind her. Marlene skids to a stop against a mottled couch, whipping around to see Dorcas Meadowes pressing her hands against the door, not to stop people from getting in, but in a sort of… prayer?

“Do we need to barricade the doors?” Marlene asks, panting and leaning over to catch her breath.

“No,” Dorcas says, forehead pressed against the wall. “It’s warded already. They can’t get in.”

“I thought this forest was magic-proof?”

“It is.” Dorcas turns around finally, a hint of annoyance in her tone. “Fortunately, these wards are a lot stronger magic than you or I can produce. We’ll be safe here.”

A thought suddenly occurs to her. Marlene’s head swivels around. “Fuck, where’s Alice and Emma? Are they still out there? We have to go get them!”

“Nope.”

Marlene goggles at her. “Are you serious?”

Dorcas goes over to the counter, shrugs. “Alice is a big girl; she can take care of herself. Besides, protocol is to ensure your safety above all, hide away in a safe house if apparition isn’t possible.”

“But—” Marlene looks back at the door. “Are they going to be okay?”

Dorcas is rummaging through the fridge. “Let’s hope so.”

Rage bubbles up in her veins. Marlene stomps over and slams the fridge door in Dorcas’ face. “Look, I know you don’t give two shits about any of us, but our friends are out there, possibly being mauled to death by a hoard of Death Eaters. Can you at least pretend to care?”

Dorcas stares at her. With the blood on her face and the scar, it makes a terrifying image. Marlene glares back, unwilling to give an inch.

“Who,” Dorcas growls, articulating perfectly with her face so close to Marlene’s, “do you think you are?”

Marlene’s resolve begins to crumble, but she holds firm. “We were on a mission, and you just abandoned your allies! What the fuck is that about, Dorcas? Is that what they teach you in Auror School, to abandon your peers and save your own fucking skin with no fucking remorse at all?”

Something violent and cruel sparks in Dorcas’ eyes, and she pushes Marlene away suddenly, cold and removed and distant once again. “Be glad I dragged you along with me.” She says sharply, holding her gaze for a moment more before turning to one of the upper cabinets, pulling a bottle of vodka out.

Marlene stands in shock as Dorcas brushes past her, collapsing onto the couch with the bottle in her hands. “So, now what?”

“Now we wait,” comes the cool response.

Marlene slams her hands violently against her sides, feeling the glass in her chest shatter with every breath. Huffing, she storms off down the hall into a tiny bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She paces back and forth, tearing hands through her hair until the tide of red starts to recede from her vision, replaced with good old-fashioned fear. Fear for Alice and Emma, who might still be out there, torn limb-from-limb by bloodthirsty blood purists.

Something in her body has shifted with respect to Dorcas Meadowes: she didn’t realize Dorcas Meadowes was a coward. How could she just… leave their teammates, and not even show an ounce of shame or worry for them?

There is one thing Marlene McKinnon will never sacrifice, not for anyone: loyalty.

And Dorcas Meadowes has just proven she is one unloyal son of a bitch.

As the emotion drains out of her body, she turns to look at herself in the mirror. Yeesh, bad look. Her hair is sticking up crazily, there’s a bruise forming on her cheekbone that she doesn’t remember getting, and her mouth and torso are covered in dried blood. She stares into her own eyes, still wide from shock, and sighs.

Once she’s cleaned the blood from her skin – the shirt is a lost cause – and breathes deep several times to make sure she won’t explode, she emerges back into the main room. Dorcas is lounging on the couch in the same position as before, nursing the bottle. Marlene puts her hands on her hips, where they’re safer, and clears her throat.

“What are we waiting for?”

Dorcas doesn’t answer. Marlene sees the bottle lift into the air. She stomps closer, standing over the couch, and down into Dorcas’ face. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

“I heard you the first time.” Dorcas says, face perfectly blank.

“Are you gonna answer me?”

Dorcas shrugs and takes another swig.

Marlene grabs the bottle from her, and Dorcas follows it, eyes flashing. Marlene holds it up and away, glaring down. “Answer my question, Dorcas.”

There’s a hint of amusement on her face, replaced by the mask a beat later. “Protocol is to remain in the safe house until there is word we can leave. Absence is usually an indicator of required follow-up, so they’ll come looking for us. Because magic doesn’t work around here, we need to wait for an in-person visit to clear us.”

“How long could that take?”

Dorcas’ eyes roll lazily. “Depends. I doubt we’re a priority. You should get settled in.” She gestures at the bottle. “Now, may I?”

Marlene glowers but gives back the bottle. Dorcas lays back down and falls silent again. Marlene glares at her for a bit longer, but finally walks away.

The house is small, composed of a main room with kitchen, a bathroom, and a tiny bedroom. All the furniture looks like it’s been here for ages: stuffing poking out from the couch, a ratty blanket over a thin duvet, tiny dirty towels. Thankfully, the pantry is stocked, as is the fridge. Marlene finds a few items of clothes in a closet, pulling on an oversized Beach Boys t-shirt. Her pants are fine, just a few flecks of blood on the knee. She tries to wash out the blood stains on her shirt and leaves it hanging up to dry.

The windows are blank, presumably a security precaution. Still, there’s a chill that runs up her spine, thinking of the Death Eaters outside the building. Are they still trying to get in, she wonders? Even though she’s pissed at Dorcas, she has to be right that this place is safe.

There is very little in the way of activities here. Marlene, after a few hours of just wandering aimlessly, slumps down in the tiny hallway, back against the wall as she stares up into the ceiling. Dorcas hasn’t said a word, nor has she moved from the couch. Marlene stares at the thin, ink-black braid draped over the side of the cushion, and she feels a desperate need to get close, run her hand up and down her hair, breathing in her scent as she moves closer to her lips—

“Fuck.” Marlene snarls, throwing herself up, pacing about impatiently. “When can we get the hell out of here?”

Dorcas snorts. “Who would have thought you wouldn’t have any patience.”

“You’re being a real bitch.” Marlene retorts.

“You sound surprised.”

“I tend not to assume the worst of people, but you’re just a—a—”

“Spit it out.” A soft clink as Dorcas sets the bottle down on the table, turning to face her. “I can’t understand you when you stutter.”

“What is your problem?”

The scar ripples across her face as Dorcas smiles, except it’s more like a dog baring her canines threateningly. “My problem?”

“Yes, your problem! You treat everyone like a piece of shit because they aren’t worthy of your attention!” Marlene’s hands clench into fists at her sides, nails digging into her flesh. “You ignore any effort of Alice’s to be your friend, you barely speak to any of us—You know, people look up to you, Dorcas! The least you could do is be nice to us!”

Dorcas steps forward, close, up into Marlene’s face. She towers over her, braids falling into Marlene’s eyeline. “Alright, keep profiling me. Go ahead.”

Marlene falters, breath punching out of her. She tries to step back, lower her gaze, but Dorcas’ hand suddenly snaps out, grabbing her wrist in a vice-like grip. Marlene swallows, looks back up.

“Don’t back down like a fucking coward. Tell me what you think.” Dorcas’ eyes are sharp like flint.

Marlene’s voice quavers, her eyes flicking down to Dorcas’ chipped tooth, bright white against her dark face. “I think you have been nothing but cruel to me, even though I try to catch your attention, try to impress you; you won’t even spare me a second look.” She admits, tears springing to her eyes.

Dorcas huffs out a laugh, tossing her head and rolling her eyes. “That’s what this is about: the kid has mommy issues.” Eyes back on her. “Newsflash: I don’t give two shits about you. I don’t know what gave you that impression—”

“You looked at me.” Marlene says pitifully, knowing full well how weak and small she sounds. “At the Valkyrie meeting, when we signed up. You looked at me and smiled.”

Confusion crosses Dorcas’ face, replaced by a vicious sneer. “Why the fuck would I smile at you?”

Marlene’s heart shatters deep in her chest. Mini-Marlene, inside her body, starts to wail. “But—”

Dorcas looks at her, disgust written plainly across her face, and steps away. “I don’t care what you have going on with you but leave me the fuck out of it. I am not your girlfriend or your mother, and you need to get a fucking grip.” She turns on her heel, braids spinning, and flounces back over to the couch. “Now stay out of my way.” She tosses over her shoulder.

Marlene, standing there, shoulders slumped, and tears streaming down her face, doesn’t say or do anything. Finally, she finds it in herself to walk to the bedroom, close the door behind her, and weep silently into her hands on the floor.

~*~

Dorcas can’t really find it in herself to care that the girl is upset. Best not to expect things that won’t ever happen, in her experience.

Smiling at her, at the meeting? Dorcas can’t even remember that. She won’t admit it, but it’s getting more and more frequent that she forgets things when she’s really drunk. Besides, she barely remembers the girl’s name half the time. Where would she even get the idea that Dorcas gives any sort of fucks about her?

No, that doesn’t matter. Dorcas is fine with breaking a little girl’s heart. What matters is getting out of this safe house soon.

Thank God this one is stocked: a few of the ones Dorcas and Alastor have been to within the last few months have been barebones, a box of crackers left here, a carton of rotten milk there. She’s pretty sure Frank was here last; she remembers him wearing that Beach Boys shirt the girl is ruining with her tears.

Alice had to have gotten away. Dorcas isn’t going to sweat about it. What’s less certain is that Emma Vanity got away. Dorcas has a sneaking feeling Dumbledore’s looking to dispose of her soon. She can’t exactly back it up, but gut feelings have usually served her well.

The vodka burns going down and settles warmly in her stomach. Dorcas hasn’t bothered to wash the blood off her face and clothes; what’s the point? She’s rather comfortable here. Honestly, this would be a fine retreat if not for who she’s stuck with.

With a groan, Dorcas swings her legs off onto the floor, sliding her wand from her sleeve and muttering a quick Patronus charm. Nothing, no thrum of power in her fingers at all. Dorcas curses forests under her breath.

She wasn’t exactly lying before: she and Marlene aren’t a priority. Certainly, Alastor will go looking for her once he realizes they aren’t back in time, but however much Dumbledore lets him is up to interpretation. These woods are thick, and without magic? They could be searching for a while.

That’s fine. Dorcas has spent a lot of time hiding and waiting.

Something like hours pass. Dorcas decides to save some of the vodka and leans back against her folded arms behind her head, tricking her body into pretending to rest like she used to do back at Hogwarts. Eventually, a doorknob twists and Marlene’s heavy footfalls come down the hall and into the kitchenette, opening and closing doors. Dorcas stares upward and doesn’t say a word. Neither does Marlene. Finally, she goes back to the bedroom, closing it behind her, and it is quiet once more.

Dorcas finally goes to wash her face. She won’t go near the closed bedroom door; that sort of thing has never stopped sending panic into her veins since—well.

It is irrational and pathological, her fear. Irrationality, which Dorcas hates, but cannot fight against. She wipes the blood off her skin, stays in her gross clothes, and goes back to the couch.

This is a strange routine. Here, without a clock, time doesn’t seem to move. Marlene moves around her, giving her a wide berth, spending most of her time in the bedroom. Dorcas makes canned pasta and flicks her lighter on and off repeatedly.

“Are you going to get changed?”

Dorcas, from the couch, arches an eyebrow at the disruption of the silence she has grown so accustomed to and says nothing.

A huff, stomping. Dorcas assumes it’s the end of the interaction.

A bundle of clothes flies over the couch and smacks Dorcas in the face.

“What the fuck!” she exclaims, jumping off the couch, lighter in one hand. Marlene, standing in the hallway, glowers at her. The bruise on her cheek has grown mottled and purple, and her eyes are rimmed red and puffy.

“You stink.” Marlene says coldly.

Dorcas sees an opportunity, a lightbulb flashing over her head. Keeping direct eye contact with Marlene, she reaches to strip her shirt off, leaving her only in the black bra she uses on missions.

Marlene’s jaw drops before she can stop herself.

Dorcas smirks, pausing for a beat to ‘adjust her shirt’ before pulling it on. She shifts her face quickly into her usual blank look. “Can you not perv on me while I take off my pants, please?”

Marlene’s face is beet red, and she turns and scurries back into the bedroom without a word.

Dorcas smiles to herself, successful, but the smile drops when she thinks of Florence, her blushing cheeks when Dorcas undressed over her. Florence, Florence, Florence.

Dorcas tosses her dirty clothes down the hall for Marlene to pick up and goes back to drinking and staring at the ceiling.

~*~

Marlene cannot shake the image of Dorcas Meadowes in just a bra.

She spends maybe an hour – time isn’t real here – screaming into her pillow, hoping Dorcas can’t hear. She takes an ice-cold shower, easy because there’s no hot water in this damn house, and throws her dagger into the wall over and over. Nothing rids her of the image: Dorcas, lips curled, skin dark and perfect, a starburst scar peeking out from the fabric on her left boob.

Marlene reaches her hand up to touch her starburst scar on her arm, digging her nail into the tissue until it bleeds again.

Finally, when the image doesn’t go away, Marlene holds it in her mind and takes things into her own hands.

There is very little to do in this place. Marlene feels herself close to bouncing off the walls. Unfortunately, she’s found herself sort of stuck in the bedroom, with Dorcas occupying the couch at all hours of the day. Fuck, she doesn’t seem to sleep, barely eats. Marlene will watch her through the keyhole, a straight line of sight to the couch. What the fuck does she do all day, anyway?

Marlene’s resolve breaks after three days, as far as she can count. She goes into the kitchen, leans against the small counter, and wills herself to speak.

“Are you gonna eat anything?”

No response. Why would she expect anything different. Marlene huffs, digs into the pantry to find a can of soup, and heats it up in the dingy pot, dumping it into a bowl and bringing it over to the couch.

Dorcas, staring lazily up at the ceiling, drags her eyes over to Marlene, holding the bowl of soup out to her.

“Here.” Marlene says. “I’m not going to have you starve to death before we’re rescued.”

Dorcas’ eyes narrow, but she doesn’t take the bowl.

Marlene scoffs, rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Whatever, be a dick about it. If you don’t eat it, I will—”

Dorcas slowly takes the bowl, still looking warily at Marlene. There’s something unreadable in her eyes, but Marlene doesn’t much care. She turns and goes back to the kitchen, equal parts frustrated and confused, even though there’s a small hum of pride in her head when she hears the spoon clinking against the bowl.

Silence, as Marlene tears into a stale baguette. The bowl is set down on the table.

“I don’t need you to take care of me.” Dorcas’ voice is low and ice-cold.

“Take care of yourself, then.” Marlene responds, bread tough between her molars.

“Who are you to decide I’m not?” A scoff. “You know jack-shit about me, Marlene, don’t pretend you do.”

“You barely changed your clothes since we got here!” Marlene shouts, despite herself. “A proper functioning person would have come to get some from the bedroom, Jesus!”

A pause. “I’m not going to go in there if you’re inside with the door closed.”

Marlene laughs, an acrid taste rising in her throat. “You’re such a bitch, you can’t even fathom being in the same room as me, is that it?”

Another pause, longer. Marlene presses her fist into her chest, holding it there. “You know what, fuck you, Dorcas. Rot for all I care. I’m done looking after you.”

Why does she linger in this room, waiting for a response that won’t come? Marlene starts to turn back towards the hallway—

“You religious, Marlene?”

Marlene hesitates. Over her shoulder: “Why does that matter?”

“Explains why you think you have any reason to help so-called ‘charity cases’.”

Marlene jams her knuckles against her lips, a strange feeling washing over her. When she finally speaks, she doesn’t expect what comes out: “I’m not religious anymore.”

“But you were, once. People don’t outgrow their upbringing so easily.”

“And what, little miss perfect Dorcas Meadowes has a position to sit and judge others up from her throne?” Marlene spits. “At least I’m being nice, you absolute fuckwad.”

“Real mature. I see why Dumbledore brought in you stupid kids to fight his war.”

“Piss off!” Marlene snarls, whirling back fully and storming up to Dorcas, pinning her up against the wall. “You have no fucking right—”

“Oh, don’t I?” Dorcas looks so fucking smug, Marlene wants to wipe that look off her face. “Am I wrong? You volunteered for a war you don’t understand, and now your feelings are hurt that war doesn’t operate like your fucking church.” Dorcas leans forward, breath hot against Marlene’s cheek. “It doesn’t matter whether Alice and Emma escaped. We’re all going to fucking die fighting for this cause, and you want to be a martyr.”

Marlene makes a strangled noise, anger ripping through her vocal chords. Dorcas looks down at her, knowing she’s won. And before Marlene can say anything, Dorcas tilts her head down and presses her lips to Marlene’s.

It’s a frantic, passionate, angry kiss. Dorcas’ hands are hard and clenching, digging into Marlene’s hair down to the root. Marlene can’t think, can’t breathe, her entire body short-circuiting, fuses exploding across her skin. All she can do is loop her fingers around Dorcas’ braids, tugging as Dorcas kisses her harder, nipping at her lower lip and drawing blood.

It begins as quickly as it ends: Dorcas pushing Marlene back from her, gasping and wild-eyed, blood welling on her lip. Dorcas somehow looks as controlled and poised as she always does, not a braid or colour out of place.

“So, that’s how to shut you up.” Dorcas says, her voice gritty, the corner of her lip lifting.

With that, she spins on her heel, brushing past Marlene and into the bathroom.

~*~

Honestly, Dorcas is bored.

That is how she rationalizes her decision: boredom and a need to get the upper hand.

Neither of those excuses really account for the basic fact that Marlene’s pink lips and flushed cheeks are otherwise quite alluring, but that doesn’t really matter. Dorcas Meadowes is closed for business emotionally, and this little tanned blonde girl (whose brown roots are starting to show) isn’t going to change anything.

Eventually, she goes back to the couch. Marlene is still standing there, as though she hasn’t moved. Dorcas snorts to herself, reaches for the bottle of rum she cracked open yesterday after the vodka ran out.

“Why did you kiss me?” Her voice sounds distant, absent.

Dorcas takes a swig. “Told you, to shut you up.”

“You knew… I had a—a—”

“Crush?” Dorcas says, tauntingly. “Yeah, not hard to figure out.”

“You don’t really care about me, though, do you?”

“Nope.”

Marlene shakes her head, as though astounded. “You’re the worst.” It’s not so much an insult because of the wonderous way she says it.

Dorcas smiles around the bottle and says nothing.

Eventually, Marlene goes back to the bedroom, and things continue as normal. Well, whatever normal has become. Dorcas makes it a game to count time, like she used to do sometimes when hiding. Something about it, the ambiguity of the outside world, makes her feel small and safe in her hidey-hole. She hasn’t felt this way in a long time.

However long it takes for Marlene to stomp back, days maybe, Dorcas isn’t surprised. This girl cannot let go without a fight, and Dorcas enjoys it. Burning fire, a lit fuse. This girl will burn too fucking bright before she explodes prematurely. No wonder she volunteered first.

Marlene is standing over her, arms folded over her chest. “What did you mean, about Dumbledore?”

Dorcas flicks her eyes up. “What?”

“The other day. You said something about Dumbledore when—when we—"

“What about it?” Her voice is lazy on purpose, exasperated by this girl’s stupidity.

“Bringing kids to fight his war. What’s your issue?”

“How old are you, Marlene?”

“Eighteen.”

Dorcas scoffs condescendingly. “Yeah, that explains it.” Propping herself up on her elbow, Dorcas’ dark eyes bore into Marlene’s. “You’re a child, Marlene. Don’t you think it’s strange that you’ve been drafted into a war that long predates your existence? Don’t be a fool, now.”

Marlene’s cheeks flush red. “There just aren’t enough people—”

“Right.” Dorcas leans back. “I’m sure that’s true.”

“What do you even care, anyway?”

“I don’t.” Dorcas closes her eyes. “I just find it amusing.”

“You’re a sadist.”

“Hm. I’ll refer you to my shrink, then.”

Marlene stomps her foot but doesn’t move. Dorcas opens an eye to squint up at her. “You going to fight back or something?”

Marlene scrunches up her face and snatches up the bottle of alcohol. Dorcas opens her other eye, sits up, as Marlene marches over to the sink, keeping eye contact, and pours the bottle down the drain.

“You motherfucker—” Dorcas launches up, but Marlene is already scrabbling through the cupboards, grabbing alcohol and uncapping them. Dorcas vaults over her, grabbing a bottle of gin, but Marlene elbows her in the tit, the bottle slipping from her grasp and shattering across the floor.

Marlene and Dorcas pause, staring down at it, and then back up at each other.

Marlene throws herself at Dorcas, nails sharp, tearing at her braids. Dorcas scratches at her skin, slapping her across the face on the bruise, making Marlene wince and begin attacking with greater vigour. All around them are shards of glass and spilt gin, making their feet slip and slide.

Somehow, within the chaos of slapping and scratching and muttered curses, Marlene’s lips find the underside of Dorcas’ jaw, sucking and licking and biting as she rips at Dorcas’ shirt, raking her nails down Dorcas’ shoulder blades as Dorcas shoves her back against the counter, thrusting Marlene up onto it to bite at her inner thigh, moving inwards. Marlene makes a low, guttural moan, fingers fisting in Dorcas’ shirt as Dorcas keeps moving, nothing sweet or tender about it. Neither much care that their feet are cut and bleeding in the glass, nor the wounds opening on their skin. All that matters is Marlene’s breast in Dorcas’ mouth, the taste of lavender enveloping Marlene’s senses.

Somewhere, Marlene’s panties disappear, and she bites down on Dorcas’ bra strap to keep from screaming. All around her, everything is Dorcas, and it is overwhelming.

~*~

Thankfully, when Alastor breaks down the door, Marlene is in the shower and Dorcas is fully clothed, feet bandaged in old gauze from under the sink, back in her regular position on the couch.

He is out of breath, panting, staring at her wild-eyed when she glances back and arches an eyebrow. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, well.” Alastor grunts, his eyes trailing to the glass and gin and blood on the floor, and back at her. “The fuck happened here?”

Dorcas pushes herself up from the cushions. “Nothing much.”

“Dorcas.”

“You’re not my actual dad, Alastor, relax.” Dorcas fixes him with a look. “It’s fine.”

Alastor feels at his jaw. “McKinnon with you?”

Dorcas nods. “How long has it been?”

“About two and a half weeks. Alice and Emma found their way back to us pretty quickly, but we had some trouble finding you.”

Dorcas smiles to herself as she gathers her meagre belongings on the coffee table. “Dumbledore stop you from getting out to us sooner?”

Before Alastor can say anything, the bathroom door swings open and Marlene steps out, hair damp and steam trailing her. She stops once she sees Alastor, her eyes going wide. “Woah, Mad-Eye Moody?”

Alastor glances at Dorcas, and Dorcas fixes him with a see-what-I-had-to-deal-with? close-lipped smile. He looks back at Marlene. “Hurry up. Your friends and family are waiting for you back home.”

~*~

The first one to collapse into her arms when they finally apparate back to home base is Alice, who flings herself at her and buries her face deep into Marlene’s shoulder, sobbing. Lily’s there too, Mary also, even Effie, who cradles Marlene’s face in her hands with teary eyes.

Dorcas has nobody to hug, nobody waiting for her. Marlene sees her hanging back with Moody, muttering and casting dark glances around the room. Her eyes find Marlene’s, and a strange expression crosses her face. Marlene holds her gaze until it flicks away.

“I was so worried.” Alice weeps into Marlene’s worn-out Beatles shirt from the safe house. “One minute you were there, running behind us, and then—”

“I’m here, Alice.” Marlene says, patting Alice’s shoulder and looking up at Mary, whose eyes are big and sad.

“The boys think you were on an order mission, so I wouldn’t mention any of us.” Lily says, practical as ever, her hair pinned back into two braids. “Petey was worried sick, you know, slept by the front door in case you came home.”

“What a softie.” Marlene cracks. “I’ll have to tease him about that later.”

“Please don’t.” Mary says softly. “He cried a lot.”

Marlene’s eyes catch on something sparkling on Lily’s finger, and she straightens up so suddenly that Alice lets go, looking up quizzically. “Lilith, you bastard, you got engaged???”

Lily grins, a ray of sunshine. “While you were gone, James popped the question.”

Marlene squeaks and throws her arms around Lily’s shoulders, holding her tight, laughing hysterically. Everything is so bright and beautiful and good out here, and Marlene feels herself come back to herself, a real being.

She doesn’t notice Dorcas Meadowes slip out of the building after Alastor Moody, shooting a final look at Marlene and her family before turning away, a complicated mass of emotions knotted tightly in her chest.

"You good, kid?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Chapter Text

April 1979

There are two things Emmeline Vance does when she’s anxious: fly and play the piano.

Right now, she can’t do either one, because she’s pressed up against her boyfriend in a sweaty muggle bar, listening to shitty music and watching her boyfriend flirt with pretty muggle girls with blonde hair and bright bellbottoms who giggle drunkenly at his stupid pickup lines.

Emmeline thinks about hexing his balls off, but that would be too noticeable here.

She nudges past him, her vision blurry and crooked, pushing past dancing girls, trying to ignore the pounding music causing pounding in her brain. It’s only once she explodes out onto the street, among the smokers, that she can finally gasp a lungful of clean air.

Resting her head on the brick wall, Emmeline considers the consequences of just up and leaving Tiberius here. Would he notice, even? Lately, he has told her she’s “just not that interesting to him anymore”. What does that even mean? Usually, she’d probably cry about it, but she feels sort of worn out, like an old blanket. She hates muggle bars, and she hates dancing and alcohol, and she hates how Tiberius makes her feel sometimes.

Emmeline kind of wants to apparate to Hogwarts to see Jude and Casey, even just for a night, to know they’re okay. Mà and Ba are probably asleep – merlin, it’s late – and Emmeline just feels small and alone and has a really, really bad headache.

Glancing back at the bar, she sighs and starts trudging away in her stupid heels that Tiberius made her get, heading off to a dark alleyway to apparate home.

Van got back a few days ago from a botched mission. Apparently, she and Alice Longbottom had taken off together and finally made their way back home out of some supposedly magic-proof forests, while there hasn’t been any news about Marlene and Dorcas Meadowes. Emma’s been a little shaken, admittedly, and so the boys have been sleeping over at the apartment ever since.

Predictably, when Emmeline turns the keys in the lock, it’s Benjy sitting out on the couch, reading a book.

“Huh, didn’t know you could read.” Emmeline says, whistling playfully. Benjy rolls his eyes at her, but hesitates, eyes flicking up and down her strange outfit, the stupid heels in her hand.

“Where’s Tiberius? What are you wearing?”

“Muggle clubbing.” Emmeline sets the heels down on the small table, runs a hand through her hair as though to rid herself of the bar. “Not my scene.”

“Hm. Well, I could have told you that, saved you the trouble.”

“Can’t save somebody from themselves, Benj.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Benjy watches her quietly as she pours herself a glass of water, pressing the cool surface to her forehead with a sigh. “I think you should break up with him, Em.”

Emmeline’s eyes snap open, fixing on Benjy’s earnest expression. “I know,” is what she settles on saying, instead of all the obvious things: if I let him go, how can I even know somebody else will choose me, how do I know anyone else could love me? Yes, he treats me badly, but shouldn’t I be lucky he even notices me?

“Come sit.” Benjy pats the cushion next to him, and Emmeline obeys, pressing up against his shoulder. Up close, he smells like pine, and his presence is warm and comforting. She thinks suddenly of Tiberius in the club, sweaty and hot, and shivers, shoulders shaking.

“You can’t save somebody from themselves, Em.”

Emmeline reaches to run her hand soothingly across the yarn of his sweater, feeling it beneath the pads of her fingers, trying to slow the stuttering of her breath. “Yeah.”

“You deserve a lot better. You know that, and I know that. Can you hear me?”

Her fingers twitch and dance across his arm. “Yeah.”

Benjy sighs softly. “You’re not fully here right now, are you?”

Emmeline shakes her head, trying to focus on the strands beneath her hand, the fuzz of the fraying yarn.

“Okay. That’s okay. We’ll just sit for a while.”

The arm shifts under her grasp; Benjy offering her his palm. She traces the lines, feels the roughness of his calluses. She knows his hands, has spent years familiarizing herself with them in these moments, where her vision narrows into one point and her body starts to shake and every thought in her brain starts racing at once, and the only thing she can do is focus on something physical and tangible.

Slowly, the darkness starts to recede from the world, bleeding out until she can see the colours around her again. Her hand flexes, joints popping, and she lifts her head forward again.

“Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Benj.” Emmeline whispers, leaning to nestle her head into the crook of his shoulder. His hand reaches up, absently stroking her hair.

“I mean it, though. You put yourself first this time, okay?”

“I can do that.”

“Good.”

“Where’s Caradoc?”

Benjy’s voice softens, like it does whenever Caradoc comes up. “He went home for the evening. Made dinner, though, there’s a plate for you in the fridge.”

“Is he okay?”

“You know how he is. He needs his space.”

Emmeline smiles to herself. “I can’t believe I was ever jealous of him back at school.”

“Don’t tell him you said that. He’ll be insufferable.”

“I won’t, trust me.”

Benjy’s body tenses suddenly, and he leans over to kiss her hair. “You should go to bed, Em. I’ll be out here.”

Emmeline straightens up, investigates his face, strained suddenly with the effort of holding back a vision. “You’re a good man, Benjy Fenwick."

A smile flickers across his lips, but freezes as a glossy look crosses his eyes, pulling him away from the world of now. She never watches him in these moments; it feels too personal.

Instead, she pads down the hall, pausing to peek into both Hestia and Van’s rooms. Once she sees that they’re both asleep, it gives her the ability to go into her bed and finally let go for the night.

~*~

There is a black hole in Emmeline’s chest. Something missing, something stolen, something irretrievable. What it is, she doesn’t know, but she feels the lack, a piece of her removed and gone forever.

The world becomes something of a blur. Memories grow fuzzy, inaccessible, lingering just outside her reach. Sometimes, there is the shadow of a moment, a silhouette of who she must have been, but it vanishes before she can get to it. Emmeline exists in a void, where all she knows is the current moment, who she is now. The rest is lost to time.

The last two years, Emmeline stopped existing. That’s the only way to explain the fog that has lifted over her eyes, obscuring everything from view. She doesn’t remember that last train ride to Hogwarts, her final year there. Maybe it’s the war, keeping everything at the periphery of her vision. It is alarming, to feel so incomplete.

What’s worse is that Emmeline should remember. She remembers everything she’s ever read, certainly. An eidetic memory, she is told. Her father had beamed with pride: my daughter, the genius. She can recite wizard and muggle texts alike: Beedle the Bard to Geoffrey Chaucer. It is her own life that constantly eludes her.

How alarming is it to think that the one thing she should be able to rely on continually fails her these days? That waking up and not remembering the days before has become normal, that the mist over the world started once and never quite stopped?

Emmeline has to get used to a lot of things.

~*~

It is easy to be stable for her family.

Emmeline learned a long time ago that anxiety does little to solve problems. It is second nature to shove the feelings down, bury them in a box, so she can hold up the people she loves. Jude and Casey and Caradoc and Benjy and Van and Hestia and her parents, balancing on Emmeline’s narrow shoulders. If she slips, they slip too. She can’t let that happen, ever.

Benjy knows, and Hestia too. They’re the only ones who can really slow her down, take her trembling hands into their own and let her rest for a moment. But they don’t understand the panic, the way a pause or a look can send her into a frenzy. Do you love me? Do you want me around?

Maybe it would be better to point at an event in her life, to say “here, that’s why I’m so messed up, here’s why people don’t stick around for me”. That isn’t true, though. There is something flawed in Emmeline’s body, and she must constantly work to make sure it doesn’t show.

~*~

There are a number of people Emmeline has had crushes on.

Benjy Fenwick, that first train ride, when he came into her empty compartment, threw himself down on the seat and began peppering her with questions. What was it, the sense of recognition when she looked at him? Maybe the dimples, the crease between his eyebrows when he squinted to read because he refused to concede and get glasses. Maybe the way he just seemed so comfortable with her all at once, arm around her shoulders, offering his hand to ground her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Emmeline, eleven, never thought her heart could beat faster in her chest.

It could never be Benjy, though. Not in the face of Caradoc Dearborn; stoic, dark, tall. Benjy and Caradoc, sewn together from the same fabric, one person in two bodies. Benjy loved her, certainly, but he could never be in love with her, not so long as Caradoc existed. And that was fine. There’s no protesting when two people are simply so right for each other.

Hestia Jones, sitting next to her in Potions third year, eyes like liquid honey and a gentle smile. There is no better person in this world than Hestia Jones. Emmeline doesn’t understand how everybody is not in love with Hestia Jones, at least just a little bit, on a fundamental level. How could the tinkling of Hestia’s laugh not inspire such butterflies in their stomachs?

It couldn’t be Hestia, either. Emmeline knew this at thirteen, head in Hestia’s lap as she braided Emmeline’s hair. She could never ruin this, and what they had was special and perfect enough as is. Emmeline doesn’t need Hestia to be her lover; being Hestia’s friend is forever enough to part the skies and let the sun beam down on everything, like being loved by an angel.

Emma Vanity, stepping off the Quidditch pitch in fifth year, tossing her hair loose. Strong, beautiful, powerful. Emmeline can never understate the way her cheeks flush when Emma, sweaty and grinning, comes back from a jog. Emma could kill her, and Emmeline would thank her for even being noticed.

Emma neither, locked away in her own battle, the eternal struggle between goodness and love. Emmeline contents herself with being a part of the simple domesticity of Emma’s life here: napping on the couch, making supper together, Emma bumping her shoulder with affection.

Emmeline thinks it’s important to be just a little in love with your friends. It makes the thread binding them together a little stronger. It is a reminder that she can love, and people can love her, and choose for her to stick around.

There’s Tiberius, now, shaggy hair plastered to his face as he dances. Emmeline holds this moment in her hand, lest it slip away, and turns it one way and another. Tiberius, blinding grin, strong grip. Maybe she liked him once, too, but that has steadily melted away. Emmeline isn’t really used to letting people go that she once loved.

And then… the one Emmeline doesn’t remember. A face, hazy in smoke, hovering above her when she’s laying down, a soft voice whispering secrets she can’t quite hear. Emmeline captured a butterfly in the pit of her stomach, bottled it up and observed it from within. Who do you belong to, she asked? The butterfly never answered, just beat its wings with frustration. Remember, Emmeline. You need to remember.

Sometimes, she’ll wake up in a cold sweat, seconds away from catching a glimpse at the face, pressing kisses to her neck and lips. She feels as though she has lost something important, that empty feeling filling her chest until it is too much to bear. It hurts constantly, and it is Emmeline’s pain alone to bear. Nobody can know, nobody can know.

~*~

Kate has never really been “Katherine”.

Her sisters call her Kit, everyone else calls her Kate. Whatever she is, it doesn’t really matter. Her name is irrelevant in the face of her family name, what rather than who she is.

Little Kate Vanity, the youngest of the Vanity clan. An afterthought, unneeded and overlooked. It is an expectation that she will do great things; not because anyone believes she can, but because to fail would tarnish her family’s legacy.

Julia was the failure. Julia ran away and left them all. She left them all with the burden of continuing on, becoming something the family could be proud of. She left them all disoriented and stumbling, reaching for the building block no longer there. Julia, the center of their worlds, gone without so much as a goodbye. It’s easiest to write her off as a failure than to confront the hurt.

It’s sort of an expectation within pureblood circles to be greater than your forebearers. Of course, personal pride always gets in the way, but to be successful and powerful is to win the game of life.

The Vanitys are pureblood, through and through. Kate knows this, knows the weight on her shoulders cannot be mitigated. It doesn’t matter that her parents are kind, that they don’t hate muggles, that they don’t want to rule the entire world: it runs through their blood, all of them, tying them forever to a web they can’t escape from. Maybe the desire for success is the spider, and each of them must wait their turn to be devoured once it becomes clear no act is enough.

Needless to say, Kate Vanity thinks a lot about this sort of thing. She has nothing but time to think about it. One could argue that she has never really been young, regardless of what people think. Kate has been twelve years old for many, many years, it seems. There is nothing but time ahead of her and behind her, and Kate exists slowly within it.

None of the Vanity sisters can really live slowly. Each one of them is burning, brimming with fire. It’s desperate, fervent, their need to exist, to act, to live. Kate watches them, watches with a removed fascination, because she is alone in her experience.

Perhaps that’s because nobody really wants anything from her. Kate can step back, watch as the spark in her sisters fizzle out and die. Kate is unique: unwanted and thus free, in a sense. She’ll never be truly free, not so long as she is Katherine Vanity, but free from the shackles of her sisters. A moderately successful life is enough to sustain her image, but everything else is her own.

The fire of life burns if you get too close, she has learned. The need to live too fast can kill quickly. Tell Nora, alone in the store on Diagon Alley, finishing her last potion before slitting her wrists on the floor. Does she know how the entire promise of a great future charred her skin, leaving her unrecognizable and barely human to everyone else?

Nora, a bright and shining star, maybe the best of them all, just dead. She was twenty-one, and Kate was ten, already two sisters down long before she ever should have been, and what was the point of it all? Nora, ultimately, was nothing, a footnote in history. A notch through her name, a sigh and a declaration that the other Vanity sisters must be better to make up for their missing piece. All the pain about Julia, gone, replaced instead by mourning the golden child.

What now, then? Kate is twelve and nobody really sees her. She knows how to navigate a room, to negotiate – that comes with having five older sisters – but functionally she is useless. There is nothing great about her, nothing special. She is not talented or gifted, she is just a girl. Self-awareness keeps her from some of the pain, but it keeps her from ever achieving greatness. And Kate, despite it all, feels the pounding in her blood, the instinctual need to be great.

If anyone could understand, it would be Audrey. But Audrey is far away, nestled back home in their childhood home in Brocburrow, awaiting the birth of her child and writing constantly about history that nobody can remember anymore. Audrey is almost inaccessible, the eldest sister by default now, and she deserves to live her own life, unburdened by the worries of her kid sister. Kate cannot approach her with any of this, even though she would be so kind, because it’s simply not fair. Part of her fears she may be waiting for Audrey to vanish too, and that is an awful thought.

What is success? Emma becomes the next great hope. She could be anything she wants to be: a Quidditch star, a professor, an alchemist. This is nothing without a world to live in, and so Emma fights. Kate can’t blame her for feeling the pull: it’s the Vanity curse. Live too hard and you’ll be burned by the fire that gives you life. She wishes she could say any of this in her letters, to beg Emma to step back. Emma, please, I can’t lose another sister. Emma, please, come home.

Emma didn’t come back from Sweden when Nora died. She barely seemed to acknowledge it. While Audrey huddled Claire and Kate close, their mother and father stood protectively around them, there was a space left for Emma that she would never fill. Emma was never quite like the rest of them, separated behind a wall, snappish and mean at times. Nobody wants to talk about it, because that would mean acknowledging that they are yet another sister down. Six turned to three.

Audrey blames Wilhelm Wilkes – Juliette Wilkes, as perhaps she is known now – but Kate barely remembers her. All there is in her memory is a flash of blonde hair, a crooked smile. Claire says Emma loved her more than any of them. Audrey thinks she’s dangerous, but Claire says she always looked very delicate. She grew up with them, supposedly, spending the summers side by side in Britain when not home in Hungary, pulling Emma away to have all for herself. For all of Kate’s short life (but long existence), Emma was not theirs at all.

Perhaps that’s why Kate wants Emma most of all. She wants to know Emma before she goes away again. She wants Emma to slow down and come back, to be a Vanity again, but she won’t. if the Vanity curse is real, Emma will be the next target.

It is as though she is watching the lives of her sisters from afar, removed completely. When she hears of Claire’s talent in Herbology, all Kate can feel is dread. Once you show talent, a proficiency, you are marked, and there is no escaping the consequences. Do not be great, do not be special.

Does she even know Claire when they pass each other in the halls? Does Claire recognize her baby sister, three years younger, and feel the tug of kinship? Is it against the rules for the fifth year Slytherin to fraternize with her first year Hufflepuff sister, to exchange even just a smile or a wink?

No, Claire left her long ago. Sister bonds may exist back home, but here, they are different, they are strangers. As much as it hurts, can Kate really blame her? Who else but Claire was the most wounded when Julia left, when Nora died? Claire, the bleeding heart of the family, simply may not be able to open her arms to another sister, another sister who may leave as well.

Not Audrey, Emma, or Claire, then. Maybe the only one who truly gets it is Julia: beautiful Julia, who never amounted to anything. Who was she, when she was home? Just a girl, never quite proving herself worthy of any praise, any real success. It doesn’t matter how much your sisters love you in this world; it’s never enough.

Kate was only seven when Julia left, leaving behind a letter on her pillow scented with her perfume. She was the only one who didn’t cry, scream, go silent. Kate was the one who saved the letter from the trash bin when Emma threw it away, who reread those vague words over and over until all she could really remember of Julia was those words. Even now, she can’t see her face anymore, and the letter has long since lost the scent of her perfume.

Maybe Julia ran away to be free. Maybe she was able to step back and see what her life would be, and she chose not to live and die as quickly as success guaranteed. Maybe she was a lot more like Kate than anyone else, but still, Julia did have high hopes on her shoulders. Julia was the progeny upon whom all dreams were placed, and Kate had nothing. Really, it doesn’t matter in the end how similar or different they really are: Julia isn’t here, and Kate doesn’t know her anymore.

No, Kate is alone. Kate is nothing more than “Little Kate”, and nobody really cares what more she can be. It would be nice to be a person, one day. Even to her sisters, to be more than just the youngest one, to be real and tangible and alive.

Again, that push and pull. Live and burn or escape and be forgotten? Kate feels it inside her skin constantly. She wishes somebody else were here with her, but internal wars are easily overlooked. Kate knows what it’s like to be overlooked.

She wishes somebody could just look her in the eyes and see her, Katherine, flesh and blood. That will never happen, though. Living in shadows your whole life doesn’t make it especially easy to adapt to the light.

~*~

“Are you doing okay?”

From the floor of the Shrieking Shack, Remus glares up at her. There are no teeth to his expression, though, all bark and no bite. He is exhausted, blood weeping from his wounds, and he looks skinny and afraid, holding a rotted blanket to cover his lower body.

Hestia kneels down by his side, wiggling her fingers a little to draw his gaze. Once he finally nods, she reaches to prod gingerly at his ribs, pulling back immediately when he winces and tries to turn away.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“’s fine.” Remus hisses through clenched teeth. “Had broken ribs before.”

“Still.” Hestia moves her attention to the oozing tear across his shoulder, the blood black and oily looking. “This is going to hurt.”

Remus nods stiffly and closes his eyes. Hestia, as carefully and gently as she can, presses a clean rag down on the wound, making Remus draw a staggering breath, knuckles on his left side squeezing white.

Pomfrey showed her how to deal with these kinds of injuries, but Hestia is still always worried something will go wrong. Keeping the pressure consistent with one hand, she reaches with the other to grab the gauze and healing ointment Lily Evans cooked up a while back that Pomfrey seems to swear by. Slowly peeling the rag away and keeping her eyes laser focused as to not freak out by the gore, she swipes the ointment with two fingers and moves to bandage it up as efficiently as she can. She can feel Remus watching her, eyes dark and wary, but she doesn’t pause until it’s finished.

“Okay, now for your ribs.”

The charm is quick and easy, thankfully. Unlike the flesh wounds, caused by Dark magic and thus unable to be healed so quickly, repairing the ribs is a simple procedure, one Hestia learned even in her first lesson with Pomfrey years ago.

“Anything else?”

Remus rolls his neck gingerly, his eyes scanning the room as though looking at a diagram of his body in front of him and shakes his head. “Just the regular stuff.”

“Okay.” Hestia hesitates. “Do you, uh, want to get changed? I brought some food; Pomfrey says you should eat after a transformation. Good for healing.”

Remus blinks at her. “Yeah, I’d like to get changed.”

Hestia stares at him, blushes furiously, and puts his clothes next to him, turning her back to open up the bag of food she brought. She can hear him shuffling behind her, moving slowly, and she gives him a while before turning back around, just to be safe.

“A few sandwiches… sorry, I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a couple different kinds.”

“You made these?” Remus’ voice is scratchy, and he’s looking at her as though she’s a mystery to be figured out. Hestia squares her shoulders and smiles.

“Yeah. I, uh, I like to cook for people. Something my dad instilled in me; I suppose. There’s also some fruit from the market, still fresh.” He’s still just staring at her, so she points to the sandwich stack with her chin. “Please eat, I think Pomfrey might kill me if I don’t feed you.”

This, finally, cracks the mask on his face, and the corner of his lips twitch up for just a second as he reaches for a turkey sandwich. Hestia takes the beef one, and they eat together in silence.

“Hey, Remus?”

“Hm?”

“Will you, um, tell me if I’m not doing a good job? Taking care of you like this, I mean. I want to make sure you’re not in any pain, well, additional pain, and I know Pomfrey has been helping you for years, so I just want to make sure the quality of your care is—”

“Hestia.” Remus arches an eyebrow at her. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Hestia falters a little, eyes scanning his (thankfully, clothed) chest for any tightness, any injuries: “Are you still in pain now?”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart back down to the half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “Yeah.” It’s as though he is pulling the admission out from deep in his chest. When Hestia starts, he holds up a hand. “Don’t bother. It’s chronic. You’re not going to solve it.”

Her hands fall slack in her lap, the weight of his words settling on her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

Hestia glances at his face, at the strange earnestness in his eyes, and nods slowly.

Remus tucks back into his sandwich, glancing at her here and there. His voice hesitates a little, as though unsure how to proceed. “You said your dad taught you to cook for people?”

Hestia splays her fingers on her knee, smiling to herself. “Yeah. His philosophy was always to feed people first, ask questions later. He took care of a lot of people that way, back home and here.”

“Where’s he from?” Remus sounds genuinely curious, almost human in a way she doesn’t quite expect from him. Usually, he is all bared teeth and distance, but in the growing light from the dawn sneaking in, his eyes are more amber than yellow.

“Ontario, in Canada. My dad’s Ojibwe, from the Mississauga First Nation. He went to Ilvermorny, and later came to Britain after he met my mum. He worked as a history professor for a while, but I think he should have been a chef. Nobody can cook like he did.”

“Did?”

Hestia knots her fingers in her lap, staring down at the crook of her pinkie. “He died about a year and a half ago. Inoperable brain tumour, you know? Not much any of us could do about it.”

Remus swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. There’s a sober look on his face, especially with the shadow carving his features into marble. Finally, he says, in a low voice, “My mum died of breast cancer when I was sixteen.”

Hestia feels it, the pain in her chest, flaring up and beating alongside her heart. She presses her open palm over it, hoping the pressure might stop the bleeding, like Remus’ shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is a whisper.

Remus, running a hand over his face, suddenly seems a lot older than he is. “Me too.”

They let it sit for a moment, the air heavy between them. Hestia, quiet: “What was she like?”

Remus’ eyes crinkle a little at the corners, and he glances away. Hestia doesn’t pry, doesn’t interrupt. She just waits until he is ready.

“Kind. Patient, too. She never really got upset with us—me.” His face contorts for a moment, as though he’s in physical pain, but he continues: “She grew up on a farm, in Wales, and she was used to hard work. Everybody liked her, nobody ever said an unkind word about her. Despite everything, she never hated me.” His eyebrows furrow. “Maybe she should have.” Eyes flicking to her, as though to see if she caught it. Quickly, then, to cover it up: “I remember her laugh, really bright and cheery. Even when she was sick, she never stopped trying to make us smile. I think it made her feel a little better.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Hestia watches his face ease slightly, pain and sadness replaced by something gentler, a lightness reserved only for the people you love most. “She was.”

Reaching slowly to touch his knee, careful not to spook him, she hopes the contact can communicate everything she can’t say out loud: thank you for telling me, for opening up your chest and letting me take a peek. It’s not easy, trust me, I know.

His eyes settle on the tip of her nose for a beat, and then up at the tiny window, where sunlight begins to bleed through. “We should probably head back.”

There’s still time, it’s still early enough in the morning, but Hestia follows his lead. She clambers to her feet, extending a hand to help him up. Together, they make their way out of the Shack, the string tying them together a little stronger than before.

Chapter Text

May 1979

When the doorknob begins to turn, she places the knife to her throat and waits.

One turn, two. Her body begins to tremble.

Third turn. Tension released in her shoulders, just a smidge. Her hand is the only thing that doesn’t waver. It will be easy; three cuts to the skin, deep enough to break. Three cuts, and this misery will be over, and she will not be taken.

The door creaks open. What can he see? The house is dark, abandoned long ago, old furniture abandoned where it stood. Maybe he’ll see the body, wrapped in a carpet, propped against the window in the kitchen. The house smells like blood, it seeps through everything, the house is infected, even the walls are oozing pus.

She stays in the middle of the room, the room she cleared out for this purpose. Gagging on the stench, shoving furniture away from the walls, arguing with Auntie Elysia when she sneered her disapproval. Auntie is gone for the moment, locked away behind a door she hasn’t yet broken down, and she is at least grateful Auntie’s voice won’t be the last she hears.

Has she been waiting for this? Every night, peering out the windows, knowing that someone is watching her, ready to strike. Isn’t that what Papa told her? Never trust anybody, never let your guard down, and never reveal your true name.

They are going to kill you, little Olivia growls in her ear, and her fingers claw at her knee. You waste of space, they will know if you lie, they will know you are useless, and they will make your life even more of a living hell.

“Olivia Gleaves?”

No, no no no no. Everything is screaming in her ears, and there’s dried blood under her nails, and everybody knows who she is, what she is. Auntie, choking her over the tub, telling her to be quiet, all while she stares blankly at the figure in the doorway, white and horrifying, who doesn’t move closer at all, has never moved closer even when she wails and begs for Auntie to chase it off.

Footsteps down the hall. Papa tells her to be quiet, not to make a sound. She knots her hand in the carpet, desperately, fervently, trying to feel the cold metal against her neck as proof of her reality.

Then, she sees him. Her breath quickens, broken and confused.

It’s the figure, always lingering in the periphery of her vision. He’s here, and the voices stop.

~*~

The way Papa tells it, there were three siblings.

Maybe they were cursed from the start. Little boy, tucked into the side of his sister and brother, little boy, being hurt endlessly.

Auntie hated this story. No, she’d sneer, we aren’t cursed. We are awful people, and this is our reward. She isn’t one of them, though. She, plopped down on the doorstep, doesn’t have poison running through her veins. She is pure, Papa wouldn’t take her in if not, but she doesn’t understand. Maybe that is why she is somehow worse than all of them.

When the walls talk, they howl in pain. It is an awful sound, like flesh sizzling off the bone. Auntie did that once, holding her arm over the fire in pure defiance before Papa could get to her. Much like a child, a child stuck for her entire short life in a house far away from people, a child with haunted eyes and a cruel laugh and a tendency to fly off into a rage or fall into a catatonic state with only a snap of the fingers. She, an infant, was only subject to Auntie’s whims.

There are always three of them. Three siblings, one meant to wear the crown, one meant to bear the noose, and one left empty-handed. Papa was one of three, and so was her father. Maybe out of compulsion, Papa took in Auntie. Curses, curses, curses. The rule of threes, the reason the world spins on its axis. She exists because of threes, she lives her life based on threes.

Three, three, three. Three siblings, three worlds, three identical scars across her back. Three of her, but no, many of her, all of them populating this house, all of them dead eyed and defensive, all of them hiding and ready to die if necessary.

~*~

“Olivia Gleaves.”

Her name bounces off the walls, a cacophony of sounds and squeaks and grunts together becoming something resembling her title. Olivia Gleaves, though not her real name, is it? Olivia is not her, never has been. It belongs to the little girl, always hiding behind her, the little girl who still cried when Auntie slammed books into her skull. She, however, is nameless.

Olīva, feminine noun in Latin. It means olive, or an olive tree. The second i was added in in English, maybe to make it more of a name for a little girl. When she is scared, she recites to herself the conjugation of olīva. Six for singular, six for plural; four sets of three. Olivia est sola: Olivia is alone.

They like Latin, their family. It is a regal language. Papa speaks it when he doesn’t want Auntie to hear. It is their language alone, her and Papa. It helps her remember him.

Little Olivia starts reciting the declensions very quietly behind her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t respond when Papa keeps telling her to run. This is her destiny: to die here by her own hand before they can use her.

Albus Dumbledore, standing in the doorway, staring at her. He is awful and cruel and demonic, horned and bloody and infantile. Her mind is shut to interlopers, but he is trying to get in, slamming bricks against her inner walls. As hard as she tries, she cannot get into his mind either.

He knows who you are, Papa tells her, almost sadly. Two dangers, and he is one. He knew me at school, he will know you. Auntie had nightmares for weeks after learning somebody else would be coming after them, locking herself in her bedroom to tear everything apart, screaming like a wounded banshee.

Where is the third danger? The world operates on principles of threes. There is another, lurking in the shadows, or there must be. Her hand in her lap begins to shake violently.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t find you in time.” Everyone else goes silent when he speaks, and she knows it cannot be one of hers because she has never heard this voice before. Soft, a bit like butter. Papa got butter once – real butter – and she couldn’t believe the taste. Butter, outside world, dangerous. Little Olivia starts rocking and crying while the other one chants repeatedly: coward, useless, disgusting, imbecile, deficient. Where did she learn those words? The tinge of Auntie’s voice in her own is awful.

The walls are still wet with fresh blood. She tries to press the knife into her skin but finds it unmoving. Albus Dumbledore tilts his head at her, like she is a dead animal. Somewhere in the house, a lone terrified scream. He does not react.

“He’ll be here in about three hours. If you don’t want him to find you, you need to come with me.”

Do not leave this house, Papa and Auntie shout in unison. She looks around for them, but she is alone with this man: Olivia est sola cum hōc virō.

Albus Dumbledore’s eyes flick to the knife. 'If I had a dollar' floats into her head. He is letting her pry. Her entire body is trembling. Down the hall, Toby starts laughing. Do not go towards him, Toby. Do not approach the man.

Eyes back to her. “He will kill you if he finds you. That’s why your grandfather worked so hard to protect you, right? Even from me.” His face is warped and distorted in her vision. Little Olivia takes a knife from her pocket and stabs herself in the chest, a quick and easy gesture. It is hard to look him in the eyes when she is bleeding out right beside her. Her grip on her mind starts to slacken. How do you know who I am?

“I have been looking for you for a long time.” Dumbledore responds to the thought, and Auntie begins to berate her for letting go. Foolish, stupid, idiotic, better off dead. “Olivia Gaunt.”

~*~

Gaunt, pallid, haggard, cadaverous. Royalty, skeletal fingers pointing to the next target. Bloodthirsty, vicious, unrelenting.

Papa did not hide his memory of being tortured on the floor, unseeing eyes falling back in their sockets as he sobbed and whimpered. Madness came with the name, insanity and terrible cruelty. It doesn’t matter what you call yourself: you’re still one with the blood.

Marvolo, Honora, Ominis. Emil, Eliane, Elysia. Olivia, Olivia, Olivia. One person, duplicated many times over, becoming more and more damaged than the last.

He left as soon as he could, Papa did. Fled to the countryside, buying a house with wards. Who knows from whom Emil and Eliane came from, and Elysia given as a gift from the heavens. Alone, in four walls, searing pain, unbearable. Broken, broken, broken. They’re all dead, gone, perished.

He would come for them, Papa told her. He of their blood, and that could not happen. He said everyone in their family line was in constant competition to be the last standing, and this boy would be no exception. This boy had a different name, and so did they, but like calls to like.

She has been waiting her whole life for him to find them.

~*~

No, she tells him, pushing the words from her mind as though ripping teeth from her gums. To her left, little Olivia has died. One of the other Olivias tries to drag her away out of sight. No, that is not me.

“Your grandfather asked me to come get you.”

Papa, missing, haunting this house, speaking to her now, do not listen to him, he is lying, there is still time to run, spend the rest of your life running if you have to, but do not be taken. The body in the kitchen smells like rot and iron and his clothes. Just because you don’t remember doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

No, he wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t sell me out like this. No, he was the kind one, and he always healed my bruises when Auntie hurt me. Was it her who sold me out? Would she abandon Toby and I to you and him? He is only three, and I have never cared for him. When he laughs down the hall, is he happy or scared? Could you ever teach him magic, could he ever understand?

“He sent me an owl. He knows you are in danger. He’s coming, Olivia Gaunt. You must come with me, now.”

What did she say to Auntie’s face when she got too close, when her hand grazed her thigh? No. no has never been an answer anybody listens to.

The walls are bleeding. I can’t leave them. Do you know how much blood I have left in this place?

Her mother died in this house. Look, there she is, giving birth on the floor in the kitchen, white skin and bloodless. There, watch the infant come out, silent at first, uncomprehending why her mother didn’t immediately lift her to her breast. Did anyone notice her on the floor, wanting some form of love and never receiving it?

Her mother broke the cardinal rule: do not leave the house. What father could ever know she existed? The walls make people do awful things. Why else then would Uncle and Auntie have a baby together, a sickly little thing who never should have lived at all? Why then does Auntie have fits of rage, and Uncle can only speak through hisses, and Toby laughs without understanding why, and she sees the world in such vivid, blinding colour?

“Olivia.” Close, too close. She scrabbles away, knife forgotten in her hand, consumed only with the terror of his face getting closer, the whisper of breath on her face. Auntie, telling her to shush so Papa wouldn’t hear from the other room. It’s okay, Olivia. Don’t tell anyone.

Maybe never being held as a newborn broke her, made her incapable of human affection. What is affection? Is it Auntie hitting her? A hurtful touch feels the same as a loving one, and both are disgusting.

“You are supposed to be dead. There are no remaining Gaunts besides him. Do you understand? He will torture and kill you.”

I’m already dead. She cannot speak, will never speak again. Has she seen the sun proper in years? The world outside is awful and unreal and non-existent. What is real is the body in the kitchen, the blood on the walls, Toby’s laughter.

“There is no body, Olivia. The walls are not bleeding. Your cousin is nowhere to be found.”

No, but that’s not true, is it? She can see the blood, can reach over and feel it on her fingers, sticky and warm and familiar. An Olivia bundles dead Little Olivia in a carpet and brings her to the kitchen to add to the pile of bodies to be burned next when the cold strikes again. Look, can’t you see it?

Auntie starts to scream, and it is wordless and blood-curdling. Dumbledore is standing over her, and she is about to die, heart racing in her chest, and he leans down to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze—

Hand on her shoulder, and she yanks away violently, crashing into the wall beside her. It is going too quickly and there is too much noise and she starts to yell inside her head, trying to quiet everyone down but it’s not enough, and there’s blood on her clothes and Toby starts to wail and it is so, so, so awful.

“Sleep.” Papa murmurs from within her, and so she obeys.

~*~

The Noble House of Gaunt: how far you have fallen.

~*~

“Do you know how foolish it was to hide from me?”

This isn’t English. It’s a hiss, low and vicious, like how Uncle used to speak. Never words, but always decipherable.

Slowly, she turns her head, skull pounding with her heartbeat. Everything hurts, and she can smell blood on her upper lip, but she doesn’t gag, doesn’t react.

He is standing over her. Gaunt, haunted. How else to describe him? Waxy skin, red eyes like a snake, dark hair. He doesn’t look like any of them, but why would he? He is separate, distinct. He did not live in that house, did not entwine like an awful plant, too close for comfort. There is no kinship, no feeling of blood recognizing blood. A stranger, through and through.

“Speak when I’m speaking to you.”

I can’t, she spits in her mind, feeling the pain in her thoughts. She’s alone here, no Auntie or Papa or little Olivia. It is just her and him.

Tom Riddle leans in closer, and there is something in his eyes, a controlled sort of hatred, that is so opposite to Auntie. It is horrifying. She strains a little against her bindings.

“You’re unstable, insane. Why would he be hiding you?” his breath suddenly smells like rot, and she retches in his face, taking a strange satisfaction in watching him flinch the tiniest amount. She tries to pry into his mind, but he smiles cruelly and shakes his head. “Oh no, don’t think that’s going to happen.” His gaze is calculated, disassembling her parts and dissecting her insides. “What do you know?”

~*~

What is real and what is not?

Papa used to play that game with her, sitting her down by the meagre fire as though they didn’t already spend all their time in that room. Was this before Toby? Before Uncle’s body was burned in this very fireplace? Papa tilted her chin up and asked her what she was seeing. She could speak, then.

She’d scan the room, fixate on a gaping wound in the wall, spitting blood. She could see the bone poking through. Papa held her shoulder steady, told her to really look at it. Could she reach out and touch it? Could she smell the blood? Did it have those strange shimmery edges like those other visions did?

She could not tell him the truth: yes, it’s real. Can you not see it? I think we will die in this house, and this is the house’s warning.

It was easiest to lie, staring at the gleaming white bone, and say “No, I can’t touch the blood. Yes, it is shimmering at the edges. It must not be real.”

All of it is real. All of it is real and raw and tangible, and she can reach out and coat her fingertips with the blood and press it to her skin and nobody would believe her. Nobody would ever believe her.

~*~

Toby, body warm against her chest, coos.

Auntie has smashed her head through the mirror, and Papa has gone to heal her. She is alone, holding the baby, and he is covered in blood. His blood or her blood? They have the same corrosive venom flowing through their veins anyway.

Does he know they are being hunted, that the only reason he is alive and breathing now is because their family is cursed and locked in a house and counting down the days until they are discovered and slaughtered like zoo animals? How old will he be when his throat is slit? It will not be magic: there is too much fun to be had in killing them the Muggle way.

Let him go, Auntie whispers in her ear. Drop him on the ground, dash that little head against the tile, and save him the trouble.

She reaches up to touch the weeping gash on his forehead, and her fingers come away bright crimson. Pure blood, she knows. He will live a miserable life, he will be deficient because of his upbringing, his heritage, and he will be a fool. Is that not perhaps merciful for him not to be aware of the hellscape in which he was raised?

She goes to set him down on the kitchen table and begins her ritual of threes, trying to rid herself of it all while the baby continues to coo.

~*~

Did she hex him? He, curled on his back, eyes wide and blank, no blood yet but she can feel the rot creeping in.

Something like a choked sob rises in her throat, swallowed down along with everything she will never say again. It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real

He was trying to kill her. She saw him coming. She defended herself. Little Olivia folds into her body and wails, maybe because he was kind to her. Was he? She was scared when he used to hiss at her, sometimes unintelligible sounds, and she dreamed he was a real snake strangling her in her sleep.

Auntie will find out. Papa starts cleaning up the body. The body, not Uncle. She curls her fists inward, tries to slow the stutter of her breath, but it continues to speed up. Useless rotten insane crazy unpredictable ungrateful intolerant little bitch. All of this is true. All of this is true, like the screaming of the walls.

She has killed one of the last purebloods of their house. No matter how Papa refuses to say the word, it permeates. They have to be pure, is that not part of why they are hiding, why they are so selective? When she was born, half-Asian and screaming, was it not clear that she was from outside the walls, not truly pure? Did Auntie not take a knife to her chubby baby thigh to see how red her blood was?

She has committed the cardinal sin, and for that, her punishment is to never speak again.

~*~

“Pathetic.”

Something slams into her cheek, knocking her face to the side. Eyes watering, seeing the blurry image of him standing over her.

“Have you always been this useless?” His voice is low, this time in English. He sounds like Papa, the same commanding tone he used to take when Auntie misbehaved. “You know nothing. Or perhaps, you think you know nothing.”

Kill me, she tells him, even though every letter she forms sends a shockwave of excruciating pain through her temple.

“No. You may be useful yet.” He turns on his heel, starts to leave, but pauses by the door. She watches him, his gait. Everything about him screams Noble House of Gaunt, its righteous heir. Except, he is impure, and so is she. There is no purity left to them. If they slit their throats together, their blood would pool and mix on the floor beneath them, and it would be the same tainted mahogany. neither of them belong.

I don’t know what you want, or even who you are.

Something like a smirk crosses his face when he turns back to look at her. “I don’t need you to, to get what I want.”

~*~

Did Dumbledore ever come to the house? Did he find her on the floor, about to slit her throat, and save her? The blood on the walls is more real than any of this. Where is Auntie, Toby? Did Papa really abandon her in that house? What is real anymore? In her memory, it all becomes shiny and blurred.

None of this makes sense. None of this makes sense.

Ominis Gaunt became Orin Gleaves. Her initials are the same as his. A curse on her head, generational and damning. Did he actually love her, or was that wishful thinking?

Olivia Gleaves is a broken, useless piece of machinery, and this is her fate: to be used and discarded at the hands of someone who knows exactly how worthless she really is.

~*~

Time spent awake is fitful. It is hot, and sweaty, and there are hands pressing against her face, lifting her up, eyelids forced open. She can feel him going through her mind, combing through her memories, searching for… something.

Blood has dried on her face, and when she reaches up to lick a part of her lip, it comes away crusted and metallic. It tastes unpure. Auntie, wherever she is, would force her to keep drinking that blood, just so she knows how disgusting it is to be so unpure. Except, nobody else is here. There is no sound: she has been abandoned.

What is time, here? She doesn’t speak and cannot think. All that exists is the bland food shoved into her mouth, mechanical chewing, and the memory probing.

Is it strange that he reminds her so much of Auntie, even though that’s the one he’s not actually related to? Auntie, Elysia Gaunt, somehow more noble than the rest of them. Where is she now? She would rather Auntie shove her head into a wall again back home, because at least she knew deep down, hidden among the briars and thorns, there was an element of love. None of them knew how to show it, certainly, but she knew it was there. There is no love here.

Why hasn’t she died yet? Perhaps there is something worth salvaging from the smoldering ruins of her body, her mind, her soul.

~*~

Olīva, latin, means olive or olive tree

Olīva Olīvae

Olīvae Olīvārum

Olīvae Olīvīs

Olīvam Olīvās

Olīvā Olīvīs

Olīva Olīvae

Three, three, three, three.

Keep remembering, keep remembering, keep remembering.

~*~

Cool hands press against her forehead.

“Lift up.”

She has long since stopped resisting the feeling of skin against her skin, but it crawls nonetheless. It has been so long since one of hers spoke to her. Papa, Auntie, little Olivia? Will you come back and keep me company for just a while longer? I’m sorry I hated you so much when you were here. Now, I think I need you. I am very lonely here, and despite it all, I love you.

“Are you okay?” This is soft, and distinctly human. From the eye that isn’t swollen shut, she looks.

Blonde hair, light against the darkness of the room. Out of place, out of time, something murmurs in the back of her head, a voice she hasn’t heard before. Light hair, light skin, light touch. This girl seems built of threes, like destiny itself.

“I have water for you. Quickly.” A glass pressed to her lips, and she is much too exhausted and broken to protest, drinking fast even as the blood in her mouth makes it all taste awful.

“They’re coming for you. He’s sending people to rescue you, soon. Just do what you’ve been doing, okay? Don’t let on that you know, or he’ll know.” Hair brushed from her damp, clammy forehead. It feels real, solid, in such contrast to the floaty world she has existed in for however long now. “Okay? You’re going to survive this, I know it.” She starts to leave, and she is like the breeze Olivia saw once when Papa opened a window for the first time, feeling it against her skin and feeling alive. That was real, and the blood wasn’t, for just a brief time.

Wait, she thinks desperately. Why are you doing this?

The girl turns. Her eyes, big and blue and shining, are as real as the blood on the walls.

“Because I know better than to be on the wrong side of the future.”

Chapter Text

June 1979, Part 1

Alice already has a plan when she knocks on the door of Emma Vanity’s flat.

She’s lined up the timing just so. The owl came in yesterday evening, scrawled in a pretty cursive hand. There’s no signature, but Alice has a guess as to who it was from. Months after speaking with Andromeda, there was no word. Now, the time has come.

Hopefully, Andromeda won’t find out what she’s about to do.

Hestia Jones opens the door, hair plaited back and a pair of thick, dark glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her eyebrows rise when she sees Alice. “Oh, hi Alice.”

Alice smiles. Hestia, the little first year who trailed Alice the prefect like a little duckling, the same way Alice followed Ted Tonks. Even though she doesn’t know the kid super well, the tradition of the young looking to the old has always held a soft spot for her. “Hi, Hestia. Is Emma here?”

Hestia glances back into the hall and back to Alice. “Not really a good time, I think.”

“I already know.” There’s little time for tact or secrecy, not when her fingers are tingling with anticipation. “I’m going with her.”

Hestia’s eyes narrow slightly. “Are you going to look out for her?”

A lump forms in Alice’s throat, she swallows it down and nods. Hestia, appraising, swings the door open wider for her.

Emma’s in the closest bedroom down the hall, her back to the door as she cleans scraps of paper from her desk and bed. Alice leans against the doorframe.

“When are you leaving?”

Emma startles, spinning around, eyes wide and dark. There is an oddly guilty expression on her face, which Alice assumes is just from being caught. “What do you mean?”

Alice nods to the pile on the floor, where Emma’s leather jacket, her dagger, and her wand are laying. “That’s a to-go pile, right? Dumbledore said you’d need to be there for the evening, cause the night shift is easier to bypass?”

Emma’s eyes dart to the pile, then back to Alice. “How do you—”

Alice holds up a hand. “No time. We have to head out. The wards will only be unblocked for a limited amount of time, if we miss that window, we’re fucked.” She hopes her eyes are conveying everything she needs Emma to know: I’m not letting you go alone. I have my reasons for going too. We survived the botched raid together; we will survive this together too.

Slowly, Emma nods. “Okay. Let me get my things in order and we’ll go.”

~*~

“I’ve been to Malfoy Manor before.” Emma says, fidgeting with her sleeve, staring down at the map Dumbledore gave her of the area. When Alice glances at her, she adds quickly, “Pureblood shit, I guess. My parents were never into that kind of stuff, but they got invited anyway for a while.”

“Do we know where this… person would be?”

Emma shakes her head. “He gave me virtually no information. Just ‘there’s a woman being held hostage in Malfoy Manor, she’s a valuable informant, we have to get her out’. He told me about the wards, too, but not much else.”

Alice drums her fingers on the kitchen counter and spares a glance at the clock. Quarter to nine. They have to head out soon. Her heart thrums in her chest, a familiar pattern: Narcissa, Narcissa, Narcissa.

She doesn’t know if she’ll be there—no, she has to be there. She’s a Malfoy now, right? Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, king and queen of the castle, living together in their mansion. Like Andromeda, though, changing your last name doesn’t negate who you are. Narcissa will be there, watching and planning.

Emma seems just as anxious as Alice feels, interestingly. Even while they fled the Death Eaters, Emma had the barest hints of an arrogant smirk, as though she knew without a doubt that they would win. Here, though, it’s as though she’s seen a ghost. Maybe she too has a history with Malfoy Manor.

“Are you okay?” Alice murmurs, keeping her voice low even though Emma’s flatmates have already left.

Emma says nothing, tracing the outline of Malfoy Manor with her index finger. Quiet, barely loud enough for Alice to hear: “I’m worried she’ll be there.”

“Who will be there, Emma?”

It’s as though Emma completely shuts down in this moment, eyes blank, face closed. Mechanically, she lifts her head. “We should go.”

What can Alice do? It’s not as though she’s going to talk about her own personal demon right now. There is a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it takes every part of her body not to break down at the sheer prospect of seeing her again.

~*~

Alice Fortescue meets Narcissa Black in third year.

Alice feels strange and wonky, disproportionate body and thighs, rolls on her stomach and boobs. This is an awful development, especially because her – bless his heart, well-meaning – father has no real idea how to go about getting his teenage daughter a proper bra. She kissed her friend Frank that summer, slightly tipsy off a bottle of tequila Alice had stolen from the Potters, and he’d said she looked as beautiful as the sunset. They haven’t really spoken about it since, and Alice’s stomach goes topsy-turvy when she thinks about it. All in all, it is easiest to try and ignore everything, and who else presents a better challenge to sink your teeth into than the baby sister of the Blacks?

Maybe it starts even before Potions class, when they’re placed together for an assignment. Maybe it starts when Alice is a first year, and she sees fourth-year Bellatrix Black in the halls, and Bellatrix trips her and laughs when Alice’s textbooks go flying in all directions. Maybe it starts with Andromeda Black, when Alice is in second year, her eyes cold and calculating, breaking Ted Tonks’ heart. Maybe Alice’s eyes always get drawn back to Narcissa Black: the odd duckling of the family. Dark blonde hair, dark eyes that shimmered with colour in the light, fragile and pointed features. She looked like expensive china, beautiful and utterly breakable.

Is it curiosity, then, that pushes Alice to be nice to this girl? Her sisters certainly didn’t earn her kindness, certainly not that Bellatrix Black, but Narcissa felt much more in danger of shattering. Alice, who has only ever been the glue in her relationships, thinks she can save her.

At the time, she doesn’t really realize any of this, any of her desire to reach across the aisle and help that beautiful girl. Deep inside, it’s a tug in her stomach, a pull to get closer to Narcissa Black. It doesn’t feel scary, surprisingly; it feels meant to be.

Narcissa isn’t mean. That’s the shocking bit. She doesn’t seem to have the propensity for violence like Bellatrix, the propensity for cruelty like Andromeda. Narcissa says a lot through careful glances, pursed lips, never quite words that she can be caught for. She is strangely polite, though removed, but her eyes trail Alice’s hands as they work together, Alice talking through the silence louder and louder to try and mask the desperate beat of her heart.

Would it have stopped there, in that potions class in 1969, after Narcissa intervened to make sure Alice didn’t botch the potion and they both managed to get an Outstanding? No, it could never have ended there, not with the lingering look of strange, fascinated curiosity that Narcissa gave Alice from the desk as Alice left, head cocked, features slightly fuzzy looking – though, that may have just been the dim lighting of the dungeons, but Alice cannot get that image out of her head, no matter how hard she tries.

~*~

Malfoy Manor is in Wiltshire, England, on the outskirts of a Muggle village. According to the informant – Pandora, again, secrecy is irrelevant here – the wards around the back of the house are off for an hour. This is their window: get in, get the girl, and get out, all in sixty minutes.

From where they stand, up on a hill, the Manor distant but tangible before them, Alice slips her hand into Emma’s and holds on.

According to Emma, the most likely place to keep this girl is down in the cellar. Scratching at the back of her neck, digging loose strands of her thick dark hair from its ponytail, she said she’d been down there once before, with a friend. The pained look that flashes across her face is enough to break Alice’s heart just a little for this girl she barely knows but somehow loves in spite of her unknowing.

Part of her wants to tell Emma to run, to go back home to her friends, to let Alice take care of this. It is that strange instinct in her body, telling her to protect the young ones. Technically, Alice is still young. She’s only twenty-four, but in a war, that is old enough to stand in front of these teenagers, shield their bodies with hers, and refuse to let them die in her stead.

“Emma?”

Emma stays facing forward, looking at the house. In the moonlight, Alice can trace her profile, everything in her face so strong and yet so scared. “No. Don’t ask me to leave, Alice. We’re doing this, together.”

“Okay.”

Down the rabbit hole they go.

~*~

Narcissa is in the library when Alice spots her. Merlin, her posture is fantastic. She looks like she could be sitting on a throne, were it not for the piles of scrolls on the desk around her.

“Psst,” Alice hisses as she approaches. For her credit, Narcissa doesn’t startle, just glances back halfway, eyes shifting and eyebrows arched. Alice is constantly amazed by the mask Narcissa seems to wear, like no real emotion crosses her face. She decides right there and then that she will be the first to get a proper reaction out of Narcissa Black.

Alice brandishes the book, unable to prevent the grin that splits her face ear-to-ear. She’d managed to find a pretty copy at the muggle bookstores off of Diagon Alley that summer and successfully smuggled it out without anyone noticing. Honestly, she was going to keep it for herself back home, but she’d packed it with her with a feeling it would be useful.

Narcissa slowly takes the book, her long and carefully pointed nails against the soft teal foiling. “Alice in Wonderland?” Her voice is even, and her gaze confused when she looks up at Alice. “Isn’t this a Muggle kids’ book?”

Alice nods. “It’s my namesake. My dad named me after her. It’s my favourite book, and I want you to have it.”

She watches Narcissa’s eyes dart across the library, where people are starting to watch, perplexed by the odd combo of wizarding princess Narcissa Black entertaining conversation with plucky Hufflepuff Alice Fortescue. Back to Alice, waiting with hope in her chest.

Narcissa stands suddenly, and when she looks down at Alice from the extra few centimeters she has over her, there is a deliberate coldness in her face. “Don’t ever offer me Mudblood trash again.”

Somebody gasps, and mutters explode. Narcissa is still looking down at Alice, and her eyes shift to an ice blue colour that startles Alice, especially because they seem to soften, as though conveying some sort of message. Then, Narcissa is gathering her things in one fell swoop and striding out of the library, hair swinging behind her while people watch.

Alice, stunned, comes up with two facts. One, Narcissa normally has very dark eyes, and two, Narcissa definitely left with the book.

Which must mean something, right?

~*~

They move quietly and quickly. Emma slides the back window open, helps hoist Alice up and through it, following behind. It’s a bedroom that they land in, and Alice instantly hates it. “It’s so dark,” she hisses to Emma, dusting herself off behind her, and she gives a half-
shrug as though to say, “purebloods are fucking crazy”.

This place already gives her the creeps. The pit in Alice’s stomach grows more and more insistent. This is not good, get out. It almost doesn’t matter right now, to save this unknown informant. What matters is Narcissa.

Alice hates the part of herself that takes over when Narcissa Black is involved, all-consuming and burning, like a flame has caught in her chest. It hurts; a constant burn wound over her heart. The person she becomes is something she hates.

“This is the east wing.” Emma says, peering through the keyhole. “We need to get to the center and down. Follow me.”

“I’ve got you.” Alice responds.

Wands at the ready, they move down the halls. Emma’s shoulders are stiff, jaw tense. Alice’s heart hurts. Every step has the potential to give them away, every breath able to be heard. They need to go, go, go—

“Oh, now isn’t this interesting?”

Alice knows it from Emma’s body seizing to a stop. She hasn’t seen it yet, just behind the corner, but Emma, staring down the hallway, has.

“Emma Vanity, gallivanting around like she owns the place… except, she’s not a little girl anymore. She can’t get away with it now, especially not without her partner.” The voice is low, soft, slightly accented – Slavic, maybe? – with a mocking lilt.

Slowly, Emma’s hand moves behind her back, pointing. Go, it says, go get her. Leave me here.

“Juliette.” Her voice quavers just slightly, and she sounds like a little girl. “Your parents are still looking for you.”

“Hm. That’s cute. I’m afraid they’ll have to keep waiting for answers.”

Emma’s hand gets more frantic. Alice can’t bring herself to move, paralyzed by the decision. Last time, they got split up from Dorcas and Marlene, and Alice spent weeks in total distress, believing they’d died.

“They think you’re dead, buried under a hill or some shit.” Emma’s tone is pointed. “You couldn’t even take an hour out of your time to tell them you’re alive?”

One hour, at the hill where they started the mission. Alice’s heartrate speeds up, if that’s even possible.

“You’re dicked in the brain, you are, Emma Vanity. You don’t seem to understand the point of going ‘off the grid.’” The voice gets closer. Alice, without another thought, slips down the hall, moving as fast as she can, realizing absently that warm tears are running down her cheeks, for reasons she can’t quite explain. She thinks of Emma’s profile in the moonlight and holds it in her memory. It will be fine. They will both get out and they will be okay.

~*~

Alice is more than a little lost.

What time is it? Every corridor looks the same, a labyrinth of stupid ornate furniture and high vaulted ceilings. She hates it here, hates the décor choices especially. Seriously, for such pale people, the Malfoys really seem to like dark Gothic colours.

“I think you’ve made a mistake.”

Her. It’s her. Fuck shit bitch cock sucking—

Alice swallows.

“If you move, I will not hesitate to hurt you.” The wand tip jabs into the small of her back, the vulnerable spot that she once pressed her lips to so sweetly.

“What, are you going to crucio me?” Alice snarls, keeping her voice low still. The wand tip moves back from her body slightly in recoil, and despite it, Alice smiles to herself. Point one, Fortescue.

“You are trespassing. I would be well within my right to do whatever I wish, in the name of self-defence.”

“Oh, but there’s no daddy here to tell you to use an unforgivable! You wouldn’t have the strength without him.”

“You underestimate me, Fortescue. That’ll be your mistake.”

“I know perfectly what you’re capable of, Black. Or, should I say Malfoy? I bet your prissy control-freak of a husband wouldn’t like you doing something without his knowledge. Imagine how emasculated he’ll feel when he finds out you tortured me and left my body out to hang outside the front door. I think his non-existent dick will just shrivel up and die, which is probably merciful. Put that thing out of its misery, already. Is it fun to fuck that tiny little—”

“Shut it.” Narcissa snaps in her ear, breath hot, and Alice’s lips fuse together. That’s when she hears the footsteps. Her eyes widen, and she tries to glance back but Narcissa keeps her head firmly in place. Before she knows what is happening, Narcissa is bodily shoving her into a bedroom, shutting the door behind her while Alice careens onto the floor, eyes screaming at Narcissa to remove the hex.

One beat, two. The footsteps fade away. Narcissa turns back, arms folded, mask firmly in place over her features. Her eyes, dark and narrowed, are unfamiliar, and her pale blonde hair lies pin straight down her shoulders.

“You stupid son of a bitch. What do you think you’re doing?” Deadly calm, the quiet before the storm.

Alice, from the tile, glowers at her.

Narcissa rolls her eyes and casts the spell wordlessly. Finally, words spring back to Alice’s tongue.

“Too scared to hex me?”

“I’m saving your life.” Narcissa snarls, keeping her ear against the door. “Stay quiet.”

“You’ve always been good at that, haven’t you? Quiet, prim, proper Narcissa Black. Imagine how pissed your Dark Lord would be if he learned you were harbouring an enemy in your house.”

Narcissa shoots her a deadly look, as cold and distant as she could possibly be. From those eyes, it is hard to remember the look of kindness she once gave Alice. “Shut the fuck up.” Every syllable is articulated, careful and deadly. Right, Narcissa is technically on the side of the bad guys. But Alice knows her too well, knows she would never quite strike.

“Tell me, is he holding you hostage? Do you have the mark?” Alice makes to grab Narcissa’s forearm, which she snatches away with pure disgust on her face, holding it aloft with the strangest sneer. “I can get you out of here.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Narcissa spits, and in a second, she becomes all Bellatrix, cruel smile and narrowed eyes. Bellatrix, one of Narcissa’s true parents. In her fits of fury, she transforms into either of her sisters, never quite herself. Narcissa spends a lot of time imitating people, and it shows.

~*~

Narcissa Black is holding her face so tenderly in the room Alice never knew existed; a plush room with red and green, and they are falling backwards against the bed while Narcissa kisses her lips, and she tastes like cinnamon, oddly enough. Alice once thought she’d taste like flowers, like the soft scent you get in spring, travelling on the air, floral and gentle and relieving.

Narcissa, somehow, is real: spiced and strong, teeth biting down on Alice’s lower lip, somehow more visceral and intense than Alice could ever have imagined. Certainly, her grip is kind – incredibly perplexing, given who she is, and Alice categorizes this fact away to be scrutinized later – but she inhales Alice’s breath with a desperate ferocity that suggests a need to be loved, a need to be reciprocated. Alice is more than happy to provide.

Before Frank, Alice has never kissed anybody before. That this is a girl, nevermind that the girl is Narcissa Black, feels irrelevant. Why would she be ashamed in this very moment, when she is being held and loved like she is the sun itself? She’s never quite understood the whole hating-gay-people thing, and though this presents an interesting question in her brain, that is one to think about later. Right now, her skin is tingling with the proximity of Narcissa’s body, the undone top button on her blouse, the milk-white skin peeking out, inviting and attracting.

Does it matter how they got here? Alice doesn’t even know where they are; Narcissa had grabbed her hand in the corridor, her fingers soft and well-moisturized (an extreme plus for Alice Fortescue, whose hands are chronically dry and cracked), yanking her across the halls with the promise of privacy, smiling that strange little smile Alice had only seen very rarely, the smile that broke through the mask and seemed to light up Narcissa’s whole face in a way that was very beautiful. Alice feels as though she has been chosen by royalty, by the secretly kind and loving princess who falls in love with a commoner despite her parents’ wants.

“I read your Alice in Wonderland,” Narcissa says breathily into the corner of Alice’s lips, hot and panting. “I prefer you to that other Alice.”

Alice laughs, with whatever control over her body she still has left, and trails her fingers down Narcissa’s bra strap, the fabric foreign and tantalizing to her. “Daffodil.” She murmurs into Narcissa’s shoulder, cheek brushing the soft, unblemished skin. God, she is like a nymph, a perfect creature, and yet in this brief moment of life, Narcissa Black is hers, somehow.

When Narcissa pulls back, her face has shifted. Those ice blue eyes aren’t threatening; they’re real. Her face is softer, less pointed, her hair silvery, like pure strings of light. There is a mole on her cheekbone, and it is finally right, Narcissa’s face, that Alice cannot help bringing her thumb to brush against it, revelling in how correct it looks there, like her mask has been missing a crucial element.

“This is me.” Narcissa’s voice is barely a whisper, but it is soft and vulnerable and scared. Alice laughs, maybe at the sheer shock of it all, and leans in to kiss Narcissa’s mole, feeling her pale eyelashes brushing against her face. Narcissa Black, a real human being, and Alice almost prefers her that way, somehow, because Alice gets to kiss her and fondle her breast and intertwine her fingers with hers, and it is almost revolutionary.

~*~

Alice Longbottom and Narcissa Malfoy stare at each other in the bedroom: Alice as real as she knows how to be but guarded and slightly bitter, and Narcissa hiding behind her mask of imperviousness and cruelty but deathly afraid.

“I can get you out.” Alice repeats, stupidly, because she never knows quite how to act right around Narcissa Black.

Narcissa’s eyes land on her ring finger. “You’re married.”

“So are you.”

“Then I think we’ve made our choices, haven’t we?”

Alice cannot express the shaking in her knees, the want in her fingertips. “Narcissa, please. This isn’t you—”

“What isn’t me? The luxury? The power? The control? Tell me what exactly ‘isn’t me’ in this situation, Alice.”

“You’re not you here.”

Narcissa’s eyes shift, just a millisecond, but Alice sees it. “What makes you think I’m not ‘me’ here?”

Alice gestures rather dickishly at Narcissa’s pale blonde hair, her sharp features, her expressionless black eyes. “Come on, Narcissa, you can’t even let go of the mask in your own house!”

There it is: the rage in her eyes, all Black fury and arrogance barely hidden behind a face that isn’t hers. “Who are you to tell me who I am in my own house?”

“You’re going to die!” Alice screams, despite herself, ignoring the pure panic that arises in Narcissa’s face as she checks frantically at the door. “My side will kill you and they will never know that you don’t really agree with your side because you never switched!”

Narcissa is holding her wand to Alice’s throat, and if she swallows, she can feel it, because Narcissa has always been a part of her, living inside her heart, and so of course they both hate her.

“How do you know I don’t agree with them, Alice Longbottom?”

~*~

They are in the room that doesn’t exist. This is theirs, only theirs; Narcissa says nobody else would be clever enough to get in. Alice is too enraptured today by Narcissa’s earlobe, the silver hoop hanging from the soft flesh, to give any response besides a slurred affirmation.

If she were a less sentimental person, less desperate for love, maybe Alice wouldn’t have picked out a ring, roaming around muggle jewelry shops over the summer until she found the one: silver, thin band, a pointed moonstone in the center. It reminded her of Narcissa’s eyes, the sharpness and the gleam, the shifting colours. Alice is only fifteen, but she thinks if she does not propose to Narcissa Black one day (hopefully when people stop hating gay people), she might die.

Narcissa is in a mood; this has been happening a lot more lately. As far as Alice can weasel out information, it seems Andromeda has become testier at home. This cannot be the whole answer, but Narcissa tends to fly off in a rage when Alice inquires. The only way to really calm her is to suck the anger out, both literally and metaphorically. Alice has gotten quite good at both, if she does say so herself.

Alice watches her shift back, features morphing back into something resembling herself again. Metamorphagi, they call it, the ability to change physical appearance. Narcissa speaks about it only in hushed tones, as though someone is listening. It is shameful, such a power, because it implies an unreliability in the person. Alice gets the sense Narcissa gets enough scrutiny back home without the shape-changing thing.

She isn’t quite sure how to proceed today, which steps are hidden landmines. It’s hard to tell with Narcissa Black. She can be hot and cold, passionate and loving one moment, frigid and cruel the next. For Alice, who has spent years of her life petrified that her very limited group of friends would suddenly abandon her and leave her alone like she was as a kid, this switch is often jarring and absolutely petrifying.

“Are you okay?” Alice asks, teetering on one foot, watching Narcissa slump back into the king-sized bed the room provides them with. Here, away from the prying eyes, Narcissa becomes a regular teenager; sullen and angry, and it is always strange to watch her transformation from something alien to something so familiar.

“My mother has announced my marriage to Corban Yaxley when I graduate,” comes the toneless voice, Narcissa, laying on her back with a scowl.

Alice thinks of the ring suddenly and feels the thought shatter into a million pieces. “Oh.”

“Don’t act like you know what that means, Alice.”

“I’m trying to be supportive.”

“Well, don’t.”

Alice rolls her eyes, glances at the mirror on the vanity across from the bed, staring at the tip of Narcissa’s nose in the reflection. “What do you want me to do, then?”

“Leave.”

Alice swallows down the hurt but doesn’t leave. Gently and slowly, she goes to sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at Narcissa’s face, hesitant fingers reaching to trace the furrowed line of Narcissa’s eyebrows. Slowly, the line starts to ease.

“Alice?”

“Mmhmm?” Alice lays down, facing Narcissa nose to nose, trying to analyze all the flecks of gold in Narcissa’s ice blue eyes.

“I would marry you.”

Alice snorts. “No, you wouldn’t.” Her hand brushes against a strand of Narcissa’s hair, soft like silk.

“You don’t believe me?” Earnest, quiet, almost believable.

Alice tucks the hair behind Narcissa’s ear. “My darling, I would marry you, but you wouldn’t marry me.”

Narcissa’s eyes dart down and away, as though ashamed. “In an ideal world,” this is whispered, halting, as though somebody is listening. “I would marry Lucius Malfoy and live in a big house with my sisters, and you would be there too. We would be happy together, and safe.”

It’s hard to process the unpleasant feeling that burns through Alice’s chest, and she suddenly swings herself up and onto her feet. “I have an essay due for charms.” She mumbles, heart pounding fast and tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She can hear Narcissa protesting, probably confused, behind her, but Alice doesn’t look back.

~*~

“How do I know you don’t agree with them? You haven’t killed or tortured me yet.” Alice stares deep into Narcissa’s eyes, trying to go deeper, trying to find the Narcissa she used to know, that she is certain is still in there somewhere.

Narcissa swallows. Slowly, finally, she lowers her arm, face a mix of complicated emotions. It is fascinating how expressive she can be, when she allows herself to be. Finally, a sneer curves her lips. “So, Longbottom. A blood-traitor and an idiot.”

Smoke rises in Alice’s chest. “Oh, and you’re one to talk. Does Lucius spend most of his time combing his hair to look pretty for his dark lord instead of taking care of his wife?”

Narcissa’s chin tilts up loftily. “I don’t need him to take care of me. He’s busy creating our new world.”

“Right, the new world that’s going to kill your brother-in-law and niece. Got it.”

It is as though all the breath has been sucked from the air. Alice realizes her mistake far too late. But, what else can wound a Black like a mention of a sibling?

“A niece…?” Narcissa whispers, eyes wide and blue and young. There is a sense of wonder that cannot be hidden, a wonder only ever attributed to Bellatrix or Andromeda Black; the two people Narcissa loves most in this world.

Alice nods, thinking quickly to spin this, to keep this Narcissa at the forefront so she won’t slip away again. “A niece. She’s six years old, and a Metamorphmagus. Like her aunt.” Narcissa’s eyes begin to well uncontrollably, and Alice continues. “They live together, far from the wizarding world, and they are happy. Narcissa, if he finds out, he will kill them. Do you understand how useful you are as a Black to them? Imagine him taking Andromeda, killing her husband and daughter – your niece. If you stay here, you will be complicit. Do you understand me?”

Narcissa is still just staring at her, mouth slightly agape, and Alice is praying that this has broken through the ice, that Narcissa Malfoy will become Narcissa Black again and come home. She takes a step forward. “Narcissa, I can protect you if you come back. That is my solemn promise to you. You will be safe, we will find you a place away from all of this. We will fight the war, nobody would pit you against your family. You can see Andromeda again, you can meet your niece.” Another step. “We can be together again. You and me.”

Narcissa’s eyes drift to hers. “And Frank?” She asks, voice frigid.

The spell snaps.

~*~

“Is it true?”

Narcissa lifts her dark eyes up to meet Alice’s in the Charms classroom from her textbook, and then glances at her fellow Slytherins, back to Alice. Alice refuses to back down, to even give an inch. Her hands are balled into fists at her side. The emotion that courses through her body right now is overwhelming and overpowering any amount of love she could hold. Though, maybe it is the love that fuels the anger. It is hard to tell with Narcissa Black what comes first, the love or the hate, the chicken or the egg.

In one deliberate motion, Narcissa moves her hand from the book, propping her elbow up on the desk, and extending her fingers to show the gold band and diamond on her ring finger.

Alice has never been shot before, but this must be how it feels: the pause of ignorance, not realizing the bullet has entered, and then the recoil, the plummet downwards, still watching your attacker.

Narcissa is smiling smugly, but her eyes seem unconvinced, shifting rapidly as though she cannot decide what she is feeling. Alice doesn’t care. Alice doesn’t care about any of it. Alice moves mechanically back to her seat next to Georgia, Alice doesn’t respond when Georgia asks if she’s okay, or when she starts grumbling about those stupid pureblood marriage conventions. Alice just sits and stares, and tries not to feel her entire world collapsing under her feet.

It is after class, as Alice is walking back to her dorm, that a hand snakes around her elbow and yanks. She follows, soul first, body trailing uselessly behind her like a corpse she is lugging around.

“Alice. Alice, please, listen to me.”

Alice lifts her dead eyes to Narcissa’s ice blue ones. Not mine, she thinks, angrily. With the bile in her mouth, glancing around their impossible room, what she says next is strange and alien. “What happened to Corban Yaxley, then?”

Narcissa lets go of Alice’s forearms, stepping back a little. Her eyes dart up, away. “Dromeda left.” The way she says those words, like a little girl, sad and confused, should break Alice’s heart. It doesn’t. She just folds her arms and gives a little nod, to tell Narcissa to get on with her explanation.

“Lucius is… he is the most beneficial option. The Malfoys and the Blacks must be solidified in their alliance—”

“Bullshit. You asked to marry him once Andromeda was out of the way. Huh?” Alice leans in, taunting, provoking. “You saw your chance and you took it, right? You wanted to be Narcissa Malfoy.”

Narcissa’s cheeks flush, but she says nothing. Not denying it.

Alice laughs, and it feels like acid in her throat, like razorblades sawing through the flesh of her body. Narcissa is looking at her, and it is so strange, like those blue eyes and the gleaming ring on her finger should not belong to the same person. “Do you love him?”

Narcissa clenches her jaw shut, and it ticks. Finally, she nods.

“Right.” Alice glances away, anywhere, anywhere she can look that isn’t at Narcissa Black. “You know, this is low, even for you.”

“What is low about this, exactly?” Narcissa leans forward, that glint in her eye. “I am securing my future. I’m giving myself a future. What are you doing, Alice?”

“A future in a world where muggles and muggleborns are exterminated?” Alice hates the blip in Narcissa’s face, as though she is shocked she is being called out. Narcissa, the Black Princess, used to never being challenged. Well, Princess, meet Alice Fortescue. “Have you forgotten that bit, sweetie? Your fiancé wants to kill them, to ‘cleanse’ the wizarding world. Are you just okay with that, securing your future on the backs of innocent lives?”

She can see the visible strain in Narcissa’s jaw, the clenched teeth. “They don’t deserve magic. They aren’t as powerful or as worthy as we are.”

“You don’t believe that.” Something pathetic takes control of Alice’s body, steers her to throw herself onto her knees in front of Narcissa, as though she is begging. “I know that’s what he says, or your family, but you don’t believe that, Narcissa. You’re not like that.”

Narcissa glares down into her face. “They are pathetic scum, and we are well within our rights to eradicate them.”

“Arghhh!” screams Alice, yanking herself up and slamming her hand into the vanity behind her, cracking the mirror. “Merlin, Narcissa, can you hear yourself right now? This isn’t right!”

“If you stand with them, we will kill you too.”

Alice, slowly, looks back. Narcissa Black, defiant, proud, cruel.

“I’ve never used an unforgivable on somebody. Have you?”

The flash of anger that crosses Narcissa’s face, launching her up and into Alice’s face is an image she’ll never forget. Hot breath, crazed blue eyes, snarling mouth. “You are a fool, Alice Fortescue. I hope that you die for those stupid mudbloods. You could be so much smarter than this. You could be on the right side of history.”

Alice shakes her head, deadly focused on Narcissa. “If that side is yours, then I hope we all die before that ever happens.”

A beat. The two stare at each other. Then, Narcissa, tossing her hair into Alice’s face, storms out of the room.

Alice just stays there, with a broken hand and a broken heart.

~*~

Later, she’ll go to Frank, down by the greenhouses. He’ll see her coming and know something is wrong, from the way her hand hangs loosely by her side and her blank, emotionless face. He’ll try and talk to her, but she’ll say nothing, just collapse into his arms and cry bitter, incomprehensible tears. Later, he’ll walk her to the hospital wing and sit with her while Madam Pomfrey mends the bones. Then, when he walks her back to the Hufflepuff dorm, she’ll reach up to kiss him, impossibly, and he’ll gently but firmly shut her down, because she is not okay right now, and she will nod absently, but it will be the start of their future.

Later, Narcissa will go back to the Slytherin dorm, and she’ll look at the family photo of her and her sisters for a while, trying to memorize Andromeda’s face. When that fails, she’ll go to the mirror, and she’ll make her hair pale blonde, like Lucius’, and shift her eyes back to that dark brown colour. She’ll make sure her mask is still intact, nothing of herself remaining: now she is all Rosier, all Black, all Malfoy.

They don’t speak again for seven years.

~*~

Narcissa Malfoy shakes her head, as though she is amused. “No, I don’t want to join your side, Alice Longbottom. You made your choice and so did I. Dromeda—” A pained swallow. “Andromeda made her choice too. It was the wrong choice. I am happy here, and I am satisfied with the future of our cause. Only for old times’ sake will I let you go tonight, but if I ever see you again, I promise I will kill you.”

Alice looks at her, and somehow, she still sees little Narcissa Black in this woman, looking at her from the Potions classroom with curiosity and those shifting eyes. She is giving her an out, and time is running out for the girl, and Alice has a duty.

Hand on the doorknob, Alice pauses. “Make me a promise.”

She could be cruel, merlin knows she has the ability for it. And she owes Alice nothing anymore, their ties are severed. But Narcissa responds, “Anything.”

Alice looks back, trying to remember Narcissa Black, even though this one isn’t hers, cannot be hers; not with the hair or the face or the ring, but the eyes, the reminder of her Narcissa hiding in the eyes, that’s why it is so important she hides them under the mask. “Don’t ever use an Unforgivable against me. Not ever. Not like Sirius and his brother. Promise me that.”

Narcissa swallows a lump in her throat. “I promise.”

Alice completes the image in her head, opens the door, then turns away, shutting it gently behind her.

~*~

She finds the cellar quickly, though time doesn’t appear to be moving right. Alice is on autopilot, moving without thinking, still stuck in the moment, still stuck looking at Narcissa Black. No, Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa Black doesn’t exist anymore, as far as she is concerned.

The charms to get in are easy. Too easy. Were she not in this state, maybe Alice would question why it is this easy. But she isn’t thinking.

The girl is in a chair, chained there, head lolling. Asian, dark haired, left eye swollen shut and bruised, fresh and dried blood mingling together down her nose and lips, onto her neck and staining her white blouse. She cannot be any older than Alice, probably the same year at Hogwarts, and yet she doesn’t know her at all.

Alice cannot be gentle; urgency is running through her veins now. She shoves the girl once, twice, until her non-busted eye opens weakly, and she stares up at Alice with confusion.

“I’m here to get you out. Can you walk?”

The girl, stunned, slowly moves her gaze down to her legs, then back up. A slight nod.

“Good.” Alice undoes the charms and binding quickly. The girl starts to stand but instantly wobbles, making a strange, strangled noise. Alice catches her, hoists her arm around her shoulders, pulling her out together. Up and through the house they go, as quickly as they can, and Alice is looking around every corner for Narcissa, for Emma, but finds nothing.

Chapter Text

June 1979, Part 2

Juliette Wilkes has been missing for exactly one year.

Emma keeps a calendar on her desk, marking off the previous day at midnight. She writes her mum, asks her to keep checking in with the Wilkes, to ask Illona week by week if there has been any word from Juliette. She reads every day’s newspaper, scanning for names, scanning for a clue. She manages to get a hold of Aurora Sinistra, begged her for Juliette’s whereabouts, but came up empty. Everywhere she turns, a dead end.

Juliette, where are you?

Emma knows where Juliette is. And she knows why she wouldn’t contact anyone again.

You see, Emma Vanity knows Juliette Wilkes as well as she knows herself. Inside and out, flesh to marrow, Emma has long since stopped inhabiting just her own body; somewhere along the line, she and Juliette found themselves crammed together within one skeleton, two beating hearts pressed together. If Juliette breathes, Emma breathes.

And she knows that Juliette Wilkes has long been the exception in every way. She has never really been normal, conventional, her mere existence is a defiance. The Wilkes are cowards, that is true. If Illona and Istvan ever took a solid stance on anything, Emma would be shocked. Otto didn’t have a committal bone in his body. But Juliette… Juliette was bold. Somehow, it was never overpowering, but her influence was always there. How else could she have become the nucleus of a friend group composed of the heirs of some of the most powerful pureblooded families, and yet somehow always be overlooked for blame? Juliette was clever, and she knew how to manipulate people.

Neil Avery Jr., the creepy motherfucker, miraculously seemed to have a soft spot for Juliette Wilkes. So did most people. She was a wisp of light, almost angelic, and with a flash of her crooked smile and a batting of her eyelashes, you would fall right into her trap.

Emma has. Many times. Not because she doesn’t know, but because she doesn’t care. This is Juliette Wilkes, with the splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose, who giggled so sweetly when someone complimented her, who loved constellations so much she would spend hours up at the Astronomy Tower just watching, who knew exactly when to pull Emma away into their own little world. She can still see that little kid, gap toothed and grinning, the four-year-old waving at Emma proudly, and Emma waving back.

Juliette Athena Wilkes, who chose her own first two names. She wanted Athena for her wisdom and battle strength, and Juliette for the girl she was, pretty and delicate. They were ten, tucked under the bed at Emma’s house, hiding from Audrey and Nora, and the little boy that Emma had met years ago was really a girl all along, and it felt as though something had clicked in Emma’s chest: yes, I know you now. It was that night that their bodies melded together, and it was no longer Emma and Juliette, but EmmaAndJuliette. One word, one being.

The first time Emma cried at Hogwarts, her first night, sitting by the fire in the common room while Nora braided her hair, was because she missed Juliette.

Emma knows that Juliette killed that boy back at Durmstrang. Of course she knows, she is Juliette. It is not hard to believe, somehow, that sweet and charming Juliette Wilkes killed someone. Emma still loves her, despite it, or maybe because of it. There is nothing that can stop her from loving Juliette Wilkes.

~*~

Malfoy Manor. Purebloods like to mingle, throw balls and meetings to show how wealthy and important they are. The Malfoys certainly liked to flaunt their privilege. Dad used to say it was important to make connections, and so each of the Vanity sisters got into their pretty little dresses and went to mingle.

Where the Vanitys went, so went the Wilkes, at least every summer. It helped that they frequented the same circles, and that Dad and Illona worked together at the Ministry before she went back home to Hungary. What tethered them really together was Emma and Juliette, and so where Emma went, Juliette went.

Galas are boring, especially for ten and eleven-year-olds. Juliette had grabbed Emma’s hand, hair rumpled and messy despite Istvan’s best efforts and had smiled that crooked smile. The two flew off together like birds into flight, holding onto each other and not letting go.

They explored every inch of that house, even Abraxas Malfoy’s personal study (which Juliette, having already gotten her wand back home, managed to unlock with a wink). They hid in wardrobes when Lucy Malfoy (the nickname still stuck) walked past in a huff when his wand was stolen. They played tag and hide-and-go seek, and they just sat and watched the world go by. It didn’t matter what there was to do, because it was the two of them.

Emma reveled in these moments, because it meant Juliette was home. But home, for Juliette, was Hungary, would soon be Durmstrang. There would be no impromptu visits from Juliette and her parents for a ball, not once both Juliette and Otto were in school. Durmstrang was remote, and hard to get letters to and from. This was her last moment with Juliette before everything changed.

Juliette had seen her crying quietly and bumped their shoulders together. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be back next summer.”

“It won’t be the same.” Emma whispered through tears. “It’ll all be different.”

Juliette chuckled that soft twinkling sound and moved an arm around her shoulders. “Then let’s make it a good different.”

Her lips pressed to Emma’s; a sweet, chaste kiss, but Emma knew then. She knew she liked girls, but this was different; this was a knowledge, deep in her chest, that there would never be anybody for her like Juliette Wilkes. That was when she felt their heartbeats sync for the first time. EmmaAndJuliette.

~*~

Does Dumbledore know how well she knows Malfoy Manor? If he does, he doesn’t let on. She’s at Hogwarts, for some reason, sitting before him while he adjusts his stupid half-moon spectacles and stares at her.

Emma hates this plan. It is, objectively, a terrible plan. What, take the word of an “anonymous informant” that another “anonymous informant” is being held hostage in Malfoy Manor, and that the wards will be lowered for only an hour to go in and rescue this important person? Either Dumbledore is gullible, stupid, or too smart for his own good. Any of those options is horrifying.

Juliette will be at Malfoy Manor. She will worm her way into the ranks of the Death Eaters, next to Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Black and Neil Avery Jr. she will be there because she knows how to integrate herself among the most powerful, and who could refuse her? Juliette is smart and she is merciless. The only one she showed mercy once was Emma, and that’s only because Juliette wasn’t ready to die with her yet.

Dumbledore promises her the mission should be safe and easy, that she will be home in the early hours of the morning if all goes to plan. Emma just stares at him. She isn’t afraid to die, Merlin no, she wants to die, but the fear is all-consuming. The only thing able to yank Emma out of her misery is Juliette, and Juliette is the root cause of Emma’s misery. Cyclical, ouroboros, where Juliette ends, Emma begins, and so forth.

Did the universe hear her thoughts, present her with the possibility of dying before her love? That is not how Emma wants to go. She wants to die with a surprise, unexpected. Jump off a rooftop, get hit by a car, die on her feet in battle.

Nora died a solitary, unexpected death, and it wrecked them all. She died the way Emma wants to die, and so she can never quite look Nora in the eyes in photographs. It is jealousy for the dead, the feeling of “I want what you have”. Nora, maybe her foil among the sisters, the one with the same spark in her eye and fire in her veins, but all Emma can muster towards her is resentment for stealing the suicide idea.

Still, Emma refuses to die with Juliette Wilkes. She fights it constantly, the urge to let herself get kidnapped and tortured, just for the slightest possibility of seeing that beautiful smile again. It is Emma’s final wish, the reason she hasn’t killed herself yet. Yes, she loves Hestia and Emmy, and her sisters and parents, but it is only Juliette who can tell the stutter of her heartbeat, her truest desire. If not with Juliette, Emma cannot let herself die.

And that is why she must survive. Emma learned a long time ago that to live is to be in constant resistance against every part of her, her body, her mind. She must fight the instincts, the all-consuming want, because those are hers. It is awful and often inconceivable, but somewhere in the deepest parts of her soul, Emma has decided she wants to live for herself now.

It was the raid that did it, flying across the woods, Alice panting behind her, that made Emma realize it. For a moment, it wasn’t about Juliette, none of it, no reminders or nagging thoughts. It was just pure survival, and she could feel her insides again. For the first time in over a decade, Emma was her own self again. The fear, the worry for the other two, that was hers. She is doing better now, despite all the odds, and there is a measure of success there.

But Dumbledore is sitting in front of her, hands folded on the desk, something troubled lurking behind his serene eyes, and he is saying she is the only one who can do this job. Maybe he’s right, maybe she is. But she hates him for resetting her progress, for sending her straight back into the darkest spiral when she has only just begun to smile earnestly again.

What can she say? Refuse? Emma Vanity has never known how to decline an offer for greatness. She accepts, but her heart sits uneasy in her chest.

~*~

Gideon Haleton was born on April 9th, 1979. Audrey had enclosed a photo in her latest letter; a plump, pink little boy. Emma watches the photo shift as he moves a little in his sleep. Audrey’s hand is resting on the little blanket swaddling him, and she traces the outline of her fingers. It is the most she has seen of her sister in… how long? Three years? It was the wedding, probably, just after Emma had graduated and right before she left for Sweden. Now, Audrey is as far from her as could be possible, somehow. All of Emma’s sisters are far from her these days.

This baby boy is unfamiliar to her. She can’t see the curve of Audrey’s eyes in his yet, her dimple in his right cheek. He is a blank slate, and Emma just wants to see her sisters’ faces reflected in him.

She sets the letter down and glances at the clock. Writing Audrey back has always felt like yanking teeth. Emma’s never really known how to speak to any of her sisters. It freaks her out that they have her face, and yet they are so different from her. It feels as though Emma has lived almost all of her life in a glass box, and she can watch her sisters live and interact with one another like members of a family, but she can never join in. The wall separates her, and she cannot break it. She feels them, somewhere in her chest, she feels their emotions and their anger and their fire and their hatred and she internalizes it, takes it from them like an invisible hand and lets it explode in the box so that they can be well. They will never thank her for it, because they could never know. They probably think her distant, unlike them, but Emma is all of them combined, she just can never quite show them. The glass box is Emma Genya Vanity, and inside is Emma, small and exhausted, and she is one of six but eternally on her own.

It is hard to remember the sadness of watching your sisters go on without you when Juliette Wilkes is tugging on your shoulder and whispering in your ear, pulling you away to another world, turning your back so you don’t see your sisters anymore and fortifying the glass walls without you knowing.

There will be time to write Audrey a letter. Maybe, when she survives this mission (because she will, she has to), she’ll write Claire and Kit also. It has been a long time since she’s spoken to either of them too. A good sister would write about how the school year went. Or, maybe she’ll go back home, back to Brocburrow, to their family home. Mum will kiss her cheeks and cry tears of joy, Dad will clap her on the back and tell her how well she seems to be doing, she’ll sit at the kitchen table and listen to Kit and Claire talk, she’ll visit Audrey’s house in the town and go meet baby Gideon. She will finally make an effort, because she is a Vanity, and the Vanitys do not ignore their kin for years on end.

~*~

Alice is here. Why is Alice here? There is no time to wonder, Emma is glad for the accompaniment. She wonders if Dumbledore knows, but it doesn’t really matter. Emma doesn’t know Alice very well, they were a few years apart at Hogwarts, but she remembers Alice’s comforting grip as they ran from the Death Eaters. Alice with her means this mission will go well, that is what Emma needs to believe.

While Alice uses the washroom, Hestia and Emmy come to say goodbye, leaving them the flat so she and Alice can plan. Hestia doesn’t cry, but she holds on tight to Emma’s neck and whispers “I love you” into the crook of her shoulder. Emma strokes her hair and lets her go. Emmy holds Emma’s face in her hands for a moment before pulling her into the hug. “Be safe,” is what she murmurs close to Emma’s ear. They look back before they leave, two sets of worried eyes, and shut the door behind them softly.

It’s not like Emma had a lot of friends growing up. The only friend she needed was kilometres away, in a different country, still holding Emma’s beating heart. Was it strange then that it was only after Juliette came to Hogwarts that Emma made her first real friends? Hestia Jones, the new third-year Hufflepuff Seeker, smiling at Emma after a game and offering her hand, and Emmeline Vance, the third-year Ravenclaw chaser asking to train with Emma early in the mornings. Juliette hated it, their desire to get close to Emma, and so Emma got close with them. Even then, she felt the warring emotions: follow Juliette everywhere or break with Juliette on everything.

Did it start with spite, then? Emma would never tell them that, because it’s become so much more. In a way, they are more her sisters than her actual sisters are. Emma was never able to breech the gap with her sisters, not as a little girl, to whom the entire world was Juliette Wilkes, but now she could, because she understands Juliette Wilkes better.

She knows how awful it can be to let one person ruin your life.

~*~

Otto and Juliette don’t look the same. Emma finds this confusing, coming from a big family where they somehow all share the same facial features in similar positions. Otto is hard, burly, a square jaw and deep-set eyes. Juliette is slight, thin and curved, her eyes wide and framed with long curled lashes. They have the same colouring, peach skin, golden hair, blue eyes, but stood side by side they look hardly more than cousins.

Juliette said once that the boy she killed at Durmstrang looked like Otto. Well, she didn’t say it like that. They were laying together in Emma’s dorm, alone, staring up at the ceiling after Juliette had managed to get them some weed from the Hufflepuffs. She called him “the boy from Durmstrang” and Emma knew what she meant. As far as the public was aware, Ferenc Balogh had died due to a fall where his head collided with the corner of a dresser. Mundane, easily explained. But Juliette knew how to cover her tracks, she was smarter than anyone ever gave her credit for.

Juliette was afraid of Otto, even though she would always be more powerful, more cunning than he. Otto Wilkes was the one thing in this world that Juliette feared, almost impossibly. Emma wondered how Juliette could ever be afraid of somebody, but she never really knew him. Juliette did.

Maybe then it wasn’t a surprise when Otto turned up dead.

His body was discarded in a lake, found a month after Juliette had disappeared, but long since dead. Otto was supposed to be in Bulgaria, and nobody had realized he’d never made it.

Otto was the same age as Julia. He never really interacted with them, though. He was ten, and thought learning English was stupid, and he looked down his nose at what he considered children, though he was one too. Despite it all, Emma can remember him padding down the stairs, his affinity for black coffee, the way his nose wrinkled when he smiled – rare but true. He was alive, once.

Once upon a time, Emma could have discarded any possibility in her mind that Juliette Wilkes – her Juliette – was a killer. That time was long gone.

~*~

Her hair is longer, Emma thinks, standing in the hallway facing down Juliette Wilkes. It’s true, her golden curls reach her lower back now. She looks… healthy? The image in her head suggested a gauntness, a hollowness, but she seems well.

Emma hates it, hates her, hates that her deepest wish came true, hates herself for wishing it. Juliette in person is beautiful and angelic and terrifying and demonic.

“…except, she’s not a little girl anymore.” Of course she isn’t. Emma is older and taller, and her skin has stretched over the bones she’s always had, but something in her composition has shifted. Resentment sits heavy against her lungs, stifling. Little girls should not constantly smell smoke and wonder if this is what dying feels like.

Juliette knows what she is doing: something infantile and wailing is drawn out of her, from her core, a pink thing with tufts of thick dark hair and hands balled into fists, screaming for comfort and warmth. Juliette knows how to tap into that part of Emma that she herself cannot reach, knows Emma’s body better than she does.

Emma doesn’t want Alice to leave her. Stay, please, show her that I am not alone, that I can live without her, that I am not wholly dependent on her presence to keep myself alive.

…except, there are things to be done. Lives to be saved, and Emma cannot be selfish. How could she, when every waking thought is consumed with death? It is unfair to save somebody who does not even wish to be saved.

Go, Alice, go. This is not the raid, this is personal. One of us will not survive this encounter, and I cannot have it be you instead of me. she and I know how to fight to the death; we’ve been doing it all our lives.

“They think you’re dead, buried under a hill or some shit. You couldn’t even take an hour out of your time to tell them you’re alive?” You don’t seem to understand, Juliette. Your parents lost their son, and now they have lost their daughter too. Forget them if you want, Juliette. I lost you, exactly one year ago. You never promised that you wouldn’t hurt me, we both know you couldn’t stop causing pain if you tried, but you promised we would stick together. One body, remember?

Juliette cocks her head. Emma can barely hear Alice’s footsteps, but she knows Alice is gone now. Perhaps, if she closes her eyes, this can be a moment from their youth, twin flames in the place where it all began. Just them, EmmaAndJuliette, the way it should be.

“You’re really quite predictable, you know.”

Emma opens her eyes. Can this be a dream instead? She wishes for the hazy air, the colour saturation, the unreality of it all. Where Juliette is not a thing that bites, but instead a carefully reconstructed memory of somebody that no longer exists, may never have existed at all.

“I knew you would show up here. I was waiting for you.” Juliette twirls her wand with her slim, delicate fingers. Emma watches her, eyes moving slowly, detaching from the vision in front of her.

“Your mother is still looking for you.”

“Ah, my mother.” The intricacies of Juliette’s voice, her accent, all so familiar to Emma, as though they have never been apart. “You know how much I detest her.”

Emma shrugs, and it is too casual a gesture to convey the storm of emotions washing through her body. “She still loves you. You’re her daughter.”

“I am nobody’s daughter.” Juliette takes a step forward, and it is easy, fluid. Emma trails her eyes back up to her face. “Neither are you. How are Danny and Su-Wei, anyway?”

Emma swallows the lump in their throat. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

Emma glares at the floor.

“Your mother is ill right now, isn’t she? I hear dragon pox is going around, I hope it’s not that. Quite a cough, though, did she tell you that in her letters?”

Slowly, as though in a trance, Emma looks up, gaze scrutinizing.

“Danny’s got a new position in the Ministry, good for him. I think he and Lucy are working together now. By the way, Lucy has not softened to you one bit. I told him everything was your fault as kids and so we’re cool, but I wouldn’t cross paths with him.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than stalk my parents?”

Juliette laughs, and Emma thinks of bells, high and clear, like a fairy. Once upon a time, Emma thought she needed to protect Juliette Wilkes. They would hate her, the little girl who was once a boy, thin and weak. That would be her purpose, to protect Juliette. Except, she wasn’t needed. She became little more than a plaything. Juliette was more dangerous than anyone could have imagined.

“No, my darling, I do not. Tell me, why didn’t you come home for sweet Nora’s funeral? I was hoping to see you there.”

Every fibre in her body begins to catch fire, screaming. Emma knows this place, knows every exit, knows how to run. She stays stationary, hands wobbling at her side, and she speaks. “You went to Nora’s funeral?”

“Of course I did. I was hoping it would bring you back. I was as kind as I could be, you know. You won’t believe me, but I slit her wrists very quickly for her. It was a favour, you see?”

~*~

When Emma learns to crawl, she does not crawl towards Mum, or Dad, or Julia or Audrey. She is seven months old, and she has spent all those months reaching for something, someone, always just outside her grasp.

She crawls towards Nora, three years old and the only familiar thing Emma knows. And Nora laughs and claps her hands and Emma is hers.

They were all born from the same womb, but Emma and Nora are twins, taken from the same blood. Nora came into the world kicking and screaming, and so did Emma. Nora was born with fire in her veins and a twist of anger to her lips, and she overcame it, was making something of herself. Emma was her mirror, a little kid who recognized something in Nora that could never be put into words. They all look alike, but when Emma looks in the mirror, she sees what she could have been; she sees Nora.

When Nora died, Emma didn’t come home. She couldn’t, because knowing Nora’s body was in the casket meant Emma had to join her there. They were pairs, the six of them: Julia and Audrey, Kate and Claire, Emma and Nora. Emma had never lived a life without her other half; even from a distance, there was a tether. Juliette was the one who severed it, when Emma found an equal who was not her competition, who was not a version of her but with glasses and a kinder smile and an easier way of navigating the world. she didn’t need Nora anymore.

But that’s not true, is it? there is a scar on Emma’s forearm left by Nora when they were kids. The way her left eyebrow tilts up is Nora’s. when she smiles, she becomes someone else, somebody intricately familiar and yet forever beyond her grasp.

Emma always needed Nora. If her body was Juliette’s, everything else was Nora’s. Inexplicable, irrefutable. Emma has never been herself, has always been multiple people, has never been able to exist as a singular being.

She does not know what Nora’s favourite colour was, or what shape her patronus took. Was it a tiger, like Emma’s? How much did they share? Emma can see Nora’s face in the mirror, and project herself onto it, but it will never come close to knowing. Emma does not know Nora, but she knows the blood, the fire, the feeling of a sister.

~*~

Emma is moving, throwing herself at Juliette, and there is nothing of the grace and ease she works so hard for, trying to soften her body as though to tamp down the fire in her veins. She becomes a creature, something fast and dangerous and unpredictable, something only a Vanity can become, charged by the rage and the ambition and the blood. She tears and kicks and screams, but the mass of flesh and bone beneath her keeps dodging, keeps moving, and she wants blood under her fingernails, needs it.

“Imperio,” whispered like a secret, a protection.

The world quiets to a hum.

Emma Vanity has forgotten what silence sounds like. It is sweet, like honey, and the air is thick. It is so lovely to drown in. there is colour in the world again, and it is beautiful to see.

Something brushes against her cheek, soft and loving. Emma leans into the touch, a flower yearning for the sunlight.

“Hello, beautiful girl.” Juliette says, close to her ear, and Emma could die right now. Juliette, her Juliette, is here and Emma loves her more than anything in this world.

“I have waited so long for this. Do you remember when I used to imperio you back at Hogwarts?”

Emma shakes her head, the movement slow and languid. Everything is floaty, her body light as air. How could she ever have been angry? Without it taking up so much of her attention, the world seems so much easier to live in.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Gentle hands, easing her down onto the floor, cradled in Juliette’s arms. Stronger than she looks, delicate as a petal, the keeper of Emma’s heart. Nowhere is safer than here, and Emma can’t really remember why she is here, but she knows she spent a long time searching for something, and this feels right. “Can I tell you about it?”

“You can tell me anything.” Emma breathes, looking up into Juliette’s big blue eyes.

Sweet smile, brushing the hair from her face. “I had studied the spell for months. It was summer, I think before your fourth year, before I left Durmstrang. You were very troubled. Your older sister had run away, do you remember? She didn’t love you enough to stay. I loved you, though. And I wanted to make you feel better.”

“Thank you.”

“You looked so peaceful when I cast it, so vulnerable. You were utterly at my whims; except I didn’t do it right. It wore off too quickly without me trying, and then you were back to being surly. You were happier under my control, though, I knew that. You are a miserable person, Emma Vanity, and I had to save you from yourself.”

Emma nods along. It’s true, she is miserable and awful, and Juliette is the only one who can save her.

“I couldn’t tell you though, because you wouldn’t let me. you were always so independent, Emma. I was the only one who could make you better. Your sisters never understood. Which one was it, Audrey? Boy, she was a nag. I thought about getting rid of her, because she was the one who kept a close eye on you, but she would never be alone with me. smart girl. You never told her, did you?”

“Never, never.” Emma is half-singing, delirious with the experience of living, of Juliette’s voice all around her. How could she ever want to die without hearing this heavenly sound again, without knowing what Juliette’s touch feels like after all this time?

“When you were sixteen though… oh, I figured it out. Do you remember that night we spent together? You were utterly mine, and you had no control, no way to mess it up. That’s what you do, darling, you mess everything up. I like you under my control better. You’re less tormented, more pliable. I wish I could keep you like that forever, but we have time for that now, don’t we?”

“Yes, all the time.”

“See, you’re much more amenable like this. Why do you have to be so awful all the time? It’s much easier to like you when you’re not you.” Fingers tracing the line of her nose, the curve of her eyebrows. “You know, I think I’m the only one who can love you, because I know how to make you stop. But that’s why you’re here, I think. You realized you couldn’t live without me, right?”

The thought, quiet and insistent, in the back of her head: that’s not why you are here. You’re afraid of her, remember?

Emma dismisses the thought. “Yes, I need you.”

Juliette exhales, the smile spreading across her face. “I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses. I was disappointed you didn’t come home for Nora’s funeral. I was very gentle with her, just for you. I imperioed her too, made it quick and easy. I didn’t like her, but gratuitous violence wasn’t necessary. It was to bring you home, do you understand? When you didn’t, I was very disappointed in you. You’re supposed to come when you’re called.”

Remember, Emma. You have a body, and you can get free. You are not her, do you understand?

“It was strange, how they all seemed to make space for you between them. None of them liked you very much. I wonder how upset they’ll be when they realize you aren’t coming home. All they did was keep me from you, and I could gladly kill them all to have you with me. But I don’t need to do that now, because you came, like a stupid dog on a leash. Never can let go, can you Emma?”

Emma, Emma, can you hear me? can you break through?

“So many of your scars are from me. Your body would not exist without me. Where’s the one on your back, across your shoulder blades? Did you like the pain? You’re a masochist, dear, I’m sure you did. I considered abducting you and torturing you fully conscious, but that’s no fun. I like it when you look at me like this. Oh, the things I will do to you. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Nobody’s expecting you anymore, you’re mine, for as long as I want you.”

Alice. A floating image; Alice Fortescue, running with her through a forest. The feeling of a hand in hers, a comfort. The haze begins to subside.

“You’re pathetic, do you realize that, Emma? You are nothing without me, worthless and unwanted. I was the one who wanted you, I saved you from yourself. You owe your life to me, and I will use that debt for as long as I want. You will do whatever I tell you to, because you are mine.”

Emma, get up. Emma, fight back. Emma, remember how you decided you wanted to live?

“Nobody calls me the right name here. They call me Wilhelmina. You’re the only one who knows me… or at least you think you do. Do you want to see what I’ve learned here? There are many tricks I’ve picked up, and that I’ll use on you. I killed Ferenc, and Nora, and Otto, and people you don’t even know about yet, but you’re the one I really wanted to kill. They were just substitutes for the real thing.”

Claw your way up through the honey-soaked air, where everything tastes like the past. Let her go, she is not yours anymore, do you understand? She is going to kill you.

“What shall we do? You probably want to feel it. maybe once you’re so incapacitated, I’ll release the spell, so you can understand what I’ve done. I’ll do it over and over again, and I’ll make you hurt so badly that you’ll wish you died. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Her gaze shifts to her hand, her fingernails, the smear of blood under her nail. Juliette’s blood. Juliette’s blood, because she tried to kill Juliette. Because Juliette killed Nora.

Juliette killed Nora.

Juliette. Killed. Nora.

Slowly, Emma looks up at Juliette, smiling down at her with sharp and bared teeth.

“Welcome back, love.” Juliette says, and attacks.

~*~

“Hold still.”

Emma draws in a sharp, shuddering breath as the knife breaks the skin, sliding between her left shoulder blade and her spine. The pain is white-hot, the blade jagged and cutting, and tears spring immediately to her eyes. It hurts so terribly that every single defense falls away, leaving Emma at her most vulnerable state, something she hates and hides as much as possible.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful like this.” The knife slides through her back, and she is gagging on the pain, the bile rising like poison in her mouth. Juliette’s hand is firm and steady on her shoulder, but it is no comfort. Her body is on fire, everything is burning, and Juliette is laughing softly, saying “you’re doing so well,” and Emma cannot remember how they got here. Did she say yes? Everything before this is strange and blurred, and Juliette is the only real thing here.

Something wet against her back. Emma starts to cry, staring into the mirror, watching Juliette lick the blood away and grin at her, and her mouth is red and sticky with Emma’s blood, and all she can see is the little girl hiding under the bed, smiling and gentle and hers.

This monster is also hers, and it is awful.

~*~

Weeping, in the bathroom, Emma stares at her reflection in the mirror. Nora is staring back at her, face messy and nearly unrecognizable. Slowly, she turns, lifting the shirt up, over her head, wincing at the pain.

Emma’s body is a web of scars, they stretch across her arms and legs, her torso and neck. Now, her back, jagged and gaping, blood and pus and Emma’s life oozing away. Just one more mark from Juliette, one more move towards taking over her entire body, stripping away any flesh that is Emma’s and replacing it with a raised scar that Juliette can point to and say “look, you’re mine.”

Emma can’t escape her, not as long as she lives in this body, not as long as she has a heart that beats in sync with Juliette. It is here, looking at the damage Juliette has wreaked on her, that Emma thinks about killing herself for the first time.

She is seventeen, and already her life is at the beginning of the end.

~*~

It is brutal and uncontrolled and desperate.

Emma, tearing at whatever flesh or clothes or hair that she can, sobbing from the effort of fighting her best friend, her one true love, her other half. Every move rips her heart further in two, and it is unbearable. Everything smells like smoke.

Juliette fights dirty, sucker-punching Emma’s jaw, knocking her to the floor, grappling and ripping at Emma’s inner arm, sharp nails poised to take blood and chunks of skin with her. Emma catches a smile in the blur: Juliette likes the fight.

Emma lands a punch in the eye socket, Juliette bites the upper bit of her ear off, they know each other so well they know where the others’ vulnerability is, where to strike. Juliette starts laughing, chewing on the cartilage and attacking with fervour.

“You killed Nora,” Emma keeps repeating, over and over like a mantra, a chant, with every swing of her fist and scratch of her claws, reminding her. Two years she resented Nora, hated her, like hating herself. Juliette, the only thing that was hers, the only thing Emma knew or understood, her entire life spinning around her axis. And Emma never really did have family, siblings or parents, she was alone, and she deserved to be alone because she had the misfortune of loving a terrible girl. No, don’t blame misfortune. She wanted to love a terrible girl, overlooked it all, she chose not to go back to her sisters. This is her fault. That’s where the hatred comes from: because she hates herself for loving Juliette, for hating Juliette, for knowing Juliette, for being Juliette. Don’t you understand? There is no Emma without Juliette, they are inextricably linked.

The only problem is, Juliette can live without Emma. Emma cannot.

Her face is fucked and her body is fucked, and Juliette is tearing into those scars that she left, dragging up old pain, because to love Juliette Wilkes is to hurt, and to hurt badly, and Emma sees a wand discarded on the floor and she tries to crawl for it, shooting pains down her leg from her ankle bent wrongly, and she is reaching and she is holding every single sister in her mind right now, their faces blurring into one, her own face, and she is reaching—

A crack, and Emma screams with pain, jerking her shattered hand into her chest, cradling it and sobbing, curled into a fetal position like an infant, a month away from twenty-one and she is reduced to a baby, begging for love behind it all.

Juliette is standing over her, and she is awful, and her eye is weeping blood and everything about her is torn and shredded and damaged, and yet she is still beautiful, because Emma will always think she is beautiful.

“Oh, darling, imagine how much you’ll hurt now.”

“Imperio.”

~*~

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Focus on their names, okay?

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Do you remember them?

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

They are your sisters. They will always be your sisters.

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Don’t let go of them now, keep hold of their faces. Can you see them?

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

They love you; they can’t help it; they love you so much. They are yours, and you are theirs.

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Emma, can you see them coming to save you?

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Emma, look, they’re here to take you home.

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Emma, will you go with them?

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Emma, do you know who you are?

Julia Charlotte, Audrey Victoria, Nora Dorothy, Emma Genya, Claire Anastasia, Katherine Eleanor.

Emma?

~*~

Alice waits at the hill, and she is beginning to panic. The girl is slumped against her side, and Alice is watching, looking for a figure darting out, but there is nothing, and her heart is contracting in her chest, squeezing until she cannot breathe, and what can she do? What can she do as she watches it; the shimmering dome encompass the house again suddenly and disappear in a second? What can she do when the wards are back in place, and Alice cannot go back in, and Emma cannot come out?

The girl groans but Alice cannot tear her eyes away from the manor, begging and pleading against all odds that Emma took a different way out, that she’s around the corner of the house, that she will appear in just a second, and she will be okay, smiling that cocky smile and going home with Alice, back to Hestia and Emmeline where she belongs, and they will forget this day ever happened.

She doesn’t know how long she stands here for, or how long she can. The girl begins to cry incomprehensible tears and tries to yank herself away from Alice, seemingly coming back to life and hating the touch, and Alice is forced to turn her head away, wrestle with the girl, and ultimately, she loops her arm around the girl’s torso to keep a hold on her and with a final look at the manor she apparates back to the cabin, collapsing to the earth with exhaustion and total desperation, and it is as though the entire world is on her shoulders, and Dumbledore starts moving towards her and she can’t read his face, but she doesn’t care what he thinks now, because her mind is on Emma. Emma, Emma, Emma.

~*~

Pandora waits around the corner until the girl is done.

She has spent a long time watching, lying in wait, watching behaviours, seeing signs. The girl comes and goes about the house like a princess, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Pandora has been underestimated too, but she is no killer. There is no excuse, not even for a trespasser.

She hesitates, waiting for the flouncing steps to vanish down the hall – probably off to brag, to bring her friends to witness her latest trophy, to make them watch as she continues her destruction– and slips in.

The hallway is a mess, and Pandora keeps her eyes averted from the chunks of flesh and insides piled on the floor. What is in front of her is the other one, the body, and she is utterly destroyed. What is recognizable is gone, torn away by nails or teeth or spells, and Pandora can feel herself crying as she uses a sleeve to slowly wipe some of the blood away from the body’s face, trying to salvage something worth remembering, something human left in the corpse.

Pandora forsees a lot of deaths, and for her own sake, she cannot remember all the names. Still, as she bundles the body up in her arms, staining her clothes and face and hands with blood and gore and piss and saliva, she is as gentle as she can be. I don’t know your name, she tells the body through her touch, but you were once a person, and I love you for that.

Pandora has become skilled at being unseen, especially here, especially in the house where she is not particularly welcome. She knows how to slip out, through the wards, and over to the hill, where she has always been going, and she can see herself seconds from now placing the body on the green grass, adjusting her so she is sitting with her back against the tree, trying to smooth away some of the ragged areas and brushing the hair from her face ever so lightly, so that she looks less scary.

“It isn’t your fault.” Pandora murmurs down at the body, imagining the soul inside is still listening. “It is a uniquely mortal flaw to want to be loved.”

Leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the girl’s mangled forehead, and then reaching for her wand to cast a patronus spell, watching as the raven swirls around her head, awaiting its message.

“Tell Dumbledore that she is at the hill overlooking the castle.” Pandora says and waves her wand to send the bird flying. Her eyes drift back to the body, the girl, and she can feel it in her chest, the shift of responsibilities, the burden she carries.

Subject to the whims of time, Pandora turns away and back towards the house, awaiting her next task.

~*~

They find Emma Vanity’s body the next morning.

Chapter Text

July 1979

Emma Vanity’s funeral happens on a warm July afternoon on the Vanity property.

Mary apparates there with the rest of the group. This isn’t a Valkyrie thing; as far as she knows everybody is invited. The boys are with them – Peter shifting uncomfortably in one of Fleamont’s too-big suits and Remus, still exhausted from the full moon the night before but insisting he’ll come – and James’ parents. Euphemia bought them all dress robes, waving a hand when Lily protested about the cost.

Mary just feels… empty. It’s not like she really knew Emma Vanity; she was two years older, and a Quidditch captain for a time. She remembers a ponytail of dark hair, a mischievous smile. Marlene is fond of her, ever since their mission, and James used to pester her after matches when she did a manoeuvre he didn’t yet know.

Emma Vanity, dead.

There is a strange feeling in the air, like the war has become real for most people. Not even Maria-Gabrielle McGonagall, whose disappearance everyone silently agrees indicates a worse fate than hoped for but nobody wants to talk about because she was “crazy”. Purebloods especially, huddling together. There is a sense that the war has taken one of their own, which means it matters more.

It makes Mary feel worse, around all these people, because it feels like she has a target on her back: Muggleborn. Were it not for her and “her kind”, there would be no war. Part of her yearns to stick close to Lily in some form of alliance, but Lily won’t let go of James’ hand. Mary stares down at the ring and feels a bad day get even worse.

She ends up between Remus and Sirius. Sirius and Pete are busy gossiping about all the purebloods they see as they walk down to the funeral site. Remus is quiet, thumb rubbing against his inner palm, back and forth. Mary watches him for a moment, at the distant gaze in his eyes. He looks so young like this, and Mary thinks of him suddenly in first year, gangly even then, with a wary look that’s never really left him.

“Are you okay?”

Remus turns his head, eyes scanning hers. God, he looks especially bad today. Ever since Mary found out about the whole werewolf thing, it’s fairly obvious in retrospect. God, what was she thinking, accusing him of being a girl? It all feels very silly now.

He really becomes a different person around the moons; at once vacant and quieter than usual, but also snappish and irritated. Sometimes, Mary stares at him and tries to imagine the wolf splitting his body in half, clawing for the surface. It must be a lot of effort to keep it hidden, and she sort of respects him for it. it takes a lot of strength to hide such pain.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

I don’t believe you, Mary thinks. Before she realizes what she is doing, she’s pulling her hand from her pocket and offering it to him. He stares down, and she’s fairly certain he’s going to refuse. Then, slowly, he takes it. his hand is warm and sweaty, palm much bigger than hers, but still she holds on. Hidden in their dress robes, Mary and Remus go into the funeral together.

Two people are standing at the gate dressed in black. The man is tall and thin, with warm brown skin, hair balding at the top, and a pair of dark spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. The woman is Chinese, around his height, with short dark hair and thin lips. Her watering eyes meet Mary’s for a second, then flit away.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Euphemia says softly, reaching to hug the man while Fleamont leans in to kiss the cheeks of the woman. “I can’t even imagine the sort of pain you’re facing.”

“Thank you, Effie.” The man nods his head, and his eyes trail over the group. “We appreciate all of you coming. I suppose you knew our Emma at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, sir.” James, hands behind his back and face drawn into a melancholic expression. “She was a few years older than us, but we played against one another in many Quidditch matches. She was an excellent flier, and an even better sport.”

The man’s eyes mist up. “That was our girl.”

“Please,” the woman gestures past the gate. “Go take your seats. We’re starting soon.”

“Do you know them well?” Lily asks Fleamont as they walk down the field. Mary mostly marvels at how big the property is. Pureblood money, she supposes.

“Pureblood families are fairly intertwined, even blood traitors like us.” He uses air quotations to illustrate his point, making Sirius snort. “Danny and Su-Wei have always been friendly with us, and fairly tolerant.”

“My parents hated them.” Sirius pipes up, shrugging. “That should tell you something.”

Mary sees people mingling, speaking quietly. Her stomach does a weird flip flop as she scans the crowd, looking for the one person she wants to see. Well, maybe not want, but that she knows will be struggling.

There’s security here, something Fleamont said would happen. Apparently, a big gathering like this has become a bit of a risk, and so there are people posted at every corner watching. Mary catches Marlene craning her head when she sees Alastor Moody, evidently looking for Dorcas Meadowes. Mary catches Lily’s eye, and a spark of amusement goes between them. Mary holds that moment in her arms and cradles it until the warmth dies out.

She spots a group up at the front. A woman, holding a baby in her arms, a stocky man, and two girls, probably teenagers. All of them look identical to Emma Vanity, it’s almost scary.

“Emma’s sisters.” Mary startles a little, glances to her left. Peter has ended up next to her as they shimmy into their row of seats, Remus having let go of her hand with a half-smile and sitting to her right. Peter is watching the group in front, eyes focused. “There were six of them. The eldest left a few years ago, and then their third, Nora, she died about two years ago. Suicide, apparently.”

Mary stares at him. “How do you know that?”

“Pureblood gossip.” Peter’s eyes narrow, like he’s scrutinizing something, but then the spell breaks, and he looks back at her. “Really helpful to know juicy bits of information if you’re in a real pickle.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“More than you might think. I’m not always as suave as I appear.”

“Somehow, Pete, I don’t actually believe that.”

Peter smiles, a sort of cocky yet humorous grin that reminds Mary why she likes him. “Oh, did I tell you my latest girl news? I feel like you’d be interested in this sort of thing. James and Sirius keep telling me to shut up about it.”

“Oh, you know I do.”

Peter leans in conspiratorially, and Mary leans in too, enjoying the performance involved in having a conversation with Peter Pettigrew. “Sybill. Trelawney.”

“No way. That Ravenclaw girl in the year below us? She’s… pretty.”

“Yeah yeah, she’s a little weird.” Pete waves a hand in the air and rolls his eyes. “She’s super sweet, though. People don’t give her enough credit. We went out on a few dates, and… I really like her.”

“I’m happy for you, Pete.” Mary claps him on the shoulder. “I’m excited to meet her, well, officially.”

Peter smiles at her, but they’re interrupted by the proceedings. Folding her hands in her lap, bracelets clacking a little as she does, Mary turns off her brain and lets herself be swept up in the tide of mourning.

~*~

Mary hasn’t really had people die, unless you count her great-grandmother, who lived to 108 and died when Mary was seven. Otherwise, she’s mostly intact in terms of family life preservation.

This means she hasn’t really ever had to deal with a funeral. Or the proceedings afterwards – the word that springs to Mary’s head is “afterparty”, which feels ridiculously inappropriate and makes her cheeks blush hot when she realizes. Everything here makes her skin prickle

It’s sad, of course it’s sad. Emma’s parents and her older sister Audrey give a eulogy, often pausing to cry silent tears or to clear a choked throat. Mary sits here and feels like an imposter, intruding on a vulnerable moment. She didn’t know Emma, it feels wrong to be here and to participate in this grief like a performative action.

Mary is upset, that rising tide of sadness she is all too familiar with. But it doesn’t feel right, the way she is upset. It feels knotted in her chest, like a gnarled tree, and she can’t quite figure it out.

Afterwards, she sticks close to Remus, like a baby duckling, following him through the Vanity house main floor during the after-funeral. She spots Emmeline Vance with Benjy Fenwick and Caradoc Dearborn, and she has a strange feeling, a tug on her heart. Emmeline looks utterly exhausted, dead eyed and quiet. Her gaze catches Mary as they pass, and her eyes return to life for just a second, a confused look as though she is trying to piece something together. Mary avoids her look and keeps her head down, refusing to open that door in her mind.

There is one person missing, and Mary has a very strange feeling that she is meant to find her, like the string tying them together is being pulled. She has tried many times to sever that connection, but still, it lasts, a tether to the past.

Remus nudges her side and jolts her back to reality. His eyebrows are raised, quizzical.

“I’ll find you guys after.” She says quietly, watching his gaze flick to the incomplete group behind them, and he nods, not asking any questions. She appreciates him for that and thinks briefly about finding his hand again to squeeze it but decides against it.

Through the labyrinth of the house, weaving around people, some of whom Mary recognizes from Hogwarts. Some shoot her peculiar looks as though it is odd to them that she is here, and she agrees. Since graduation, it’s not as though she’s been super involved in the wizarding world of her own free will.

Whenever she’s around purebloods, Mary instinctively watches out for Milton Mulciber. He wouldn’t be here; he wouldn’t fraternize with blood traitors if Fleamont is correct on that point, but she always moves with a step of hesitancy, head on a swivel lest she be caught off guard.

It has become easier to ignore that image in her head, him over her, laughing, flecks of spittle landing on her skin. Even now, years later, that spit has burned into her flesh, a reminder of who she is in this world: nobody, just a toy to be used by the ruling class.

She wonders again if Fleamont is really right about the Vanitys. Certainly, some pureblood families don’t seem to care about blood purity – the Potters are probably number one on that list, in Mary’s experience – but it feels hard to believe something so ingrained in society can just be… unlearned. Mary doesn’t automatically trust anyone, at least not anymore, but she becomes even more suspicious about purebloods, especially the ones who proclaim their allyship.

Mary reaches a flight of stairs, wonders briefly if this is an invasion of privacy, but decides that it doesn’t really matter and scales it anyway. There’s a sniffle down the hall and Mary ventures forth, heart rocking in her chest like a ship on a rough sea.

Hestia Jones is curled into a little ball in the corner of the last bedroom down the hall. It’s barebones, devoid of colour and personality. Mary wonders if this was one of the sisters’ bedrooms, one of the three that are gone. She hesitates at the doorway, feeling supremely insecure and awkward. It’s not as though they’re friends anymore, maybe they never were. Who’s to say Hestia even wants her right now? Maybe she wants Emmeline, beautiful Emmeline, sweet Emmeline, smart Emmeline—

“Benjy said you’d come, but I almost didn’t believe it. I thought you’d be uncomfortable here.”

Mary startles a little bit. Hestia’s face is still smushed into her arm, and it’s as though the walls are speaking, not her. Slowly, Mary ventures forward into the room a little. “How did you know it was me?”

Hestia lifts her head, and her eyes are red and puffy, her lips drawn in the saddest expression Mary has ever seen. “Do you really think I wouldn’t know you, Marisol?”

Mary swallows the lump in her throat and takes another small step. “I saw you weren’t with your friends. I… I was worried.”

Hestia makes a pathetic little snort-laugh and shakes her head. “I didn’t want to come. Can you believe that? I wanted to skip my best friend’s funeral.”

Something unpleasant flips around in Mary’s stomach, but she shoves down the feeling as deep as she can muster. “I’m really sorry, Hestia.”

“Yeah, me too.” Hestia’s eyes, when they meet Mary’s, are wide and watery, but familiar, that warm amber that Mary thinks of as her favourite colour these days.

A memory, Mary on the floor, drunk off her ass, rescued by a pretty goddess, who sat with her and let her feel. The first time she remembers feeling seen, down to her very bones and marrow. Mary aches for that feeling now, something infantile within her screaming and lapping up any ounce of recognition, even for a second.

Marisol, nobody has called her Marisol in months. Only Hestia would understand, only Hestia could call her that and mean it. When Mary asked another to call her Marisol, desperately trying to recreate the situation before, it wasn’t the same. Only Hestia can tap into such a raw space in Mary’s body, one she hates but needs.

Whatever history exists between them, whatever hurt and betrayal and longing which surrounds the two of them, that can be set aside. For now, Mary moves slowly, slipping to Hestia’s side and sliding down with her back to the wall, keeping her gaze ahead. It takes a moment, maybe because she doesn’t believe Mary will stay, but Hestia inches closer and rests her head on Mary’s shoulder, sniffling. Finally, she can properly cry, because she is safe here.

They stay like that for a long time, long after Hestia’s tears have dried up, and neither of them will admit it, but they feel the click, the comfort of finally returning home.

~*~

Euphemia always wanted a lot of kids.

She’d told Flea this very bluntly on their second date. She can see it now, the Three Broomsticks, and he across from her, less lined but still recognizably hers. She knew it would be him from the beginning—no, that isn’t true. She’d known him before, back at Hogwarts. He was a prefect when she was a first year, with a kindly smile. She could never have thought it would be him, especially at eleven, when sixteen seemed like ages away.

She was twenty-two when they met again; she, having just broken up with that Xavier Trelawney, still an junior level assistant at the Administrative Registration Department to her great frustration, having already spent three years working there. Nobody much took her seriously in those days, even with her uncle Hector being Minister for Magic. It is not hard to believe looking back that most of this had to do with Euphemia being a woman – certainly her being Indian didn’t help – but she was determined not to let that stop her. Besides, she was way more competent than most of the men working there, she reminded herself daily.

By that time, Fleamont Potter was already a celebrity, thanks to his hair potion. He was everywhere; grinning face plastered to every Daily Prophet. He, twenty-seven, with a shitload of money, thick glasses, and arguably very nice hair, somehow stumbled into Euphemia Fawley’s cubicle one regular morning, apologizing and asking where the Minister for Magic’s office was, and so Effie found herself escorting him up to see Uncle Hector while also trying to comb back her hair in a way that highlighted her bone structure (what Mum said was their family’s best feature) and desperately trying not to remind him of the eager eleven-year-old he had known her as.

She wonders often what would have happened had he not walked up to her that day. Would they have crossed paths again, a few years down the line, older and more mature? Would they have still fallen in love like they did, and spent almost fifty years together? She likes to think so. she likes to think they would find each other everywhere, at any time. There is nobody else quite so made for her like her Fleamont.

She wanted kids, lots of them. Life was lonely for her growing up, an only child, finding real companionship only when she got to Hogwarts. Fleamont was an only child also, he understood her desire. She knew she was made for it, being a mom, and she wanted it, especially with Flea. They would be the most loved kids on the planet, that was for sure.

The first was when she was twenty-eight, not long after their wedding. Sixteen weeks, a little boy growing in her uterus, the apple of hers and Flea’s eye. How to explain her excitement, her thrill at knowing her childhood dream was coming true?

Except, that wasn’t meant to be. At the office, bleeding in the washroom, unable to conceal her sobs as her heart shattered over and over again.

His name was Sebastian. Maybe it was unwise to name him so soon, but he was already hers. She couldn’t not name him.

The second was Adelaide, when she was thirty. Sweet little Addie, feebly breathing while Effie held her close at St. Mungo’s, resting her head against Fleamont’s shoulder yet unable to cry properly. Addie died an hour after she was born; a heart defect, the medi-witch said, and all Effie could feel was a terrible sadness washing over her.

There were others, but they were gone too early to name. three, four, five, and six. Euphemia began to truly believe her body was cursed. How could this be, how could she be failing so utterly at the one thing she was certain she was destined to be? Everything inside her was inhospitable, and unviable, and she was deeply wrong at her very core.

Life went on, impossibly so. she moved up the ranks at the Administrative Registration Department, she and Fleamont bought a house in a lovely little town called Merlinspire, they lived quietly and comfortably. Still, there was a sadness present everywhere, it hung in the air, thick and asphyxiating, a reminder of what they wanted but seemingly could not have.

At forty-three, there was Arthur, and they were certain that he would beat the odds. He was strong, the medi-witch said with a wink to Effie, his heart was beating, and his legs were kicking, and he seemed so alive inside her that she could not help but believe he would be the one. Merlin, she had long given up on the many, but she just wanted the one. That baby would be so loved, he would be hers entirely, the happiest kid in the world.

No matter how many times it happened, she was not ready for it. A late-term pregnancy loss, she was told. Nothing you could do about it. She had to deliver and hold that sleeping boy in her arms, and everything was so quiet that she just wanted to scream his name over and over again.

Euphemia Potter thought that was the end. No more trying, no more hope. She would live a contented life, maybe they would see Flea’s cousin’s young son Cepheus more often, so she could be an aunt of sorts. That would be enough, it had to be enough.

James was the greatest surprise of her life. Euphemia didn’t breathe deeply for ten months, not until that little boy was snuggled in her arms, blinking up and cooing happily at her. Precious, beautiful, miraculous James, with his tufts of dark hair, warm brown skin, and big dark eyes that she never ceased delighting over.

In the darkest nights, she didn’t sleep, watching over him, terrified he would be stolen in the night, snatched from her without warning. His soft breaths like the waves of a sea, Euphemia rocking gently along it, alive only once she felt the swell and the slow descent, a never-ending cycle.

That instinct, that need to know he was okay, that never went away. How could it, when an extension of her was walking around the world? She needed him to be safe, to be healthy, to be happy. Any time he smiled, her heart grew; she didn’t know how her body could withstand all of the love. Her Jamie, her sweet boy.

There was Sirius, too, her other boy, who was more hers and Flea’s than he ever was his own parents. Sirius, who called her Mum for the first time only a few months ago and had looked up with alarm in his face, as though she would not accept him. How could she not accept him? Sirius, with the twinkle in his eye, his sarcasm and arrogance, his beating heart down at his very core. Despite everything, he is a good man, and Euphemia makes sure he knows that because he forgets. Even if he wasn’t though, she would love him anyway. A good mother’s love tends to transcend that boundary.

What about Marlene? A burning flame, her Marlene, that lovely girl who raced around the house and laughed like she would never stop. How could Elspeth Sullivan not want her daughter, how could she not shatter utterly into pieces watching her girl flinch away from her touch? Marlene never flinches when Euphemia reaches for her, never. Sometimes, in a moment of pure fantasy, Marlene was always hers, she grew up with James in a happy home and was never hurt. Euphemia feels her whole body react, like Marlene is of her, blood and bone. She can be forgiven for forgetting.

Peter, James’ first friend, unfailingly polite but always with an edge of humour, a wit that could not be blunted even with authority figures. She picked him up when he fell off his broom when he was six, did you know that? Maura and Nate weren’t there, but Euphemia was. She dusted him off and healed his knee and let him try her tea to make him stop crying, later making him a mug for himself while they sat and watched James and Marlene and Fleamont soar around the field. Peter, somehow more adult than anyone she had ever met, who loves so fiercely yet quietly as to not make a sound. There has never been a greater man to protect her boy, her James, as Peter Pettigrew.

And Frank, the gentle giant, planting her favourite fruit – strawberries – in his garden to bring her, blushing when she pulled him in for a hug. Did he not send her letters almost every month, because he knew she would always write back? And Alice, the kindest girl in the world, who lingered close to the door waiting for Euphemia to call her back, and she always did. Euphemia had never been prouder of either of them than at their wedding, watching them with tears in her eyes. There was nothing she wants more than to see them happy, and with each other.

There is also Remus and Lily, the loves of her two boys (even if one won’t admit it, but it is hard not to notice when they somehow find their way into the same bed when no one is looking), who have taken up a piece of Euphemia’s heart without her even noticing. How could she not love them, that observant, bookish, brilliant boy, and that loyal, charismatic, intelligent girl? Maybe at the start, she loved them because Sirius and James loved them, but she loved them for themselves now too.

Euphemia Potter lost seven children, and they are still hers, regardless of where they are. They sit in her chest, a reminder when she breathes. But, in her long life, she knows sorrow cannot replace joy; they are the same, they are the rawest form of emotion possible in the body, they are visceral and unpredictable in the greatest way. Those seven are not replaced, but somehow, seven children needing a home, needing love, found their way to her arms. They are hers, as much as James is, as much as her seven are.

~*~

Alice is devastated. Euphemia sees it in her eyes, the weight on her shoulders. She blames herself for Emma Vanity, that much is clear.

Frank tells her and Flea quietly that Alice and Emma had been on a mission, and Emma hadn’t showed up at the meeting point. There is more he isn’t saying, probably more he hasn’t even been told by Alice, because everything these days is shrouded in secrecy. Euphemia hates it, hates that Alice is suffering, and she hates this war.

When Euphemia was a girl, many years ago, there was a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, young but already held in high esteem thanks to his many exploits. He’d been teaching for maybe, what, fifteen years by that point, and yet he seemed like such a breath of fresh air compared to some of their doddering old professors. His name was Albus Dumbledore, and Euphemia Fawley had never liked him.

Part of it was not his fault. Euphemia had decided at a very young age that she was not fond of men who tried to be her father. This included her own, Atharv, who never much cared for his daughter as much as he did the political ambitions of his younger brother. It was unfortunate that he was terrible at politics and seemingly had no idea. Euphemia would have told him if it would have made a difference, but no. she was destined to have a father and yet be fatherless.

Albus Dumbledore fancied himself a kind, loving, generous man. Everybody loved him, at Hogwarts (well, maybe except the Slytherins, but at the time Euphemia felt they had a very different standard of character), he was intelligent and helpful and always very comforting. Classmates fawned over him, adored him, considered him a confidante, a friend, a father.

Euphemia has always considered herself a very good judge of character, and something told her right away that this man, for all his claims of good intentions, was running from something very dark inside him, and she refused to be fooled.

He knew she was suspicious of him, certainly. Any attempt at kindness on his part was met with a stony look or surly response. Back then, there was no maturity in her understanding of the situation, no nuance. She was a girl who resented her father and resented any man who knew that and tried to make up for it.

The war was difficult on a lot of people, both of them. When she and Fleamont met, it was 1931. She was an adult, bearing witness to both the muggle and wizarding wars of the 40s. Maybe the only reason she hadn’t lost her husband like many others did was because of Flea’s bad eyes. Albus Dumbledore ended the war, didn’t he? He defeated the greatest threat to both muggle and wizardkind, he was a hero… right?

None of this makes sense, she knows. Flea teases her about it, and she laughs along, but there is a truth unable to be denied: there is something deeply unsettling about Albus Dumbledore.

It’s been, what, maybe 50 years since Euphemia was in school? She’s gotten to know Dumbledore well. She knows his dedication to the war, that he will stop at nothing to defeat the dark forces. Is he being altruistic, though? She doubts it. She doubts that he cares much for muggleborns past the surface level, believes that he’s more concerned with reputation than empathy. When he shakes hands with Fleamont and nods to her, she can see that look in her eye, the one she doesn’t trust.

Euphemia has a working theory, one that she would never dare speak out loud: Emma Vanity was meant to die, as callous as it sounds, and Alice never should have been there. Alice is an asset, malleable and willing. Emma Vanity was disposable. In war, people are suddenly categorized in a way they would never otherwise: useful and disposable. She’s certain others are disposable too. She is disposable, certainly.

She and Fleamont fought the fight, a long time ago. She categorized names for what would become the Order, then just a ragtag group of witches and wizards in the minority, believing muggles weren’t all bad. Fleamont was a potioneer, an inventor, coming up with creative uses for potions and plants in battle. Nobody will ever know, not unless Albus Dumbledore tells them, because the war didn’t end like it was supposed to with them. Now, her little boy, her Jamie, has to fight. There was no sense in pleading with him to flee, to run away to have a future, a life. James Potter, like his parents, is one stubborn man.

Euphemia has known many people who died, names that won’t be remembered in history textbooks. Her legacy, Flea’s legacy, is in the hands of James Potter and Lily Evans. The young will carry the torch of the old, and life will go on.

~*~

Death is imminent, Euphemia knows. It’s a gut feeling, deep in her bones. Wizards and witches live longer than muggles, but Euphemia is seventy and she is already tired. She has lived through two wars already, and she doesn’t know if she will be able to pick up the pieces of her life and rebuild once this war ends. Her time is running out, and that’s okay.

She wants to watch her boy walk down the isle, to see Lily in her gown. Maybe one day, when the world is kinder, Sirius will give Remus a gold ring, and Marlene will stop hiding away her true smile. Alice and Frank will have children, little chubby-cheeked and dusty haired kids, who will grow up and go to Hogwarts and hear about their parents in history books. Lily will become a great potioneer, James an all-star Quidditch captain, and they will have kids with Lily’s green eyes and James’ messy hair, and they will smile just like Fleamont, even if they never meet.

Euphemia wants her kids to be happy, more than anything. She wants to be there for their whole lives, she wants to meet them on the other side of this war. She wants to see the beauty of the next generations, to know that she was a part of that chain.

Part of her also likes to think that if Albus Dumbledore lets any of her children die, she will rise from the dead and kill him herself. That is a satisfying thought.

But for now, she remains in the world of the living and turns her attention to easing the pain of her children.

~*~

The girl is very clearly disturbed.

There’s a building Albus has begun using for Order business, a house on the outskirts of London. It is here that Poppy has begun spending time watching over the girl.

She mostly sits in bed all day, doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. Her eyes remain fixed on the walls, the drab wallpaper. Her mouth moves in stuttering shapes, but no words come out, just strange sounds. She won’t let Poppy get near her, she’ll hiss and curl in on herself, but never is she physically violent.

Poppy spends a lot of time watching from behind the glass pane, conjured on one side so the girl cannot see her watching. Part of her thinks that may just aggravate the situation even more, to realize she is being observed, but perhaps she wouldn’t notice.

“She looks like my dad,” Minerva mumbles to her side, arms crossed, just staring. Technically she doesn’t have a role in caretaking, but she stays here with Poppy, nonetheless. They sleep in different rooms, but they’re existing in close quarters again, moving past one another to make coffee or making eggs and toast for the other.

A very selfish part of Poppy Pomfrey hopes the situation is sorted out soon so she can go home and get away from Minerva McGonagall, if just for a few weeks before school begins anew.

Minerva’s dad had hallucinations too. It was a consequence of the war, when he came back home with permanent nerve damage on his left side and a brain that was still constantly in danger mode. Poppy knows this, and still, selfishly, she wants Minerva to leave, to put it out of her mind, to give Poppy the space to think with a clear mind again, to not be constantly aware of her body, the closeness of her skin, the history between them.

Still, it’s important for Minerva to be here, she knows, both for herself and for the girl. She’ll take notes, make observations, scour old books for clues about how to deal with this illness. Sometimes they’ll spend hours in silence, leafing through wizard and muggle books alike, exchanging silent glances or shakes of the head when one proves futile to the cause.

There are a lot of questions here, questions which Dumbledore refuses to answer unless in person. She understands why; this is apparently a matter of grave concern, but mostly Poppy’s heart just aches for the girl. She wants to ease her suffering, make her feel okay. Is that not what she does on a daily basis, mending broken bones and healing illnesses? The girl does not deserve to suffer, regardless of who she is. It hurts that Poppy hasn’t been able to help her yet, that’s all.

~*~

“Her name is Olivia Gleaves.” Minerva says at breakfast one morning, sipping her black coffee and pouring over her intricately written notes. Poppy glares at her from the counter, safe in the knowledge that Minerva cannot see her. She always had lovely penmanship; Poppy got stuck with that awful Healer scrawl, not to mention that new tremor in her left hand that makes writing carefully a little difficult. “I remember Dumbledore asked me to find her a while back for the Valkyries.”

“And did you?”

Minerva shakes her head, frowning into her chipped mug. “Couldn’t find a trace. She wasn’t a student at Hogwarts as far as I could tell, and I couldn’t recognize the last name either. I reached out to Euphemia to see if any of her old files had a genealogy on the Gleaves, but nothing turned up.”

“Huh. That’s odd. Could she have been from elsewhere?”

Minerva leans back in her chair, fiddling with her quill. “I’m telling you, either this girl didn’t exist, or she was really good at hiding.”

“Clearly it’s the latter.” Poppy finishes off her tea and places the rabbit mug into the sink to be cleaned later.

“Poppy.” The tone of Minerva’s voice gives her pause, and she turns back from the sink. Minerva’s eyes are clouded and mistrusting. “I don’t like this at all.”

Poppy nods, feeling the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Me neither. But all we can do is make sure she’s healthy, right?”

“Yeah. Yes, I suppose.”

“Good. Then let’s get back to it.”

~*~

“Did your dad speak when he was hallucinating?” Poppy feels awful even asking, as though it is selfishly slamming on the walls they have up between them. She keeps her face straight, staring at the girl – Olivia, her name is Olivia – and hopes that Minerva won’t hate her asking.

“Yeah. Nothing coherent, though.” Minerva’s voice, quiet and pensive, from behind, where she’s sitting in the armchair, leg curled into her chest, flipping through a muggle textbook. “Near the end, when my dad died— Ma said he was barely speaking English. Before, it was words, but then it just became sounds.”

Poppy chews on the inside of her cheek, where the awful lump of flesh is forming again under her teeth. The scar tissue, from years of worrying, being sawed to bits in her mouth. She tastes blood.

“I don’t know enough about this stuff.” She admits, like it is being torn from her. Minerva used to hate being wrong, but Poppy hates not knowing. Alphard used to tease her about how her brain could ever hold so much information as was contained in the world, and she’d poke her tongue out and say her brain was big enough, she’d be fine. But when do you learn the secrets of the universe? When is it too late to drop to your knees and beg for an understanding of why the world is the way it is?

“I don’t think anybody knows enough about this stuff. They certainly didn’t when Pa came home. Nobody wanted to help him. I think if we’d brought him to St. Mungo’s, he’d never have come out.”

Poppy’s eyes are filling with tears, watching Olivia stare up in panic at the ridge between the walls and ceiling, such terror on her face. “She’s just a kid, Minnie. I can’t let them take her entire future away.”

She knows Minerva is mulling this over, and Poppy wants to turn to her and grab at her robes, beg and plead like Minerva is the Angel of Death to spare this poor girl. She hates this, hates that she sees her boy, her Remus in this girl, and Poppy is suddenly glad she never became a mother. How could she let this girl walk to a windowless room to spend the rest of her life if she herself had given birth to such a life?

“Maybe St. Mungo’s is kinder than what Albus has in mind for her.” Minerva’s voice is low in Poppy’s ear, hot and breathy, and Poppy shivers a little at the closeness, turning a little like a desperate puppy, if only to see Minerva up close like she used to, but Minerva has already turned away. And so Poppy stays.

~*~

“What did I say to you the first time we met?”

Albus’ gaze is steady and unwavering. “You insulted my boots and their many straps.”

Minerva lowers her wand, flicks a throwaway glance at Poppy. She goes in to hug Albus, and Poppy follows suit, feeling his beard tickling at her neck.

Whatever feelings Poppy Pomfrey has about Albus Dumbledore is as of yet unsorted. Poppy has to live day to day in a very specific world, one where the axis tips from life to death on a whim. She’s fairly certain Albus is on the right side and is working towards the correct cause. Poppy is opposed to death of all sorts, but she’s learned there’s no escaping it.

Ultimately, Poppy follows Minerva’s lead. Minerva loves and trusts Albus, and so does Poppy.

“How is she?” Albus directs this to Poppy as they climb the stairs, Minerva flanking them from behind.

Poppy, skirts gathered up as she walks, grimaces, and immediately regrets it when Albus looks over at her with concern. With a sigh, she glances up at the crusty chandelier above them and tries to gather her thoughts. “She won’t speak, won’t eat. She’s urinated a few times in the bucket next to the bed, thank Merlin, but otherwise she’s completely out of it. When I go in there to tend to her wounds, she recoils like I’m going to hit her. I—I don’t really know what to do.” She sneaks a glance at Dumbledore, hoping he won’t be disappointed by her lack of progress.

Albus just nods serenely. “I figured as much. Any progress on diagnosing the issue?”

Poppy can just feel Minerva’s body tense behind her, like a taut string connecting the two. As they round the corner and into the room, Poppy gives Minerva the chance to speak if she wants. When she doesn’t, Poppy takes over. “Our medical journals have little information on this sort of thing. She’s incredibly disoriented, most likely hallucinating. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was abused, not just by Vol—not just recently, but as a kid. We’ve been scouring muggle journals too, but this is really unspecified territory. Most healers and doctors agree on one diagnosis: crazy.”

“She’s not crazy.” Minerva’s voice is thin, clipped. When Poppy positions herself in front of the glass pane, next to Minerva, she can see how her whole body has tightened, as though she is in physical pain. “We just don’t have the words for it yet.”

Poppy doesn’t miss how carefully Albus eyes Minerva. “I see. And the non-verbal aspect?”

“Likely unrelated to the hallucinations, probably due to the childhood trauma.” Poppy stares at Olivia, reclining in the bed, eyes narrowed like a hunted animal. She swallows down her fear. “I don’t know that it’s a good idea for you to go in and speak to her, Albus.”

Albus is watching Olivia too, something strange in his eyes. “It will be okay. Come in with me; Minerva, stay out here.” To Poppy, he gives a jerk of his head.

The girl bolts up when they open the door, her eyes big and dark, pupils blown wide. Poppy moves slowly, keeping her hands in view, filing in first before Dumbledore. Hopefully, Olivia will recognize her from the last several days and won’t be too distressed by the presence of a stranger.

But of course, it’s never that easy. When Dumbledore comes into view, the girl moves like a lightning bolt; sliding off the bed and attempting to run for the door, except her legs crash out from underneath her and she goes sprawling across the floor at Poppy’s feet. Desperately, she tries to scramble away, backing herself into the corner of the room, between the wall and nightstand, curling in on herself. She looks so young, so vulnerable, so terrified. Poppy shoots a look at Dumbledore for him to back off for a second and takes a trembling step forward.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to scare you. I don’t know if you recognize me, I’ve been looking after you. I’m Poppy. Are you Olivia?”

The girl looks positively horrified, lips moving again. Poppy sees the O shape, over and over again. An attempt to speak? Curious, Poppy lifts her fingers to her lips, and mouths Olivia, feeling the shape of the word and then watching the girl’s mouth move. “Olivia. Olivia, are you trying to say your name?”

Olivia starts to panic even more, if that’s possible, mouth moving faster, but her eyes stay pinned on Dumbledore. Poppy, hopelessly out of her depth here, looks to him for help.

Albus’ eyes are strangely coloured in this light, stepping forward slightly. “Olivia, did I come to you in your house?”

Her hand knots in the bedsheet hanging beside her, tugging it as she grips harder. Her breathing becomes stuttered, shallow. Poppy reaches a hand to Dumbledore, asking him to stop, but he holds up his own hand to stop her. His eyes are fixed on Olivia. “That was not me, do you understand? I did not make it to your house. I was too late to stop him from getting to you, but I was coming. Does that help?”

Something flickers in her expression, a lightening of sorts, eyebrows easing just a tiny bit. And then, like ice spreading across her body, Poppy feels the words enter her head: You said my grandfather sent you.

Albus’ face falls a little, and Poppy somehow believes him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is, I haven’t spoken to him.”

A strangled sob escapes Olivia’s lips, and she folds in on herself even more, rocking back and forth slightly, eyes falling to the floor. Poppy’s heart shatters, and she glances back at where she knows the pane to be, where she knows Minerva to be. Does this remind her of her father? For a brief moment, Poppy longs to be with Minerva watching this, so she doesn’t have to be alone.

Albus brings her back to life, taking a step forward and crouching down. “I understand he hurt you. I understand you’ve spent your entire life in that house. I understand you must be in terrible pain right now. We are not going to hurt you, and you have my word on that.”

Olivia is still staring at the ground, teeth chattering. Albus is gentle, tilting his head a little at her. “My friend Poppy here will keep taking care of you. She is very kind, and she will not touch you if you do not want her to. You need to eat, though, and care for your wounds. She can help with that. Can I get you anything?”

Olivia’s jaw ticks, and she looks up to meet his eyes. Knife?

Albus laughs suddenly, a strange and abrupt sound. Poppy’s jaw drops a little, and she glances back at the glass. Only Olivia doesn’t seem shocked; there’s a lucidity in her face, a calmness that was not there before. It’s as though she’s clicked into a different body, one much less afraid.

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t get you a knife.” Albus stands up, looking down at the girl. “If you want anything from your house, please just ask Poppy, and she will contact me. You are not in danger, Olivia. You can rest.” His eyes flick to Poppy: time to go.

As they are walking out, she hears a rusty croak behind her. Turning back, Poppy sees Olivia inching closer, trying to grab at Poppy’s robes with a desperation that also seems so foreign on her face. Staring up at her, eyes dark and begging, the words materialize in Poppy’s head as though she’s said them aloud: The walls are bleeding, will you clean them?

“Yes.” Poppy’s voice is soft, barely conscious of what she is saying. “Yes, of course, I’ll clean them.”

The girl watches her for a moment longer, as though searching for something, and finally releases her grip.

~*~

Downstairs in the kitchen, Minerva’s made them beverages: a black coffee for herself, a tea with two sugars and a dash of milk for Poppy, and an apple cider for Albus. They all make a conscious decision not to acknowledge Minerva’s red puffy eyes.

“Does she know you?” Poppy asks once they’re seated at the table, sipping at the drink and burning her tongue in the process.

“I believe she thinks she does. I wouldn’t be surprised if her grandfather had warned her about my arrival, if many years too early. And, I wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to pretend to be me.”

“Who is she, Albus?” Minerva presses, hands flat on the table.

Albus glances between them as though in deliberation and finally nods his head slowly. “I have been attempting to locate one Ominis Gaunt ever since he vanished several years after his graduation in 1893. I had reason to believe he was still alive, and likely in hiding from his family. Several years ago, I received a tip from an ally, who claimed Ominis was residing in the countryside in a heavily warded house with several others. This ally believed a relative of theirs had fathered a daughter living in that home.”

Minerva and Poppy stare at each other, processing. Poppy speaks first: “Albus, you think she’s a Gaunt? As in…”

“Yes. I believe Lord Voldemort targeted her specifically because of their shared heritage.”

“That isn’t common knowledge, though, about either of them.” Minerva is gnawing at her thumbnail, but Poppy is too preoccupied to tell her to stop. “Very few know about Riddle’s identity, and this girl seems to be going by a different name, if what you had told me was correct.”

Albus leans back in his chair. “It was. As far as I know, Ominis Gaunt had become Orin Gleaves. I don’t know how many were in that house, though the ally told me they believed there were five, including Ominis and Olivia. She was the only child.”

“Albus, this girl is in serious danger.” Poppy’s voice shakes, her entire body cold with fear. “If he took her once, he’ll take her again. We have to find a safer place for her, we have to—”

Dumbledore holds up a hand, stopping Poppy in her tracks. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that. Ms. Longbottom indicated to me that she faced very little in terms of defenses when rescuing Olivia. I’m not certain that he’d be desperate to reclaim her so soon.”

“Then what? She’s clearly sick, we don’t have the resources to help her.” Minerva is starting to stand up, incensed. “We can’t bring her anywhere; they’ll demand to know her identity. If he comes looking for her, we have no way to stop him. What are we supposed to do?”

Albus is quiet for a long time, mulling it over. Poppy is working very hard to keep her shoulders still, to keep from trembling with the secret, with the responsibility of the girl upstairs, convinced of blood on the walls. “We’ll have to nurse her back to health, in secret. Get her to a point where she is lucid enough, perhaps even able to speak again. Continue researching, to see if there are any non-magical means of facilitating her rehabilitation.”

“And then?” Poppy speaks without thinking, her mind turning over and over again in her head, trying to work out the angle. “What are you going to do with her, Albus?”

Albus tilts his chin up, a lofty movement that Poppy hates instantly. “We use her as an asset.”

“No.” Poppy shakes her head, adamant. “No, she’s not going to be your puppet. She is scared, and she is vulnerable.”

“I know.” Albus’ eyes are shining with what, tears? Poppy stares in disbelief at him. “I know, and I am truly sorry. But she is our only means of infiltrating Voldemort’s ranks. If she shares blood with him, even if she didn’t prove useful in his torture of her, she may be useful in other ways. We have to try, Poppy, for the war. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to.”

Helplessly, Poppy’s eyes shift to Minerva’s. sad, filled with grief and regret, Minerva nods, and Poppy deflates.

“I’ll be in touch soon. In the meantime, please take care of her. I’ll make sure Hestia Jones is caring for Remus Lupin, and that any other administrative means are taken care of. I hope this will not last into the beginning of the school year, but I’m simply not sure.” Albus nods to them both. “I appreciate the sacrifice you are making. I trust your judgement, please know that.”

Yeah, right, Poppy thinks cruelly, thumbnail wedging into the ridge in her mug. She thinks of Remus, being used in missions for no other reason than the worst thing to happen to him, and then of Olivia, who will be used in the exact same way, and feels nothing but an immense sadness wash over her.

~*~

Once Albus is gone, Poppy goes upstairs to the viewing room.

Minerva is standing in front of the glass, arms folded over her chest, openly crying. Poppy stands in the doorway, watches the silvery tears run down Minerva’s cheeks and onto her robes. What can she say, even, to ease her pain? Nothing, Poppy has learned, nothing.

“He’s right.” Minerva’s voice is small, like an eleven-year-old, and Poppy sees her suddenly as that short and spunky Scottish girl, like a firework exploding into the most beautiful display you’ve ever seen. “She’s probably our best hope.”

“I know.”

“I just wish it wasn’t like this.”

“I know.”

“Can we fix her?” Minerva spins to Poppy, eyes shining, and she looks so desperate that Poppy’s heart shatters. “Can we make her better?”

This is beyond anything we can do, Poppy wants to say. I think she was doomed from the start, and I hate saying that. There’s nothing we can do to piece her brain back together, the way it might have been when she was a child.
But what she says is: “I don’t know. We’ll try.”

Minerva gasps, a shuddering sound, and pushes forward, suddenly crashing into Poppy and wrapping her arms around Poppy’s shoulders, crying into the crook of her neck. All Poppy can think about is how warm Minerva’s body is, how she smells like green apple still, despite everything, how desperately Minerva is holding her, like a lifeboat. An unwelcome thought, a word that sounds a great deal like love, looming large in Poppy’s brain, like it was placed there by someone, like Olivia ‘speaking’ to her before. Love, she thinks, and the word is so powerful and weighty that she cannot dismiss it.

So, she wraps her arms around Minerva, holds her as tightly as she can, and thinks of love, love, love.

Chapter Text

August 1979

When the weight of grief becomes too heavy in the flat, Hestia goes home.

It’s not like she’s made a deliberate attempt not to visit. Since her dad died… well, shit got in the way. Thinking about it all makes her feel like a peach, the pit in her center overwhelming. The pit is grief, and Hestia chokes on it when she forgets it is there.

How does she feel? All anyone seems to ask these days. When she goes back into work at the apothecary, eyes rimmed red and quiet, people cannot help but ask how she is. Maybe it’s a fair question, especially when she finds herself having mini outbursts randomly in the day, like serving a customer and suddenly catching a flash of her hair in the background, enough to send her into a fit of retching.

Hestia is waterlogged, so soaked with tears that she is barely functional. Everything feels dense and awful, and the hot August air does little to relieve her. The flat is quiet, too quiet. Benjy and Caradoc have basically moved in to make sure they meet rent, and when anyone speaks it is in hushed tones. She wants loudness, she wants a fight. Hestia hates anger, has always hated how tense it makes her body feel, hates what it makes her say, but something must shatter this impossible wall between mourning and normalcy. She will break her identity completely just to return to normal life.

Mum starts calling and writing when the news hits the papers. Hestia ignores the piles of letters, collects them in a heap on her floor. Clara doesn’t write, and Hestia loves her for it. She owes them a visit, though, and if she has to listen to one more minute of Emmeline trying to weep silently in her room, Hestia might just shatter into a million pieces.

Grief makes her someone different. Grief makes her brittle and mean, hands clenched at her sides. There is little energy to be sweet and gentle as she normally works to be. It is as though the emotion is so overwhelming inside her, like a tidal wave, that it washes away anything about her that she admires: her kindness, her loyalty, her honesty. What remains is the love, but it becomes warped and ugly, a constant taunt. No matter how hard you love someone, you cannot save them.

Were she in a better state of mind, as she usually is, Hestia would fight that statement. No, that isn’t true. Some people aren’t loved enough, and sometimes just a little care, a little tenderness can turn their life around. You cannot be saved from death, but you can make sure they go knowing they are loved.

Did Emma know she was loved? Did she ever know truly how much she meant to people? Hestia hadn’t wanted to leave the flat that night, did not want to turn her back on Emma.

Emma, not Van. Van was the girl that Hestia shared a flat with, who loved learning and flying, who folded origami and left them around the house to be found, who borrowed clothes without asking and left inspirational quotes in red lipstick on the bathroom mirror. That was Van, barely out of her teenage years, who wanted to be the next Nicolas Flamel, who wanted to do something great with her life. Emma is a martyr, perhaps even a war hero, a foot soldier, a sister and a daughter. To remember Van is too painful, it must be Emma that Hestia thinks of now.

“I love you.” That’s the last thing Hestia said to her. I love you. No matter how hard you love someone, you cannot save them. Why did it have to be Emma? It is selfish and awful, but Hestia wishes she were here on the couch with her in their flat, glancing over Hestia’s shoulder at the Daily Prophet and shaking her head with sadness at the newest obituary.

Hestia used to feel the same way about her dad. Why did he get the brain tumour, and not the man down the street growing up, who used to whip his daughter with a belt? Why not the old racist lady at the flower shop where Mum worked, making snide comments about Hestia and Clara’s heritage? Why her dad, who loved humanity so much, who took it upon himself to teach the new generation so stories and cultures wouldn’t get lost? Why did he have to die when so many others survived?

Grief is a terrible, cyclical thing. The wheel will turn, and Hestia will heal. But for now, everything feels like an open wound, and Hestia is much too raw to be any use to anyone.

~*~

Their home is in Oxford, near where Dad worked up until his death. Mum never moved, like she said she would. The house is too big for her now, all alone, while Hestia lives in London and Clara goes to Hogwarts. In a weird way, Hestia is glad she still has the house, that she can still find the traces of Dad’s life. The anger in the immediate wake has subsided, and Hestia loves it again.

Clara is out front in the garden when Hestia finally reaches the driveway. She pauses a moment, watching her little sister work systematically, a process to her movements as she waters some plants and not others. Clara got the Hufflepuff green thumb, something Hestia used to envy before realizing live plants were much harder to wrangle than she had expected. Her pin-straight hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, her skin a deeply warmed brown from the summer working outside. A red tank top, old jeans cut to her thighs with a sunflower embroidered on one back pocket. Hestia watches her, such fondness in her chest that it is hard not to feel it overwhelmingly.

Clara looks like Dad, really. The same straight hair, strong cheekbones, long bumpy nose. Hestia takes after Mum in everything but colouring. Looking at Clara is like looking in a funhouse mirror, maybe who she could have been had the universe not decided against it.

“What are the flowers this year?”

Clara startles a little, glances back, her lips breaking into a big smile when she sees Hestia. “Hydrangeas.” She says, dusting her hands off on her jeans and striding over to Hestia. “A special request from Mum.”

Up close, Hestia can see the three freckles under Clara’s eye, the wonky front tooth that pokes out when she smiles. When she presses Clara’s head into her shoulder, holding her tightly like a lifeline, all she can say is “Merlin, when did you grow up.”

Clara laughs breathlessly, pulling back and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, you know what they say, OWLS age you significantly.”

“I’m sure you did fine.”

“Oh, definitely. But I think I got ten years knocked off my lifespan. Stress from studying, you know.” Clara pauses, watching Hestia’s face. “I heard the news from Mum, about the funeral.” The question hangs in the air between them, but she would never ask it. Clearing her throat, Clara pushes past. “Is that why you’re here now?”

She can feel the pit in her center growing larger. Hestia swallows it down as far as she can and fakes a casualty she doesn’t quite feel. “Mostly because we’re running out of food at the house, was hoping Mum could make us a lasagna or something to take back to the gang.”

Clara isn’t convinced, and why would she be? She knows Hestia too well for that, and Hestia knows that. Sometimes, she seems much older than fifteen, wise beyond her years. Finally, the corner of her lips rise, an acknowledgement of Hestia’s deflection and an acceptance of it. “Well, you’re in luck. Come on, she’ll be glad to see you.”

~*~

The house smells like cinnamon, like laundry detergent, like home. Hestia inhales, holds it in her body, tries to memorize this feeling to recreate it later when she is sad. Of course, it won’t work; we always misremember the things we try so hard to hang onto.

Mum is in the kitchen, and Hestia tries to remember if she had so many white hairs shot through her blonde curls the last time she came home. Has her mother always been old, or has time caught up to her? Hestia remembers from her youth Mum’s smooth face, unblemished hands, like a portrait, editing out all the imperfections. Now, she is a picture, and everything comes to light.

“We have a visitor,” Clara announces, letting go of Hestia’s arm and taking a seat at the table. “Careful, she bites.”

The relief in Mum’s face when she turns and spots Hestia is something she won’t soon forget. Homesickness crashes like a wave at that expression, wondering how it is she hasn’t been home in so long. When Mum opens her arms, Hestia becomes a little kid again, propelled forward by some primal force, a desperate need for love, and crashes into her mother’s body, holding on with all her might lest she fall apart completely.

Arguably, she was always closest with Dad. They had the same hobbies, the same interests. Hestia adored him, idolized him, aspired to be just like him when she was older. Since he died, though, it’s as though the light has been turned on. Mum, quiet and steady in her love, arms always open for her daughter to come back to her.

A flash, suddenly, of Emma in her arms at the flat, the last time Hestia ever saw her. The way her ponytail tickled Hestia’s skin, the warmth of her body. She was so real, so beautiful.

Before she can begin crying, Hestia breaks the hug first, pulling away and using the excuse of rubbing her eye to rid herself of any loose tears. “Hey, Mum.”

“Oh, my Memengwaa.” Mum presses her hand to Hestia’s cheek with such fondness, then whirls back to the oven. “Let me get these cinnamon rolls out to rest, okay? Then we’ll sit and chat.”

“No rush.” Hestia goes to the small table, with the mismatched chairs and the old, quilted tablecloth. Everything here is so familiar, warm in a way that only childhood and all associated with it can be. Here, it is as though she has not aged years; she is just a girl again, sitting across the table from her sister, listening to Mum cook in the kitchen, and any minute Dad will walk through the door—

No, he’s not coming home. Hestia clenches her fist in her lap and holds her breath until the wave of nausea passes. Clara is watching her, cursed with the same attentiveness that Hestia loathes about herself.

“Okay.” Mum claps her hands together, whirls around and comes to sit, hands folded on the table in front of her. “Hello my dear. How are you?”

“Oh.” Hestia sneaks a look at Clara, who arches a pointed eyebrow and quirks her lips. Hestia pulls her gaze away. “You know, it’s been…”

“I’m truly sorry about what happened to Emma Vanity.” Mum shakes her head with a sigh. “I read about it in the Prophet. Why didn’t you write or call? I could have come over to make you food, to comfort you.”

Hestia shrugs, shoulders to her ears, forcing all of the emotion out of her body so she doesn't explode on the people she loves.. “I dunno.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you right now, sweetheart. I just hope you aren’t taking this on your shoulders. Rumour has it she was in that resistance movement. It was her choice to fight, certainly, that’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

Mum leans back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “This war is nothing but trouble. What those people are doing… it’s not right, but I’m glad you’re not fighting. Too many innocent people can die, like Emma Vanity. Best to keep your head down and live as normal until it ends.”

Hestia’s cheeks burn, and she lifts her mug to cover her face. Secrets, how does she have so many secrets? Once, she thought of herself of an honest person, but that can’t be true now. Her involvement in the war, her caretaking of Remus, Mari, the big secret she cannot bring herself to think about—

When did she become the type of person to lie to the people she loves?

“Are you still working at the apothecary?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. And how’s your leg doing? I’ve still been doing some research to see if there’s any new spells we can try for it. Does it hurt still?”

Hestia shifts in her chair, testing her weight on her left leg. “Not right now. It’s okay, Mum, you don’t have to keep looking. It’ll probably be this way forever.”

Mum shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’ll never forgive your father for letting you fly at such a young age, especially when you didn’t know how to land safely yet.” Her eyes mist up, and she reaches over to grab Hestia’s hands. “Memengwaa, I lost your father. I cannot lose you too.”

It takes everything in her body not to break into a million pieces. Hestia musters a smile and squeezes her hands back. “I know, Mum.” I love you hangs on the tip of her tongue, but she cannot. The last person she said I love you to is dead now.

“Can we cook something?” Clara pipes up, and Hestia uses the opportunity to pull her hands back into her lap.

Mum reaches over to cradle Clara’s head. “Of course, Waawaatesi. Anything you’d like.”

“Can we make one of Dad’s recipes?” Hestia’s voice quavers on the words.

Mum looks at her, and there is such sadness in her gaze that Hestia can barely stand it. “Of course, my sweet. Come pick one out, we’ll make it together.”

~*~

Clara finds her upstairs, sitting on her childhood bed. She knocks at the doorframe, but Hestia already knows she’s there. Two hyper-aware sisters tend to make sneaking up on one another kind of impossible.

“What are you thinking about?”

Hestia doesn’t say anything. She just runs a finger over her knuckles, over and over again until the skin blurs under her fingertip. Footsteps, as Clara comes to sit next to her, thighs brushing. “What’s going on, Hestia? You can talk to me, if you want.”

“I have so many secrets.” Hestia whispers, and it burns coming up from her throat, from the deepest pits of hell within her. All she ever wanted was a simple life, one where the day unfolding ahead of her could be met with determination and contentedness rather than the fear of slipping up, of saying something wrong, of making a fatal mistake.

“Okay, then tell me one.”

“I dated a girl at Hogwarts. I think I lo—I really liked her. But she had feelings for another girl. And—” The words stop at Hestia’s lips; she cannot say it. not just for herself, but because it is the worst thing she has ever been privy to. She will never say it, not as long as she lives. “She won’t talk to me anymore, but we both remember. And she comforted me at the funeral, like we were still friends or something.”

Clara’s hand reaches over to trace flowers on Hestia’s leg. “I didn’t know you liked girls.” Her voice is soft, non-judgemental. There would never be a hateful bone in Clara Jones’ body.

“I don’t talk about it because she never wanted me to. Got mad when I wanted to come out.” Warm rays of sunlight, dark curls under her fingers, her guide to Valhalla. “It wasn’t about me, but it’s hard not to believe it was. People keep leaving, Clara. Dad, her, now Emma… I don’t know what to do.”

Clara hums gently, and Hestia turns to study her face, how intimately familiar she is. They never really fought like most siblings do, they were too alike for that. Clara is the only one Hestia does not have to question whether she will stay, because she will.

“I suppose you keep on living and loving.” Clara says softly. “You try to trust that the right people will stick with you. Time is cruel, but it’s also the only thing we’ve got, so use it to get the most out of life.”

Hestia lets out a watery chuckle, finally letting the tears gathering in her eyes stream down her cheeks. “You’re too wise, you know that?”

“One of us has to be.” Clara’s lips lift, and she winks. Hestia, half-laughing and half-crying, leans into the shoulder of her younger sister and lets herself be held.

~*~

“Who would you invite to your wedding?”

“That’s a silly question. You, obviously. Mum and Dad. Maybe Lucie from down the street.”

“Lucie? Why her?”

“Because I like her.” Tuney rolls her eyes. “Just because you don’t doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“But she’s mean to Sev.”

“Well, maybe he’s a little creep who deserves to be made fun of. Anyway, I’d probably invite Auntie Margaret and Uncle David too.”

“What about Auntie Jane?”

Tuney wrinkles up her nose. “No, she smells like cabbage.”

Lily pouts, sticking out her lower lip and quivering it slightly. “But she brings us candy!”

Petunia looks at her for a moment, as though considering, and then smiles and nods her head. “Okay, then she can come. But you’re on old-lady-stink duty, to make sure she doesn’t gross out the guests.”

Lily sits up straight and salutes. “Yes, ma’am.” She slumps back into the grass, arm brushing against Tuney’s, staring up at the big blue sky, the fluffy clouds that drift past. “Who do you think you’ll marry?”

Petunia takes a while to answer, and for a moment Lily thinks she may have fallen asleep, nestled among the flowers and the soft earth. “He’ll have blonde hair, and dimples. Not too much taller than me, but still enough so I can go up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He’ll have a good, well-paying job, and he’ll buy us a nice house with a real white picket fence and a backyard for the kids to play in.” Her voice trails off a little, and then, quieter: “He’ll actually love me, it won’t be for convenience.”

“Not like Mum and Dad.”

“Not like Mum and Dad.”

The two sisters stare up at the sky, nothing more to say.

~*~

When Lily thinks of her wedding over the years, there is one consistent person.

Petunia, walking her down the isle.

Petunia, adjusting her veil.

Petunia, holding a champagne glass and toasting the happy couple.

It is always Petunia; her face is everywhere. Once, Lily thought Snape would be there, that her mother would be there. They aren’t anymore, but Petunia should be. Petunia has to be.

She remembers the disaster of trying to bring her two worlds together at the restaurant two years ago with Tuney and her dull lug of a husband, where she’d tried to introduce James somewhat politely. Of course, that went about as horribly as expected, but Lily was no less hurt by it. She wanted Petunia to like James, even if he was a wizard, but that was the dividing gap between them.

Petunia resented her, she knew. She’d told Lily that she couldn’t be a bridesmaid at hers and Vernon’s wedding because Lily would just “upstage” her. Lily had blinked tears away and said she’d never wanted to do that, but nothing changed. She spent the wedding at a table near the back, sat amongst random low-level bureaucrats from Vernon’s job, far away from her sister or parents.

Were they ever friends? This is hard to parse out. Lily certainly thought they were, probably for much longer than Petunia thought they were. Hogwarts was the official rupture, the declaration that one Evans sister was special and destined for greatness, and the other Evans sister was nothing, and would amount to a life of normalcy. Lily and Severus’ friendship certainly didn’t help things (even though Tuney had had loads of friends that didn’t like Lily, and that was never a problem), but the real severance occurred long before that, maybe from their births.

You see, after many years and a great deal of consideration, Lily has come to the conclusion that her parents maybe shouldn’t have been parents. Maybe this is something all kids realize about their parents once they reach a certain age, once they can look back on childhood with glasses that aren’t entirely rose-tinted. From an outside perspective, Lily tests her theory relentlessly. Sev’s parents? Shouldn’t have been parents. Marlene’s parents? Father undecided, but definitely her mother shouldn’t have been a parent. James’ parents? Well, the theory isn’t entirely airtight, but Lily believes it stands nonetheless, just from personal experience.

Petunia was an accident. Dad told them that many times, when he was drunk on the couch, after a fight where Mum had walked out, whenever Tuney did something wrong. They had only been eighteen and hadn’t used protection, and whenever they fought, they always pinned the blame onto the other. Lily and Petunia used to sit in Petunia’s bedroom, just around the corner from the kitchen, and stare at their feet while the house shook with every scream and plate smashed. For two poor people, they were remarkably wasteful of perfectly good dishware, in Lily’s humble opinion. Tuney didn’t hold her or comfort her, maybe like an older sister should. They sat shoulder to shoulder, and Lily would cry sometimes but Petunia never did, just stared at her feet with an empty expression. “It’s because of me,” she told Lily once, very quietly, but when Lily asked about it the next day, she denied ever saying it and kicked Lily out of her room.

Lily was wanted, as much as she could be. A redo, a chance for these twenty-year-old parents to start fresh with a child born of their marriage, not just a sloppy tryst behind the town bar. Did they think they could just erase those previous two years like they’d never even existed?

The point is, Lily and Petunia knew their designated roles in the house, had it held over their heads like a height marker on the wall, something to grow to reach. Except, they got bored of baby Lily pretty quickly. From then on, it became a race to see who could earn Mum and Dad’s attention first. A good grade on a test, a missing tooth, a stick figure drawing. Never mind that the good grade came from cheating off a classmate, the stick figure drawing stolen from the other’s room, the missing tooth emerging out of Petunia shoving Lily into the corner of a table for stealing the drawing. To earn Annalise and Timothy Evans’ love, even just for a short time, was a constant fight for the surface, with half the energy focused on swimming upwards, and the other dedicated to yanking the other further down into the water to get ahead.

Petunia’s unfortunate birth could be forgotten temporarily in the face of a positive discussion with her primary school teacher. Lily’s position as the golden child could be solidified for a day when she mowed the neighbour’s lawn unprompted. The downside, of course, was that a success for one was a failure for another. If Lily was praised, Petunia was scorned. If Petunia was praised, Lily was scorned. It never lasted for long, either. It was hard to predict when the wheel would turn, when the success which had been lauded for minutes or hours suddenly became insufficient, when it was time to go on the hunt for something new.

Mum was sick, too, had been since around Lily’s birth. Cancer, Lily presumes now, even though they were never really told. Dad liked to use it as a leverage tool, to tell them that Mum was dying and her only two daughters were disappointments. That usually got them in line, but it was awful. Every day, not knowing how Mum really was… It made the drive to impress so much stronger, to give Mum something to live for. Maybe if she was finally proud of at least one of them, she wouldn’t die out of spite.

When Lily was seven, and Petunia was nine, they created a temporary truce and built a plan: neither of them would fight for one week, no betrayal, no achievements. They would stand together, and weather the storm hand in hand.

Well, that lasted for three full days, until Dad got drunk and called them both “my greatest regrets” and Mum threatened to lock them in the closet for asking to be fed for the first time in twenty-four hours. By the next day, Petunia had yanked out three of her teeth and grinned at Lily from around the corner in satisfaction, mouth bloody. That’s when Lily knew that something undefinable and yet deeply crucial to their relationship had snapped, sending them both adrift from the only one who could understand.

No, the Evans sisters never really could be on the same side, in the end. Petunia resents her, Lily knows, for everything she is that Tuney wants: the golden child, the perfect daughter, the special one, the witch. Except, Lily wasn’t always that. No, sometimes, she was the piece of dirt under their parents’ shoe while Petunia sat on the throne. She wishes Petunia hated their parents rather than her. That the moments of closeness between them could have been more frequent, that the hurt in her chest would go away when she thought of Petunia, not get worse.

The Hogwarts letter just confirmed everything that Petunia believed: Lily was special, Petunia was not. Except, Petunia was special to Lily. That was her big sister, who broke a girl’s nose because she made fun of Lily’s hair, who made her canned pasta for dinner when their parents forgot and let Lily eat the whole can, who made Lily bracelets made of string, with beautiful colours and intricate patterns, and Lily would wear them for months until they turned to tatters. Despite everything, despite the competition, despite the fight, Lily only ever wanted Petunia.

So why are they still playing the same roles as they did when they were little? Why are they still fighting, when Mum is dead and Dad is drinking himself to death, and they are adults now with agency, not subjected to the whims of their immature parents? Lily wants nothing more than to cross the divide, to take Petunia’s hand, to stand tall against their parents and say: we aren’t playing your games anymore. We don’t have to compete anymore. We can be friends.

But Petunia doesn’t want to be your friend, a sinister little voice in her head will say, and it’s true. Petunia wants nothing more to do with Lily anymore. The James encounter was the last straw, the fraying rope finally snapping. She remembers Petunia’s eyes as they left the restaurant, that cold and empty look Lily remembers from when their parents used to fight. That’s when she knew it would never be the same again, competition replaced by loathing.

Despite it all, though, surely Tuney would come to her wedding, right?

~*~

The wedding happens one late August evening. It starts like this; James, rolling over in bed and slowly stroking Lily’s arm to wake her, whispering in her ear: “I want to marry you soon.” And Lily, sleepily, had mumbled a yes before letting herself be kissed.

They both feel it now, the war encroaching on every aspect of their lives. Lily didn’t really know Emma Vanity, but it feels as though death is staring them down, around every corner, inescapable. ‘Live while you can’ becomes the motto running through Lily’s head, over and over again, a mantra pushing her to get out of bed every morning, not to succumb to the despair of the situation in which she is in.

Lily and James get married in the Potters’ backyard. Someone sets up a canopy, a little archway, some chairs. Floating candles all around, the sky overhead streaked with yellow and orange and pink, like a watercolour painting.

Sirius is there, of course, with a daisy in his pocket to denote his role as best man, and Remus and Pete, all wearing fine muggle suits, the sleeves and pants magically shortened. Mary and Marlene (a strange, complicated look on Mary’s face that Lily couldn’t quite puzzle out) in pink sundresses, holding bouquets of daisies from Fleamont’s garden. Lily couldn’t have chosen between them for her maid of honour, couldn’t split her heart in two, so they both were. Euphemia and Fleamont, smiling so happily at them, holding each other like they are recalling their own wedding day. Alice and Frank and Florean, Alice’s dad, standing together, Alice’s eyes still rimmed red but smiling, nonetheless.

But Petunia isn’t there. Of course she isn’t there. Lily had gotten her letter, hadn’t she? Petunia was opposed to the union, rejected James and “all his magician oddities”, believed Lily was making the wrong decision. The footnote was unwritten yet still clear: you can turn back and come home. Petunia would always be too proud to write it, and Lily would always be too proud to obey it, so they both collectively ignored it.

Maybe it would hurt less if Lily didn’t dream about Petunia every night. Little, innocuous moments; eating together at the dinner table, walking home after school, buying a candy bar from the corner store and sharing it in silence. Petunia’s face always seems distorted in these dreams, so much so that they’ll often end with Lily just trying to scrutinize her sister’s features, find something recognizable and familiar so she won’t be so sad anymore.

Shouldn’t Lily be happy? She’s marrying the love of her life, and he looks like the sun, radiant smile lighting up his entire body just from looking at her. She did it, didn’t she? Found a guy who loved her and whom she loved, with whom she could build a future? Someone she wanted to live with, by choice and not by default. She’d escaped the curse of her parents, and wasn’t that the goal?

There was always a caveat to her plan: she had to escape with Petunia. But now Lily was standing on the other side, quite literally a world apart from her sister, staring at her friends and future husband, and all she really wanted was the one person who refused to come.

~*~

The wedding of James and Lily is probably the most beautiful thing Marlene has ever seen.

It’s sort of hard to believe your heart can be so full for two other people, that their happiness can be so infectious. Watching them up at the altar, staring at each other with such tenderness, it was like the world had been stabilized.

Admittedly, it seemed for a moment that disaster was in store. Marlene couldn’t miss the look that flashed over Lily’s face when she saw them all. She didn’t really know what to make of it, whether the furrowed eyebrows meant sadness or frustration, whether the tilt of Lily’s lips had a greater emotion behind it. When Marlene had asked Mary later on, she’d been non-committal. It didn’t take a very perceptive person to recognize something was going on with Mary, but of course Marlene couldn’t read her very well, so it was best to just drop the matter entirely.

The blip was brief, thankfully, and it took just a few seconds for the smile to spread across Lily’s face, a giddy, infectious grin that made Marlene’s heart explode with love for her.

James and Lily, maybe the two people Marlene believes deserves happiness most. They don’t really talk about Lily’s parents anymore, but they used to, the three of them, laying under Mary’s bed like they used to in first year before they got too big. Lily would chew on her cuticle and recount an episode where she’d broken her arm and neither of her parents brought her to hospital for a week. Mary had looked genuinely shocked, and Marlene had shrugged a shoulder and matched that story with one where her mom had forced her to kneel in still-smouldering ashes and pray. Parents were just shit sometimes.

But Lily wanted better for herself, and Marlene knew she deserved better. Lily Evans deserved the world, and even that was too little to offer her. And James, who had such a big heart, who could love her in the way Lily deserved. Truth be told, Marlene has been pulling for the two of them ever since second year. To see them together now, standing at the altar, hand in hand, Marlene’s lips simply can’t contain the joy in her heart.

There’s another thing, though. Marlene knows she’ll never have a wedding, never be a wife. Marriage is reserved for a man and a woman, is it not? One day, she’ll love someone so hard it physically burns, but no one will ever take it seriously. Even to wear a band on her ring finger would be a betrayal of all that is sacred. Marlene may be a heathen, but some things still cannot be betrayed

Living through Lily and James, then, has to be enough. Marlene has to soak up the emotion, to live in it, hopefully to quell her thirst for it in the future.

Standing there, to the side of the altar, watching two of her closest friends say their vows, Marlene finds herself being held closer to Sirius, his arm around her shoulders, her hand holding his side. They don’t say anything, probably because they don’t need to, but there’s a shared experience between them that need not be verbalized. I’m here, I got you, I understand. Neither of them will get married, and neither of them would ever say it, but it hurts more than either of them cares to admit.

~*~

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter die within a week of the wedding.

Fleamont goes first. Dragon pox, the medi-witch says, a look of sympathy on her drawn face. It’s going around this time of year, especially among older folk. For them, it hits like a tornado, and chances of recovery are slim.

He doesn’t suffer, at the very least. The infection reaches his brain quickly, shuts down the pain receptors, dims his awareness of what’s really happening to him. He is still speaking up until his death, and in the last day, James comes out into the living room where they’ve all gathered to say goodbye and says very softly that he wants to speak to Marlene, and only Marlene.

Alice squeezes her shoulder in support, but Marlene doesn’t really feel anything, just a hollowness that felt so utterly foreign to her that she doesn’t know what to do with it. Seeing Fleamont in the bed, skin tinged green, with boils all over his skin, smiling at her, it all feels too unreal. Fleamont, Monty, the man who practically raised her when Mum was cruel and when Dad was away, the man who loved her like his own.

“I don’t care what she says to you. No matter what, you come home to us. Understand?” He’d said that to her in December, told her to come back to a house that wasn’t really hers, to people who weren’t really hers, but he was giving her permission to think of them as hers. To think of him as her father, because she was his and he was hers.

In that little room, Fleamont smiling at up her, and it’s a dopey grin, one that doesn’t look right in this state, and Marlene suddenly wants to curl up into his side and cry like she used to. But she has to be strong, so she takes a moment to hide her tears and steps forward, takes his knobbly hand, and tries to pour all of her love for him into that simple touch.

What Fleamont says to Marlene are his last words, and she’ll never tell anyone what he said to her. All anybody knows is that five minutes after she enters, Marlene comes out of the room, body wracked with silent sobs, refusing to speak to anyone, pushing past to reach the warm August air outside.

They have to keep Fleamont and Euphemia separate when it is first discovered that Fleamont is ill. Of course, after decades of sharing, Euphemia catches dragon pox too. She is in a different room, and somehow, she never asks how Fleamont is doing. The day he dies, a light goes out of Euphemia’s eyes, and it is decided nobody needs to tell her; she already knows.

Euphemia dies just a day shy of her seventieth birthday, holding James’ hand, Sirius by their side. Unlike Fleamont, Euphemia insists on being in control of all her faculties, so she dies aware and exhausted from the effort of knowing. She won’t take her eyes off of her sons, eyes moving back and forth as though trying to memorize their faces. James says she didn’t go until he’d said, “We’ll be okay.”

When Euphemia and Fleamont Potter die, the world gets a little dimmer. Marlene likes to listen to the birds in summer, how they twitter and chirp back and forth, especially on the vast Potter property. She remembers each individual sound, where they are in the trees, what they look like. It is the one thing Marlene could pay attention to forever and never be bored or fall out of love.

The day of the funeral, Marlene realizes one of her favourite birds has gone silent, and she never does hear its song again. For the rest of her life, that birdsong remains her favourite sound in the entire world.

Chapter Text

September 1979

The letter arrives from Regulus Black on the first of the month, the owl flying straight to Pandora’s bedroom in Malfoy Manor. At this time, Pandora is lounging upside down on her bed, sifting through the new tarot deck Sybill Trelawney had given her as a graduation gift a few months prior. They were dormmates, but Pandora was mostly just waiting for the moment Sybill needed her, somebody to lean on. That’s what she does, she lies in wait until she is wanted.

Pandora hates Malfoy Manor, hates the smell of it and the people. She’s been living here by default for maybe two, three years at this point, ever since Dad cozied up to the Malfoys and Evan joined the Death Eaters. She doesn’t see Evan much these days, they’re all sequestered in another wing.

Pandora is here as a guest, imprisoned without promise of parole. People don’t like to talk about it out loud, but it’s common knowledge that Oberon Rosier is having a lot of financial issues at the moment. Whatever wealth the Rosiers had fifty years ago to get them on the Sacred Twenty-Eight has dried up, and her father is a leech for power. If he cannot get it himself, he will suck up to anyone who has it.

She knows she’ll get out of here, though, soon enough. It is simply stifling in the moment, when you forget the entire unfolding of time. Xeno lives here too with his branch of the Malfoys. Even though nobody wants him or Pandora or Xanthe here, it is more dangerous for them to leave. She knows there is the active concern of either of the three of them to be kidnapped, ransomed, or murdered to prove a point. She won’t be murdered, neither will Xeno or Xanthe, but to say anything on the matter would be showing her hand. Best to let people believe she is crazy than lose her advantage in the game.

People mostly come and go, for business, but the place is so big that it never feels cramped. Pandora has a habit of lurking though, hiding around corners or projecting voices so she can overhear. She knows how to go undetected.

The Blacks are here often. Narcissa, of course, lives here, and Bellatrix comes every week or so. Sometimes Pandora will see Auntie Druella and Uncle Cygnus, but they never acknowledge her. Just like Felix, Pandora has basically been disowned, allowed to keep her name only for appearances’ sake. In her head, she already goes by a different name, one that will be hers in just a few years: Lovegood. Two things that the Rosiers and Malfoys are incapable of: love and goodness. It is a reminder of everything that she and Xeno comes from, and everything that she must actively protest.

She sees Regulus here and there, usually trailing Walburga and Orion, or Bellatrix. Is it possible for a barely nineteen-year-old to already be going white in the hair? At his temples, tufts of white mixed into the messy mop of dark curls, which become increasingly dull and limp. His eyes, sunken in like a dead man, makes Pandora see his fate even more clearly, like she can see him drowning right in front of her. How can a person be alive and dead simultaneously? Regulus is a walking corpse, and so is Pandora herself. Everybody is dying a little bit every moment, but to see the second of your death while you’re eating breakfast recalls a certain level of determination, to keep eating cereal in the face of the eternal void.

Pandora has seen the letter before, of course, and she is not surprised. Really, she admires Regulus’ commitment to punctuality, that he is not writing her before he has made any strides in his research. He knows when to call her, and she knows when to arrive.

~*~

The lair – for that’s what Pandora’s taken to calling it, half-mockingly and half-seriously – is in an abandoned restaurant in London, not far from 13 Grimmauld Place. The Blacks likely wouldn’t take kindly to the affairs of their only remaining son, she guesses. She remembers Sirius as a boy and she remembers him as a man, the newspaper articles denouncing the “mad Black heir” after the war. He was always loud, brass in a way that Walburga Black clearly had been once and deeply resented seeing in her son. Bellatrix adored and hated him, hated him for taking the heir position, which was rightfully hers, and adored him for being her own, the same fire and ash running through their veins.

Here is the one limitation of Pandora’s ability: time only exists alongside her life. When Pandora is born, screaming and bloody, minutes before her twin brother, time begins. When Pandora dies, freshly twenty-nine years old, time ends. All she can see is the span of her life, only so far as she can grasp it. maybe for a more conceited person, this would mean that time exists only for her, according to her whim, that she is the only one that time cares about within its existence.

Pandora isn’t that person. She mourns not being able to know Sirius’ fate, or her three cousins. For them, she can do very little. To see a person’s life in its entirety gives her an advantage, an ability to recognize what they have not received and provide it. what has Regulus not received? Companionship, a meeting of minds on an equal level. Pandora can do that, but she cannot know what Sirius needs, what Narcissa needs. It is perhaps the greatest tragedy of her existence: if it weren’t for her knowledge, Pandora Rosier would be utterly useless.

The door of the restaurant is locked, beyond even Alohamora. Thankfully, Pandora knows how to open it because she created the spell. Actually, it was one of the first things she shared with Regulus, almost two years ago now. She feels some of that inherited pride bubbling in her, the Rosier desire for recognition.

The place is a mess, books and parchment and scrolls strewn everywhere. Empty takeout containers litter the tables, jumpers and shirts hanging on the backs of chairs. On the floor, sitting on a ratty blanket, is the king of the castle, clad in a grey t-shirt and muggle jogging pants. Pandora considers him, the strangeness of regal Regulus amid this mess. Of course, he is also a mess, a jumble of tangled wires and mismatched neurons, but to see it externalized makes Pandora’s chest feel funny, like an inner sneeze.

“I have some calculations I need you to look over.” No pleasantries, no acknowledgement of her effort in leaving Malfoy Manor and getting to London for this. Regulus Black is a king, and he has no use for politeness.
Pandora does not obey, to obey would mean to follow him blindly. No, she knows his game, and she respects it. Sitting herself very carefully on the blanket, a deliberate space between their bodies, legs tucked under her flowery dress, Pandora looks over Regulus’ shoulder at his leather-bound notebook, taking it from his hands when he offers it, careful not to touch skin to skin.

If you had no idea who Regulus is, where he will end up, this notebook would come as a shock; inkblot stains, slanted and sloppy cursive going in and out of the lines, addendums added here and there in the margins. It is messy and flawed and brilliant. It is not fit for the remaining Black heir, the hope of the pureblood legacy. It is the scrawl of a teenage budding dictator, single minded in his pursuit and leaving no time left unfulfilled, no thought left unwritten. It is the entire antithesis of what he should be, the representation of the complex anatomy of Regulus Black.

Pandora looks up at Regulus, at the straightness of his profile in the dim lighting. “You need to tell me what it is you need me for. It cannot simply be for basic calculations.” She will not tell him she already knows, even if she has a feeling he’s aware of that already.

Taking the book back, running a long thin finger down the page, he speaks in a flat, monotone voice: “Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

If Pandora were a kinder person, someone who actually cared about people’s lives beyond the points of their death, she would say ‘no’, let herself be walked out by a man who needs someone who knows. Whatever kind of person she is, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Pandora says what she needs to in order for time to progress as it should.

“The greatest form of Dark Magic there is. I remember your notes on the matter, but I couldn’t find anything else.”

Regulus nods, like a professor. “Right. There’s only one book that speaks in depth on the process. Otherwise, it is considered too horrific to mention.” His grey eyes land on hers. “Lord Voldemort took my house elf, to kill him to test his protection charms. He is protecting something, a secret powerful enough to kill him.” Reaching for another notebook, flipping through it to a dogeared page, showing it to her. “There are three means of reaching immortality: the Philosopher’s Stone, the consumption of unicorn blood, and horcruxes.”

“There’s no such thing as lasting immortality.” Pandora, Lady of Death, responds.

The flicker of a smile ghosts Regulus’ lips, a strange, stilted thing that Pandora is awfully endeared by. “Good. A body cannot survive without its components, long enough for proper existence, anyway. He is keeping a locket in a basin, reaching it is a trial in of itself. Why would that be?”

“He surrounds himself with men, like pawns.” Pandora likes this game of chess, likes how it makes her brain turn. Now, finally, someone is realizing her knowledge. “That’s the way you don’t get killed, you make it impossible to reach you.”

“A part of him is in that locket.” Regulus watches the steady flame in front of him, and he looks haunted, unwashed and dirty, and yet he is still royal, there is still a lofty tilt to his chin, a smugness in his shoulders. “To get to him, we need to get to it first.”

Pandora feels it, the weight landing suddenly on her entire body, the understanding that this is her moment, when time takes her in its talons and forces her to play. No longer a bystander, an observer, now she must step into the light, even if no one will ever know.

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

~*~

Sitting across the dusty table, watching Regulus Black spoon chow mein into his mouth with wooden chopsticks, Pandora stares at his face, how the flesh and sinew tears away to reveal a little boy, hiding in his body. This is how old he will get, he will not meet twenty with a handshake. This face, this body, this… thing will drown, lungs bursting with blood, coming back to life for a brief moment before his death with a final grasp at greatness, at being remembered. He will die with nobody knowing what he did, or what he wanted to be.

She can keep him alive, she knows that. In November, he will place his life in her hands and she will make the deciding call, but it doesn’t have to be this way. He can grow old, living in a house not far from hers and Xeno’s, Luna will call him Uncle, he will make a friend again, maybe one who doesn’t know his history. He will take up painting, and come over for supper every Sunday, where they’ll play chess until it gets too late. Time will not be an urgency, because they will have already lived past the point of no return.

What does it mean to kill? Pandora’s hands are stained with blood, but it is because she carries the bodies with her. It may not be her fault that they are dead, but she knew and did nothing. Is that not akin to killing them?
She has the chance to save him. Look at him now, pushing his carton to her without making eye contact, so she can pick at the half remaining. Is there some form of kindness, of goodness to him? Children are all good, deep down. It is only as they reach adulthood that the goodness is stifled to death, chained in the basement of a body. Can he be kind again? He has killed people, and he will again. There is no remorse, she knows. Is it ethical to let him live, knowing what he will do?

Pandora knows too much. Is it possible he can change? Change implies an unexpectedness, a turn back when no one is looking for it. Pandora knows the course of his life, knows every twist and turn of his winding path. Change cannot exist for her, because that is just who he is. And Regulus Black won’t change; he has been set in his conviction for a long time. Only circumstances have changed, not his ultimate goal.

The moment has not yet arrived for her to decide, thankfully. She already knows what will happen, but the illusion of choice nevertheless is a comforting one.

Pushing aside the food, she leans across the table, palms flat on the wood. “Where is this book?”

Regulus finishes swallowing, flips to a new page in his book, looks up at her. His eyes are catlike, intense and uncanny in this light. She’s realizing he only looks her in the eye when he has carefully measured out his words, figured out how to mask any micro-expressions, all to convey a particular image. Too bad Pandora can see right through him. “Its whereabouts are a bit of a mystery. I believe there was one at Hogwarts once, I recall seeing it in Pince’s notes.” When she stares at him a little too long, he adds in a tone that suggests he isn’t surprised she’s curious, “For a time I helped with the shelving. Good for a restless mind. Regardless, if anyone has it, it is Albus Dumbledore, which is a lost cause. Luckily, there are two routes remaining for us. The Averys and Potters were well-known blood mages in the Middle Ages, there are documents remaining that prove it. They are likely to have a copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art.”

Pandora weighs this. “The Potters wouldn’t give it to us, if they still have it.”

“They do.” Pandora arches an eyebrow. Regulus’ lips thin very slightly. “No matter how much they like to protest, they come from the same place as you and I do. An artefact like that will prove useful one day, and they know it.”

“Euphemia and Fleamont Potter are dead. Either we go through James Potter, or Charlus and Cepheus Potter. Would either of them acquiesce?”

“Not James.” The strange smile Regulus gives is bloodless and strained. “I have no goodwill remaining with him or my brother. I doubt that Charlus would have it; everyone in my family knows him to be weak-hearted and soft. Cepheus is, for lack of a better term, an utter imbecile. Our best bet are the Averys.”

“I’m not certain either of the Neil Averys will be particularly generous with their inheritance.” Pandora twists a lock of hair around her finger and lets the coil spring away. “My experience of them has been… less than positive.”

“I am doubtful anyone has positive opinions on the Averys. Regardless, I am familiar with the junior. He is easy to manipulate, though he would never know.” He drums his fingers lazily on the table. She can imagine the crown nestled into his two-toned curls, the weight of his blood dragging his body down into the depths. How can nobody see it, the tragedy of his existence? He was never meant to live, to be happy. Regulus was cursed long before he was even born, handed a destiny he could never escape.

Suddenly, he meets her eyes once again. “If we are successful – and we will be – you will be rewarded handsomely.”

A not-entirely-unpleasant flip in her stomach. “I don’t agree with you, Regulus, about any of this. Our motives may be aligned here, but our end goals are not.”

A quirk of his eyebrow, so calculated, nothing genuine or earnest about him in this moment. “I don’t need you to. The world will be ours, whatever we wish to do with it. I would not be unhappy to rule alongside you.”

You could be good, she thinks hopelessly. Pandora loves a lot of people, and a lot of them do awful things. Just once, she wishes she could change them, that her love could turn them into something actually worth loving.

“Some things have to be done, Pandora. He wronged the House of Black. Now he has to step aside and let another take up the mission.” Regulus hesitates suddenly, watching Pandora like a hawk. “You have heard me say this before.” Not a question, a statement. A fact: Pandora has been here before and has not been here yet and will always be here.

Slowly, she nods. Regulus’ eyes narrow. “How much can you see?”

“Everything in my lifetime.”

A spark lights in his flinty gaze. “You know how this will end.”

“Yes.” There is no sense in lying to him, not if she wishes to stay. King Regulus requires trust in all matters, she understands this. “You’ll get the book from the Averys, I’ll work on the ritual. We’ll meet in November with our findings.” Hesitating on the words, trying to decide what he needs to know. Some things, he cannot. “You’ll die in December.” This is not a happy ending, she tries to say.

Regulus is staring at her with life in his eyes, and he is not drowning now, and for a moment Pandora believes they can take control, wrangle time out of the world’s hands and lead it themselves. She knows what he is thinking before he says it, because in a hundred different voices, this moment occurring all at once across time, Regulus says, “Can time be changed?”

Hopeful, terrible, plotting. He is at once a little boy facing down his own death and a dark lord ready to destroy death entirely. If he lives, Pandora will be saving both of them, but the little boy is too weak to win. To let him live would be unleashing another Voldemort on the world, one who knows still how to hide as the boy.

Does she love him enough to let the whole world burn?

In every timeline, Pandora responds: “I don’t know,” even though she already knows the answer. Free will does not exist, but it is easier to pretend.

~*~

Dorcas wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming.

When she comes to her senses, sheets soaked and crumpled around her, watching the ceiling fan over her head whirl as her heartbeat slows down, the fog over her eyes starts to clear. The image sits on the tip of her tongue, seared into her brain but not visible enough anymore to return to a panic.

The art book is on the floor, and she picks it up hastily and cradles it to her chest. The dimensions of it are so familiar to her, just holding it in her arms is enough to ease her breathing a little, return her to earth. After several minutes of this, rocking back and forth very slightly, Dorcas puts it back on the nightstand and goes out to the kitchen.

Alastor isn’t home, even though it’s nearly four in the morning. Pouring herself a glass of water from the tap, Dorcas leans against the counter and sips at it mildly, staring at the parchment strewn across the small table. Alastor has to set up rotations for almost constant guard, usually when there’s a number of important Order members in attendance. Dorcas had specifically requested not to be present for the funeral two months back. To be around such grief… may be beyond her capacity.

Dorcas is no prophet. No, she just pays attention. Of course, Emma Vanity couldn’t stick around. Of course, Dumbledore disposed of her. Alice had mentioned in a low voice (as though Dorcas would tell anybody) that she wasn’t supposed to go, just Emma, and Dorcas had to stifle an incredulous laugh. How do you not realize what’s happening here, she wanted to ask. Anyone who cannot fall neatly into line is a flight risk. Dorcas is a flight risk, Emma is a flight risk, though perhaps for different reasons: pureblood politics are always finicky, and the Vanitys have a reputation for being fence-sitters. Add onto that Emma’s relationship with a now-known Death Eater (hiding away in secluded locations does have one perk: eavesdropping), and of course she would be disposed of sooner rather than later.

Dorcas is useful, she knows that. Regardless of the prophecy, she is a killer. Regardless of if Dumbledore approves of it, he needs it to win his war. Emma is not needed.

There is a common linking thread here: Slytherin. The thread of emerald and silver tying together everyone in a neat bow: purebloods, blood-supremacists, untrustworthy. Dorcas is there too, because why not?

Anyone who is surprised is a fool. Dorcas doesn’t much care for fools, nor does she care for grief. She keeps her distance.

~*~

Alastor is in the kitchen several days later, cooking pancakes. Dorcas, having finally completed her ritual of waking up screaming and sweating, forcing her body into machine mode, and making herself appear functional, comes to sit at the table, sweeping the scrolls to the side.

“I need to speak to you,” Alastor says gruffly over his shoulder. Dorcas doesn’t answer, instead reaching for the Daily Prophet laying at Alastor’s seat and opening it.

“ATTACK ON HOGSMEADE” is the top headline, smaller text explaining that this was only the outskirts of Hogsmeade and resulted in two deaths and five injured. Dorcas snorts a little. “Weren’t Langford and Ollivander supposed to be on Hogsmeade duty?”

“Langford was found staggeringly drunk at Three Broomsticks, while Ollivander had fallen asleep on a bench.”

“Ah, the dignity of our post.” Dorcas says, though she doesn’t entirely blame either of them. Were she there, on a boring post, the temptation to get incredibly drunk and pass out would be extreme.

Alastor places a plate of pancakes before Dorcas, taking his seat opposite her. There’s a large rectangular bandage on his forehead from the day before, lopsided on his face in a way that makes him look ridiculous. She lifts her fork in thanks and digs in.

“Dorcas.” The seriousness of his tone draws her eyes up to his again. There is a grim set to his mouth, and Dorcas has a horrible sinking feeling she associates with the bedroom door in her old house, standing before it and knowing something awful is behind the door. Tilting her chin upwards, feeling that cold exterior bleed across her body into a hard shell, she raises an eyebrow to make Alastor keep talking.

“Faisal and Maysoon Shafiq were murdered last night in their home. They think it was their son.”

Shafiq. Inside, the pain radiates through her limbs, pulsating like a burning star inside her core. Perhaps no other name can reach inside her body like that and yank out every nerve in her body.

Stupidly, all Dorcas can think to say is, “It isn’t in the Prophet.”

“I reached out to a contact, asked them not to run the story until tomorrow.” Alastor leans forward onto the table, but he’s blurry and unreal. “One of our Aurors was stationed nearby, is tailing Edmund Shafiq as we speak. He’s just crossed into France. They’re waiting for our command to take further action.”

Something in his words cauterizes the wounds, sterilizing her bones. Blinking rapidly, drawing herself up to perfect posture, Dorcas recognizes Alastor’s face before her again. “Is this Order business?”

Alastor shakes his head, eyes narrowed slightly in watching her. “As far as I know, Dumbledore isn’t aware yet.” His gaze penetrates her skull, but it isn’t invasive; it’s a look of agreement, of decision-making.

Dorcas doesn’t ask why he is giving her this chance, this opportunity for revenge. She doesn’t have to. Alastor would want the same thing. They don’t need to speak words to understand what has to be done, and how to justify it: a Death Eater has killed now three people, three purebloods. That is grounds for a pursuit, and if he happens to be killed in the ensuing fight… well, the Aurors have probable cause, don’t they?

“When do we leave?”

~*~

“My brother is a rebellious piece of shit.” Florence says, sighing, plucking a pack of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans from the shelf and handing it to Dorcas. “If my parents look up, he’ll look down. Ever the contrarian, him.” Her gaze drifts to the sugar quills, and she moves over swiftly.

Dorcas follows her lazily, holding the candy in her arms as Florence makes her picks. She’s the one buying, anyway, cause Dorcas has no wizard money, and so the least Dorcas can do is hold the candy, since they’ll be sharing it tonight. A hickey peeks out from Florence’s collar, and Dorcas feels a strange sense of pride, hoping people notice. That way, she can think to herself in watching people’s faces that she’s the one who did it.

People don’t pay them much mind, as they weave their way through Honeydukes. They used to, confused as to why Florence Shafiq was seemingly so interested in the strange and probably muggleborn Slytherin girl. Admittedly, Dorcas had had those same thoughts, but now it seems most of their peers are either used to them or have moved on to more interesting topics.

“The worst thing is, he’s getting more and more extremist in his views. Like, over the summer, he wouldn’t shut up about muggleborns. He and Dad got into a shouting match over dinner. Do you like Fizzing Whizzbees?”

“Not particularly.” Dorcas trails her fingers along the shelf.

“Hm. I’ll get some for myself, then. No, but it’s gotten really bad. I hope you haven’t met him, Cassie. You’d probably hex his balls off.”

“Sounds like I would be glad to.”

Florence grins back at her, a wide and earnest expression that makes Dorcas smile back in return. “You don’t have siblings, do you?”

“No.”

“It’s the weirdest thing. It’s like, he’s a shitty person, but I still remember him when he was a kid and we used to play gobstones, you know? And now, he’s saying awful shit and he keeps talking about that Voldemort guy and… it’s like I don’t even know him anymore.” Her eyes land on Dorcas. “Cas, he would absolutely hate you.” The way she says it is sort of awed, and Dorcas knows she means it so sincerely that she smiles a bit in response.

Something about Florence these days softens her, places a warmth in her chest that is welcoming, not fearful. At the ripe age of eighteen, Dorcas finds herself ready to be loved and loved in return, finally.

Florence sighs dramatically to signal the end of her rant, reaches over to Dorcas’ arms to filter through the candy. “Do you think we have enough? Anything else you want?”

Dorcas, quietly tracing the line of Florence’s nose, shakes her head. “I think that’s enough.”

~*~

Everything in her body thrums on a chase. The magic, tantalizingly close, spreading through her fingertips with a warmth that makes her feel alive. Like this, Dorcas feels powerful, unstoppable, dangerous.

Edmund Shafiq has settled for the night on the outskirts of Lyon, in an empty home. She and Alastor apparate a bit further, travelling on foot so as not to arouse his suspicion. Dorcas goes first, wand in hand and outstretched, body curled in a moving defensive position. Alastor follows behind, limping with his prosthetic, but still keeping his steps as light as possible. He’s the only one Dorcas will ever allow to watch her back, knows his movements as well as her own. She trusts him, and he trusts her. They move together.

Even present like this in her body, power in her bones, her mind drifts to Florence. It’s been a while since she was here, in Dorcas’ head, like this, all of the softest and sweetest moments brought back to the forefront. Sometimes, Dorcas thinks of her as her conscience, murmuring when Dorcas becomes too vicious, too violent. Except, it doesn’t take long to realize that can’t be right: Florence would never stand up to Dorcas like that. She would have followed Dorcas to the ends of the earth without protest. Maybe that was why Dorcas grew to love her, in that weird way that she does.

Tonight, Dorcas is sober, and Florence lingers closer in her memory, but there is something indecipherable in her gaze that makes Dorcas’ spine prickle. Does she know, laying on the bed years ago, staring up at Dorcas with a yearning that she could never quite hide, that Dorcas is about to kill her brother?

Revenge is one of the few facts of life that Dorcas does not question. Oh, an eye for an eye and the world goes blind? Dorcas would dig out the tongue and eardrum and lungs if she could, just to watch the world suffer. Actions must have consequences, and Dorcas is more than happy to play executioner.

Alastor clicks his tongue to signal the house up ahead. Dorcas moves quickly, scoping it out: two levels, regular suburban home, a number of windows. The front light is off, but a light inside can be seen from the side of the house.

Without words, they weave their way around the back of the house, Dorcas murmuring Lumos to light their path through the weeds and overgrown grass. Clearly, this place hasn’t been inhabited in a while. A flash: the front lawn outside her old home, the sneaking vines winding their way around every possible target. Her step falters, and she stumbles a little on a rock, Alastor’s hand snapping out to catch her waist. He gives her a strange look, but not one of incomprehension; he saw her home too, didn’t he? Shaking him off, Dorcas keeps moving, more power in her legs now.

Something is burning inside her, that rush of rage that completes her body, fills the gaping void in her chest. It sharpens her vision, clears her mind of distraction, makes her heart pulse with blood. Part of her misses this, the constant anger, the body within a body that takes over completely, allowing whatever the rest of her is to breathe a moment. The danger is, Dorcas likes it so much that sometimes she never wants to let go of it.

Alastor knows this – fuck, he knows it – and he steps ahead of her as they reach the back door, holding out his arm to prevent her from barging ahead. That familiar rush of unrestrained fury bubbles up in her throat at the gesture, even though later she will be somewhat grateful that he went first; Dorcas, in this state, is a destroyer. Testing the door, it opens under his grip without resistance. This is a very bad sign. Rule number one: in war, a door that opens without pressure means trouble.

Slowly and silently, Alastor budges the door open and slips in, Dorcas following quickly behind and flicking off Lumos, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Their steps become deliberate, no sudden movements. Dorcas digs her thumbnail into the ridge at the base of her wand, a repetitive motion to quell the fire in her blood if only for a moment.

A scream, somewhere above them. Without a second thought, Dorcas breaks into a sprint, tackling the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in her ears, following the sound like a glowing arrow on the ceiling.

Something solid connects with her body, knocking her to the ground on a soft surface. Below her, a squeak. Regaining her wits, Dorcas rolls off, lights Lumos and thrusts her wand in the thing’s face.

A boy, no older than eight or nine, stares up at her, wide eyed and petrified. Down one side of his face, three long scars stand stark and white on his dark brown face.

Breathing heavily, suddenly aware of what she is doing, staring at the kid, Dorcas lowers her wand.

Two arms grab her from behind, wrestling her down onto the floorboards, smashing her cheek into the ground and sending shockwaves of pain through her jaw. Clawlike grip on her head, tugging at her braids, holding her down. Her wand is scattered on the floor, and Dorcas moves to grab it, fingers grazing the hilt.

A crack, as a boot steps down on her wrist. Dorcas howls, yanking her limp hand into her chest and kicking out with all her might, kneecapping the assailant and knocking him to the floor. Scrambling for her wand again, keeping her weeping arm close, but the guy grabs her face, pushing her back with such force that it almost surprises her. Two punches to her jaw before she can stop him, kneeing him in the groin but missing. A body on top of her, straddling her, hitting her head back and forth—

“Stupefy!”

A beat. Then, the crushing weight of a burly full-grown man topples onto Dorcas, the pressure on her arm sending flashes of white into her vision, the pain almost unbearable for a moment.

Two scrabbling hands pulling the guy off of her, and it takes a few seconds for her eyes to refocus. Except, instead of Alastor over her, it’s Marlene fucking McKinnon.

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Impolite to take the Lord’s name in vain.” Marlene responds, as though an automatic response, and then wincing when she realizes.

Dorcas is mad. Oh, this makes her madder than before, every synapse firing in her brain at lightning speeds. What is Marlene McKinnon doing here? Fuck, does Dumbledore know?

“Dorcas, he’s running!” Alastor’s voice from downstairs. Without thinking, shoving past Marlene, Dorcas takes off, not missing a step down the stairs and blasting out the front door, spotting the shadowy figure up ahead down the road.

Legs pumping, breath escaping in short bursts, Dorcas channels every single Quidditch training she ever undertook, running like her life depends on it—because it does. Because Florence’s life depends on it. because this man killed Florence, her Florence, and Dorcas will never rest until his face is crushed under her boot, smashed to a bloody pulp on her accord.

He takes a sharp corner, and she pursues him, gaining a little, all thoughts of her damaged hand and Marlene McKinnon flying from her brain. Anger and adrenaline meet in the core of her body, feed every single limb to full power. This is Dorcas Meadowes, desperate to kill, and nothing will stand in her way.

Close enough to grab his hood, yanking him down and throwing herself on top of him, pressing into his chest with all her weight, grabbing his collar in her hand to see his face. Yes, it is him, unmistakably of Florence’s blood, with those deep set eyes and sloped nose and thick dark eyebrows.

Pulling him in close, hissing in his face, spitting on him as she articulates every word: “You’re going to fucking die in my arms, dipshit.”

Edmund laughs, spittle flying into her eye now. It is cold, devoid of any feeling. That same empty, hollow look haunts his eyes when he looks up at her. “It is already done.”

Slamming him back into the pavement, watching the breath be snatched from his lungs, the satisfying crack of his shoulders. Dorcas lifts her wand, jamming it into his eye socket, watching him scream as blood and fluid gushes out, like a volcano. The point goes deeper in, his voice shatters, and she laughs at him, the weakness of him. “Don’t like that, now, do you?”

“Dorcas!” Somebody wrestling at her shoulders, trying to tear her away. Dorcas elbows them in the stomach, turns her attention to the other eye.

“Get off her!” Familiar, like Dorcas’ heartbeat; Alastor, somewhere behind her, and she hears a stifled yell and rustling. She refuses to take her eyes off of Edmund, blood weeping down his cheek, mouth open with no more screams to give, pain ripping his voice from him.

“Don’t like getting a taste of your own medicine, hey Edmund?” She leans down low into his face, breath ghosting his cheek. “This is what happens when you mess with what is mine.”

“I—I don’t ev—even know who you are.” The response, panting, but malicious.

“You will.” Dorcas responds, snatching his tongue with a quick hand and ripping it out of his mouth.

In his screams, she loses herself, like bliss. The anger is warm and soothing on her body, like fire wrapping her up, skin burning and heart pounding. She holds the image of Florence in her mind, reclining on Dorcas’ bed, staring up at her with those doe-like eyes, waiting for Dorcas to make a move. She is making a move now, the only move she can ever make.

He is dead under her hands, bleeding out on her clothes and skin, when a rough hand reaches for her shoulder. She shrugs it off, wanting to keep carving up his body, sizing up where the best place to go is.

“Dorcas.” Alastor. Something cools in Dorcas’ chest at the sound of his voice, the other parts of her fighting back. Her anger hates Alastor, hates how he can subdue it. Dorcas is occupied by both bodies simultaneously, ripping and clawing at one another for control over her. She can see it, both sides, the fire and the coolness, the carnal need and the hesitation.

Pulling her off, sitting her down on the ground like a rag doll, a puppet with the strings cut. Alastor, kneeling down by her side to examine her arm, and she hates him for it, tries to push him away as cruelly as possible, regretting it as she does so. In this state, any kindness he shows her is a threat. She bares her teeth at him, and he backs off, lips set grimly. Maybe later she will feel bad for hurting him, but she would never apologize, and he would never hold it against her. It goes against the code of their agreement.

She is aware as he stands and marches towards Marlene, wand outstretched. “What is your father’s middle name?” He barks at her, and Dorcas can register the hint of panic in his voice, the knowledge that he and Dorcas definitely should not be here.

“Arthur. What are you doing here?”

Alastor lowers his arm. “I could ask the same of you.”

Marlene tilts her chin up, defiant. “Dumbledore sent me.” Her eyes flick to Dorcas and the body, that shocked expression settling over her face again. “What have you done?”

“This is Auror business, not Order business.” Alastor snaps. Dorcas tries to wiggle her fingers, the pain like a shockwave down the rest of her arm. It does the trick of bringing herself back to the present, the blaze in her wrist a grounding sensation.

“He has information, Mr. Moody. Dumbledore told us to bring him back alive!”

“Too late.” Dorcas mumbles and then laughs to herself.

She can feel Marlene’s eyes on her, can feel the confusion and disgust radiating off her body. Alastor steps between them, shielding Dorcas from view. “This isn’t Dumbledore’s jurisdiction, it’s mine. As Head Auror, I make the calls on criminals. You have no right to be here.”

“With all due respect—”

“No. You broke protocol by not immediately testing our identities or revealing your own. You should not be here at all, especially not alone. That is reckless and dangerous and is grounds for immediate expulsion from the Order. I will be speaking with Albus.”

“I’m not alone!” Marlene protests. “Sirius is upstairs with the boy! You can ask him; we were sent here specifically to bring him back alive for questioning. I was just following orders! She just killed a man!”

“Stay.” Alastor whispers close to Dorcas’ body, and then she can hear the clunk of his prosthetic as he storms off, ignoring Marlene completely. Sitting on the concrete, body limp like a noodle as every nerve in her body sparks back to life, Dorcas stares at her boots, covered in Edmund Shafiq’s blood.

“You butchered him.” Marlene’s voice is far away, distant. Looking up at her, the kid’s just staring at what was once a person, a devil, mouth agape and eyes wide, as though she's seeing something else before her.

“He deserved it,” is Dorcas’ response, the words cold and sharp against her tongue.

Marlene’s breathing quickens, as though she’s about to have a panic attack. “He’s a wreck. He doesn’t even look human anymore.”

Dorcas stares at her, and then laughs incredulously, drawing Marlene’s gaze back to her. “Whatever you think of me, McKinnon, I’m worse. Don’t put any of your assumptions on me.”

Marlene’s eyes are as wide as saucers, trailing up and down Dorcas’ body, at the blood soaked into her clothes, at the broken wrist pulled in close, at the bruises presumably forming on her face. Her gaze lingers a little on Dorcas’ lips, and then the spell breaks.

Dorcas, pulling herself up to her full height, looks down on her. “If you speak one word of this, I will cut out your tongue myself. You hear me?”

Marlene swallows, pupils blown wide. They’re close now, just staring at each other, and Dorcas can see the wanting warring with the disgust on her face. It is revolting, especially as she carries on her the blood of the man who killed her only friend, one of the few people she truly liked.

That rage again, brimming at the surface, holding Florence’s face in the palm of her hand. Now, this girl, believing she sees something worthwhile in Dorcas, something that doesn’t exist, and she loathes her so entirely that it takes everything in her body not to express it. Florence looked at her once like this, but this girl is not Florence. Nobody is Florence.

“Don’t let me see you again.” Dorcas says in a low, deep voice, and allows herself to shove into Marlene’s shoulder as she passes, if only to let the anger rejoice.

~*~

When Alastor apparates back, Dorcas is sitting at the table, arm in a makeshift sling as the Skele-Grow takes effect. Her face still aches dully; she didn’t want to heal those quite yet. The hurt is a part of the recovery, and she likes the way it keeps her body active.

“Did he chew you out?”

Alastor rubs at his jaw, where stubble is collecting. “He certainly wasn’t pleased.”

“It wasn’t his call.”

“He doesn’t agree with us.”

Dorcas sucks her teeth. “The Order can’t just get involved whenever it damn well pleases. He isn’t the law, we are.”

Alastor considers her for a moment, both regular and blue eye trained on her face. “Do you feel better?”

Dorcas gives a one-armed shrug, the slippery blood under her fingertips a vivid memory floating to the surface.

“Then I don’t regret a thing.”

“What about the kid?”

“A local boy, probably from the family who owned the house. Looks like Shafiq used him as a distraction pretty effectively.” Dorcas thinks of the kid’s wide eyes and shudders. “He’s being looked after now. The other guy managed to get away before Black got up to the kid.”

“Lovely.”

Alastor goes to the fridge, glares at its contents, and closes it again, sighs. “That McKinnon girl was asking after you. She’s a liability.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it, sure.”

“Don’t get involved with her.” Alastor is looking back at her again, and there is something so serious and angry in the firmness of his expression that she sits up just a little. “I don’t know what’s going on between you—”

“Nothing is going on. She’s cracked in the head.”

“Dorcas.”

“Do not protect me.” Dorcas bores a hole into Alastor’s skull. “You hear me? Don’t do that. I can protect myself.”

A complicated emotion flits across his face, smoothing out a beat later. “Heard.”

Dorcas leans back in her chair, lets the beat of awkward silence pass until the air settles between them again. “I didn’t realize you knew her father.”

“He was a few years above me at Hogwarts. Same house.”

She tilts her head a little. “And what might that be?” Part of her asking is irritation, trying to get under Alastor’s skin the way he did with hers. When he scrutinizes her face, she adds a sly smile, so he knows this is revenge.

“Ravenclaw.”

“Huh, wouldn’t have guessed it.”

Alastor flicks his eyes away, shakes his head with exasperation. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Not hungry.”

He can see right through her, of course he can. All he says is, “Fine. Keep an eye on that arm,” and lets her go off to her room without protest.

Laying on the bed, Dorcas dreams of Florence on top of her, smiling so sweetly and fucking her until she passes out. What she won’t ever admit, is that right before she falls asleep, Florence’s eyes turn into Marlene’s.

Chapter Text

October 1979

What does it mean to die?

Papa says it is quiet, like submerging in a bathtub. Auntie says it is like being roasted over a fire, blinding pain and sizzling skin. Uncle just hisses, and that is even worse.

Are any of you dead? Each of them comes to her in the little room, and for a moment they are alive and breathing and flush with blood, except it’s not true. They come to her like corpses, riddled with holes and missing flesh, skin hanging off the bone with no muscle left to fill it in, maggots streaming out of their mouths. It’s a staggering, limping movement, reaching out to her with a decomposing hand. They mean her no harm, but they are no less horrifying.

This room oozes white pus, not blood. The woman cleaned the blood a month ago, told her to say if it came back. She does not have it in her to explain that these walls are infected. Home was pure, clean, solitary in its wound. This place is polluted and dirty. The whole world is polluted and dirty. She has to go home.

Three, three, three. Three bodies crawling towards her, wanting her. Whatever a mother was to her, she isn’t there. Was there ever a mother? Perhaps she began as she is now: a half-eaten carcass, left for the deer to gnaw on, ribcage bones poking through mottled flesh.

Food is brought to her, and she ignores it. when the woman puts a needle in her arm, her flailing fist connects with a solid force. This place becomes loud and unbearable, voices speaking over one another, not just hers but others, like the room is haunted by awful spirits who breathe too close in her ear and try to put their hands down her pants. When she claws at their faces they just smile and vanish into thin air, leaving her sweaty and dazed and broken.

She rips open an artery in her arm with her fingernails and laughs when it gushes over her face and clothes that aren’t hers, and she sees Papa watching and she crawls to him, arm limp at her side, shoving it onto him so he is covered in her blood. Purity is ruined, because whatever purity they had in the house is gone. They are tainted, forever stained. Red blood tinged with black, growing larger and larger in the pools soaking into the carpet, like a parasite.

The bedsheets make an effective noose until she is dragged down, head lolling, oxygen being manually shoved down her throat, literally choking on life itself. The air tastes of dust, of desolation, of destruction. Everything she has ever known suffocates her with its might. She is unworthy to hold it.

The word flesh invokes meat, tearing, chunks of bloody pulp cradled in the palm of a hand. It is primal, down to the sinew and tissue. To bite, to butcher, to consume, to carve, to hack, to gnaw. A body becoming a mangled and unrecognizable formation of fat and muscle and blood and bone. The beating heart keeps her alive, but it also dooms her to a constant agony of living in this cadaver, an alive thing within a dead thing. Everything begins to reek of rot, and it is her, molding on the bed, skin tearing away from bone like it is pried away with cold nimble fingers, Auntie above her whispering to hold still, and she can feel it but not where she is supposed to, but crying does little good. Take my flesh, take my blood, but do not take that. Every synapse screams, a high whistling sound as the world explodes into a strange greenish colour that she associates with the sickness, the festering wound spreading over every conceivable vulnerability, infected from the outdoors and not the betrayal.

The woman leaves her plates of human meat, and she tears at it like a feral dog, sticking in her teeth and staining her chin red. It is delicious, grinding the marrow into a mulch with her molars. She only eats it because Uncle’s leg is ripped away, leaving exposed tissue that weeps on the carpet. It is only fit to consume if it is from them, if she can taste the meat and know it is not tainted with the sorry touch of an outsider. Perhaps if she allows it to settle in her stomach, she will become more than she ever could be: a sorry excuse for an heir. Had she been pure, she would have a kingdom, the crown sinking into her skull, burning away the hair until it touches clean white bone and becomes solid. The queendom requires a sacrifice of the self, a purging of anything human or dirty. To become an ideal is to abandon mortality completely.

Thoughts become blocky, tangible in her hand like a plum, easily squashed if not delicate. The words splattering across her rotted brain, leaking into the crevices and poisoning whatever soggy mess of sanity remains. The room quiets to a dull hum, gnats buzzing all around, inside the decaying wallpaper, the pus slowing to a trickle. Auntie’s body lies prostrate in the corner, joints yanked out of sockets and loose at her sides, like worms being slowly feasted on by the vicious maggots.

Everything alive in the room is wilting, overcome by the sheer desolation of living. Somewhere, her mind begins to dull, the holes closing up with raw and pink skin, leaving her an unrecognizable creature of breath and newness. Not since she was an infant, unwanted and unloved, has she ever been this pure, cleansed of the sin of being born. Purity dissolves into her bloodstream, a powerful sedative that strips any doubt.

And yet, it is wrong. It is wrong, the silence, and it cannot remain. Choking on it, drowning in the thick syrupy waves of peace, and she is not a thing meant for peace. She is a thing meant to die in the bathtub, to be slaughtered on the bare earth like the chthonic beast she is. Peace breeds challenge, peace cannot exist with supremacy. What does purity of the body mean in a world of equality, of kindness?

If there is peace, then everything in her existence has been for nothing.

~*~

Emerging from the depths feels like dying, every bone and muscle and blood cell forcing itself to awaken, the sheer force of being dragged to the surface a destructive and exhaustive ordeal. There are no voices, the walls are bare, and the world takes on a shimmering tint at the edges. It is not real, Papa said, and the thought makes her breaths quicken in her lungs, stuttering and gasping.

The woman is here, in the room, with trays of food, of fruit and meat and greens, and it is all wrong, all of it. Forcing movement into her arm, she takes an apple and chucks it at the wall, watching the red flesh explode with violence, pulp dripping down the wall in a satisfying and familiar sight. She can feel her lips twisting, perhaps not a smile but a grimace. Nobody ever smiled, except for Toby—

Toby. Toby, kin, lost, gone. Head swinging, looking for him, but he isn’t here.

“What’s wrong?”

The voice is high and soft and familiar in that it is strange and not of hers. It’s the woman, solid at the edges, somehow true, somehow tangible.

What have you done to me? the words in her head are less painful, less prone to drawing blood. Like petals of a flower, easily plucked and tossed into the wind. Forcing them to her lips is still impossible, though. Speech is treachery, betrayal of all that is sacred. There is no help for the wicked, no guidance for the sick. It simply will not be.

“It’s an anti-psychotic. Medicine. I hoped this one could help you.”

The body tightens, rejecting what is foreign. Muggle? To resort is weakness, stupidity, counter to all she has been taught. Choice is ripped from her calloused hands once more, no is not an acceptable answer.

The woman folds her hands in her lap. Something about her suggests a rat, mousy and fearful. She could be easily crushed and splattered under the sole of a boot. “I truly am sorry, Olivia. I had my orders to follow.”

You follow him. To think that anyone could take such a command from him, devilish and lurking, is unfathomable. Either of them, they blend together into a monstrous conglomeration of ambition and cruelty. Monster hunts monster, monster becomes monster.

“I follow her.” The woman’s voice is quiet, and her eyes keep trying to make contact, but she is pulling away, trying to yank any part of herself as far away as it can go, tucking it deep inside. “He comes as a consequence. How do you feel?”
Did you feed me the leg of my uncle?

“I—no. it was chicken.”

Where did they go?

“I’m sorry. That’s what the anti-psychotics do. They’re supposed to help with the hallucinations.”

Hallucinations, Auntie laughs close to her ear. Is that what she thinks we are? She believes we’re not an integral part of you, lodged in your brain and heart like a splinter? There is no you without us. You exist because of us, be fucking grateful.

Where is he?

“Away. I don’t know exactly where, if you want details.” The woman leans forward, as though trying to peek into her skull. It is invasive, cruel, and every bone tightens in her body. “Olivia? Can you talk to me? I’m here to help you.”

There is no such thing as help. Help is thinly veiled torture. What is he going to do with me? She doesn’t need this woman to answer; her mind is defenseless. She feels the coldness surround her, plummeting into her head. The woman loves too much, she loves the boy with the scars and the woman with the tight face and the man with the dark hair, it is a disgusting display of vulnerability. She sifts through the rubbish, finds the gleaming mirror amidst it all, the key.

Poppy, are you going to let him lead me like a lamb to the slaughter?

She feels it, the woman does, a chill running down her spine. She arches an eyebrow to mock. If there is anything they are good at, her kin, it is manipulation.

She worries about the scarred boy, worries he is being dragged to the guillotine. She is weak, soft, a marionette to manoeuvre. Auntie would call her a cheap child’s plaything: easily broken and tossed away once it has served its purpose. Love is a curse, a noose around the neck, damming its subject to eternal hell. Love is a failed experiment, designed by sadists, to watch the world burn.

They never spoke the word love in the house. No, they all knew it was worthless. The mere act of expressing the care would be enough to shatter Auntie completely. It was an unnecessary waste of breath.

Tell me the truth.

She doesn’t need it vocalized, she can see Albus Dumbledore in her head, and even through the tint of another woman’s mind, he is still horrific and terrible; a layer of truth that cannot be peeled away. She will die before her cousin, her kin, sets eyes on her again. Would rather die than be faced with herself in the mirror, a reflection that is her but twisted, somehow lucid and powerful, everything she could be before the rot set in.

The pinprick in her fingers begins to grow into a sharp, needling pain. Magic is dangerous, Papa said, the way it builds through your body, dismantling any primal need for survival. Everything becomes a service to the magic, like a blinding force, very little else matters.

“Olivia—” A trembling, outstretched hand ghosts over her shoulder and the magic explodes out of her in a haze of colour, of vivid reds and royal purples and sick green, always the sick green in her vision. The pain is nothing, a broken body nothing to a broken mind, and so she scrambles as fast as she can, reaching before she realizes it for the stick on the floor. The rejection in her hand is not a deterrent, no isn’t an acceptable answer, and the bottle of pills on the ground where she is sprawled, chest rising and falling with life, is enticing for its danger. Death is not the answer, but she considers it more merciful than the horrors of life.

What does it mean to run? To run like the monster is after you, tracking your every move, a little girl whose legs are weak and brittle from years locked inside a house, a mass of grime and illness bolting onto the street, wishing for the voices to tell her where to go, where to hide, how to be safe. There is no safety here, though, that is wishful thinking for a child to believe anywhere can be free of pain.

In an alleyway, amid the trash, she crashes to the ground, knees liquid and unstable, crawling into a crevice to sob incomprehensible tears for the first time in years, mouthing the words she wishes to hear in her ears, but she is alone. She is alone.

~*~

It would be untruthful to say that Minerva McGonagall has ever been a good aunt.

A good daughter, maybe. A good sister, debatable. A good friend… what kind of friend almost immediately ditches the people she loves right out of Hogwarts over a man? Perhaps it is defensible, only if you saw her in the months after the rejection; barely human, a half-dead girl trying to remember the feeling love left in her chest, the warmth and tenderness she yearns for.

But aunt, no. maybe whatever love she was supposed to have when she first saw the swaddled bundle, cradled in Malcolm’s arms, just wasn’t meant for her. Her wires were crossed, Alphard used to joke, and maybe that’s why her ability to love is so impaired. It’s just who she is.

This theory doesn’t explain why she wakes up in a cold sweat every night, reaching for a figure that may or may not even be there, a figure who turns halfway and smiles that odd little smile that is so distinctive of her first niece that it breaks her heart to wake up empty-handed.

She keeps looking, over and over again. Keeping an ear out for someone matching Maria-Gabrielle’s description, hoping against hope that she will come home.

Malcolm never really did understand her. He understands neither of his children. Maria-Gabrielle is strange and off-putting, he said to her late one evening, nursing a glass of scotch, and Elsie is childish and antisocial. I can’t figure out what to do with them.

Minerva said nothing, nails scratching across her wrist, trying not to remember their mother’s face, the devastation on her lips when her three children stood across from her, waiting for praise or acceptance when there would be none.

The girls’ mum died around when Elsie was born. Minerva was never particularly fond of her, a perky black haired woman with sharp eyebrows and lipstick on her teeth every time. Malcolm loved her, or at least he loved the idea of loving her. With the McGonagalls, it’s hard to tell one from the other. Maria-Gabrielle was eleven, about to start at Hogwarts, and Elspeth was just a little thing, tucked in a crib in the corner of the main bedroom. Malcolm didn’t get out of bed for days, and so Minerva took to feeding her, to drawing the curtains and placing glasses of water on the bedside table.

She loves Malcolm, even if she hates how he has turned out. Sometimes, she wants to shake his shoulders and scream “you could have been great!” even though that won’t do him any good. Knowing you are past your prime rarely helps with motivation. It’s true that he settled, settled for a quiet and boring life that never really excited him at all. He used to have dreams, big dreams, of going to Peru or Nigeria, to become a magizoologist. But no, now he works at a publishing company, sitting at a desk, and coming home to two daughters he loves but doesn’t really like.

Like Minerva, Malcolm gets restless. Like Minerva, he won’t really do anything to assuage that. He will sit and stew in his misery, his deeply uncontented life, and act as though it is what he deserves. It is the same as their mother, as Robert. None of them really know how to claw out of the hole of normal life.

Maybe that’s why she could never say yes to Dougal or Poppy. Or Elphinstone, every time he asks her. She loves them, certainly, perhaps one more than the others. It’s hard to tell. Anyway, to marry would be to fall into the trap everyone else in her family has. Today, October 4th, Minerva is forty-four years old, and yet everything she does is still characterized by her mother and father, like a little kid. It is humiliating, the weight of it all on her shoulders and around her neck.

Olivia Gleaves, shut up in the safe house, looks like Maria-Gabrielle, looks like Minerva’s father. In very old photographs, he stares out at her with dark, blank eyes. Before the war, he smiled a little, something charming and handsome about him. Here, he just looks haunted.

Maria-Gabrielle was haunted too. Is haunted, because there is still an ‘is’ possible here. There has to be.

To see her reflected in this girl’s eyes, the girl who may be more important than any of them could have thought, is horrifying. Minerva wants to grab Maria-Gabrielle up in her arms and hide her away, tuck her somewhere safe and happy. She’s a cabin fire though, burning away. There’s no hiding away a blaze.

Isn’t the whole point of having children that they be better than you were? Minerva hopes that’s true. She thinks the world would be in much safer hands in those of Robert, Maria-Gabrielle, and Elspeth. There has always been a sweetness to them, a sweetness which she knows is slipping away the longer they spend living through a war. Soft edges replaced by a hard shell, a protective layer. She mourns the loss of childhood for them, hopes they can be better. Is it not why they fight, for the next generation?

Still, she cannot bear to get close. Maria-Gabrielle is gone, Elspeth is scared, and Robert is quiet. And Minerva doesn’t want to bother them at all. Maybe that makes her a coward, unable to really feel anything for her nieces and nephew. Maybe it became too painful to care so much that something had to go. Maybe she’s an awful person because of it.

All she knows is she really, really hopes she can find Maria-Gabrielle.

~*~

James and Lily are sloppily making out in the bathroom of a bar.

Mary can hear them, the moans and giggles. Why did they have to pick a booth so close to the back? Also, who ordered so many tequila shots? There’s another one in front of her, as though it has materialized out of thin air, and she fucking hates magic because if it’s there then of course she has to take it, right?

Marlene is yelling in Remus’ face about fruit, which he seems to be taking with an air of utter exhaustion as he nurses his beer and glances around desperately for help. Peter and Sybill are dancing in the corner together, lost in their own little world. Mary watches the frizzy blonde curls weave in and out of her eyeline. Sybill is nice, if a little odd. Certainly not as strange as people used to think she was. She complimented Mary’s ladybug earrings right at the start of the evening, and so Mary took a liking to her.

Sirius is—somewhere, presumably. Last she saw, he was getting the numbers of a few muggle girls, chatting them up at the bar. No doubt they stood no chance against those striking gray eyes, that sultry look he’d somehow perfected. When he kissed Mary in third year, right before, he’d given her that look, but back then it looked so out of place on fourteen-year-old Sirius Black that she’d laughed right in his face. It was after a quidditch match, and he liked flying off the pitch straight to her, liked the attention he got when he pulled her in close and kissed her. He tasted like sweat and spearmint (from a breath freshening spell, she learned later from James) and arguably he was pretty decent at it.

Apparently, this was all for a stupid bet between the boys as to who would have the first kiss, and Sirius didn’t even win. It was Peter, who kissed Charity Burbage in the Astronomy tower at the end of second year and had kept it hidden somehow. Still, Mary didn’t really mind being kissed for a bet. She and Sirius “dated” for a while, which basically meant they walked to class together and kissed for fun. It wasn’t terrible, but it just felt like a further divide between Mary and Mari. Mari wouldn’t let herself be a rich boy’s plaything. It’s not that, Mary would tell Mari, I like him, really, I do, but Mari would never believe it.

It sort of helped with the muggleborn thing. The Slytherins still loathed her, but at least Sirius got some of the blowback. Anyway, him walking her to classes meant less opportunities to be ambushed by a hex, which was nice.

She didn’t really care about him at all. It was something born of circumstance, really. When he decided he wanted to break up, that was it. Mary didn’t cry, didn’t beg him to take her back. She nodded and gave him back his jacket and told him she’d see him in Herbology the next morning. Then, they were back to being acquaintances again, Mary went back to sitting with Marlene and Lily, and Sirius went back to the boys. It was as though nothing ever happened.

Now, Mary does like Sirius. She likes how loud he laughs and his almost encyclopedic knowledge of muggle rock bands, developed after years of learning. She likes that he will make jokes to her in Spanish so nobody else will understand, how his eyes glimmer when she snorts. She likes that he barely lies, that he has excellent table manners, that he always smells lovely.

Of course, he drives her insane. He makes cruel jokes; he says ignorant things as though without realizing. He treats everyone like he is a king, and they are his servants, like that’s his natural way of moving through the world. Being around him is exhausting, there can never be enough room in the world for anyone else alongside Sirius Black and his massive ego.

The two can coexist at once. He was never weird to her about the dating thing, aside from usual Sirius jokes. Is it wrong to say that she appreciates his basic decency? Mary hates it, hates praising him for the bare minimum, but he never taunted her like that, not like Milton Mulciber. Sirius and Mulciber, Mulciber and Sirius, purebloods with the world promised to them on a silver platter, but two different responses. It is strange, the dissonance.

There have been other boys, but just casually. Even deep down, she was never really interested in any of them. Usually, they wanted her more than she wanted them. After Sirius, it was easier to dissociate, to be Mary instead of Mari, to keep Mari far away. Maybe that’s why Mari feels too far away to reach, these days. Mari wouldn’t debase herself like this. Mary just doesn’t care.

(She does care, more than she ever wants to admit. She cares a lot.)

The more she hears thumping against the wall, the more she wants to rip off her skin. She balls her hands into fists, so tight that she can feel the blood slow, and thinks uselessly of walking down her childhood street, the flowers in the front yard, the gentle breeze at her back pushing her forward with the love and care of an old friend. Home, like a prayer to no one, the house where her height is scratched into the doorframe, where she knows which tile in the hallway squeaks, where the hum of electricity and life fills the air with a familiarity that nothing else can quite capture.

Home, where she can’t go back.

~*~

“Do you think about them a lot?”

“Constantly. Always.” Mary traces the curl that rests lightly on her bicep. “I don’t think they really understand why I have to leave them. They’re too little for that. I mean, Ana still is. Rafe and Nico just think I’ve abandoned them willingly. My mum and dad—”

Hestia stays quiet. Never will she step on Mary’s feet to speak.

“I think they believe the life they gave me wasn’t enough. Like emigrating to Britain for us, working their asses off, that I’m just throwing all that away for a new life, a new world. It breaks my heart, you know? I don’t want them to blame themselves, I just… didn’t have a choice.”

“Are you able to talk to them about it?”

Mary snorts, turns a little so she’s lying on her back. “They’ll deny having any hard feelings about it. Neither of them wants to hurt me. It just goes unspoken.” She sighs a little. “My dad is a lawyer, he knows how to read between the lines. He’ll twist my words so that it reflects onto him and his role as a parent. That’s what he does, he takes it personally. He did nothing wrong, and I miss him every day, but I don’t know that he’ll really hear me through the hurt. He just wishes I was home, and I can’t blame him. I wish that too.”

“And your mum?”

“She wants me to be happy. It would break her heart more to hear that I’m not happy here.”

“Do you regret coming to Hogwarts?” Hestia’s voice is soft, as gentle as a summer’s day. There is a tinge of hope there, that Mary cannot miss, the hope that Mary will say no, no because of you. But Mary isn’t that person, or maybe she is, and she just cannot bear to admit it.

“Yeah. Yes. I wish it had been different. That I could go home and forget all about magic. Start believing again that magic is when the wind blows through the branches like a song, not this. Not anything like this.”

She feels it against her arm, Hestia’s hurt. Mary turns her head, stares at Hestia’s face, which she knows so well and somehow never gets tired at looking. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does Hestia, but Mary knots their fingers together on the pillow, their palms fitting together perfectly, and hopes it says everything she cannot bear to. Maybe some of it is a lie, a merciful deception, but some of the light comes back in Hestia’s eyes, which makes it worth it.

~*~

What do you want, Mary?

Marlene asked her that one night, riding the wave of sleep, curled up against Mary’s back on the mattress they share at the Potters’. Marlene’s body, warm and solid, ridges of her spine jutting into the softness of Mary’s flesh, a constant presence that brings comfort to her soul. Sweet Marlene, who lives life based on whims and wants, who is so afraid of being burned that she lingers away from the flame. Mary pretended to be asleep that night, waiting for the rustle of sheets, the sigh caught in anticipation to be let out in rest.

Afterwards, she stayed awake, unable to close her eyes, unwilling to dream.

It was easier to pretend she hadn’t heard than to admit it: I don’t know. I don’t know what I want, because I was never really allowed to want anything. Nothing happens like you want it to in life, ever.

Mary cannot ever go back to the way things once were, she cannot erase Milton Mulciber from her memory, she cannot kiss Lily like she wants to, she cannot reverse her mistake with Emmeline, cannot ever turn to Hestia again. She is useful for another man’s plans, and her wanting plays no role in that. Mary becomes an abstract, a weapon to be used and cleaned and put back on the shelf until she can be useful again. An object, not a girl. Not a person.

But here in the bar, listening to awful music that pounds her skull, her friends scattered around the room wrapped up in their own lives, Mary just wants home, whatever that means. Not her childhood house, because that place doesn’t fit her anymore. Not the Potters’, where she is eternally a guest. Somewhere quiet, where the sun filters in through the windows in such a way that everything is bathed golden, and mismatched mugs in the cabinets collected over the years. It will be big enough for everyone that she loves to stay and feel welcome, and there will be no obligation, nothing to demand of her. It will just be existence, co-existence, and love.

~*~

Sirius is drunk, really drunk, and they are on the dance floor, surrounded by sweaty bodies pressing up against her, and Marlene is singing loudly and off-key, and Sirius leans down to kiss Mary suddenly, tasting like vodka and regret, and he laughs when she laughs, because there is nothing else to say.

Lily and James are back, and Lily grabs Mary’s hands and pulls her into a waltz, even though the music is too upbeat for that, and Lily’s plaits are loose and her cheeks are flushed and she looks angelic, a goddess sent from above to taunt Mary with what she cannot have, and it is sufficient enough to press her face into the crook of Lily’s shoulder and breathe in her jasmine scent and pretend as though it is all hers, that Lily is all hers.

Peter laughs when he twirls her, and he seems so happy for the first time in months that Mary could believe she made up his discontentment, but there is Sybill and she’s not jealous, she takes Mary’s hands too and twirls her, and she has such a beautiful smile that Mary could love her too, love her beyond the fact that Peter loves her, and it is so lovely to be held with such care, that even to be moved without her express purpose feels okay in this light, under the strobe and the music.

Marlene gets her a drink, and there is glitter all over her face from Mary’s makeup palette, so much that she seems dazzling, incandescent, and they take turns dipping one another back and forth, Marlene’s hands fitting so well with Mary’s that she wonders how it could not have been Marlene that she loves so irrevocably, Marlene of the bright eyes and dyed hair and crooked teeth, who won’t stop singing into Mary’s ear while they dance.

James is here, and he smells like Lily too, her lipstick smudged on his lips, and they take over the stage, he hoists her up like a professional dancer, and she feels light and free in the air, in his arms, confident in the knowledge he will not drop her, and he fixes her with that grin as the people cheer, the knowledge that they are the winners of the evening.

And Remus, poor sweet Remus, who won’t look Mary in the eyes when they get back to the table, who glares at the ground and lights a cigarette when Sirius kisses Mary again outside of the club, giggling like a schoolboy and demanding a drag off the cigarette while his lips are red with Mary’s lipgloss, and Remus looks as though he might die, and Mary’s world is tilting off its axis as she stares at his face and tries to remember why that might be, even though words slip through her fingers like grains of sand right now, and Marlene is pulling on her shoulder to drag her home, and as they leave she looks back to see Sirius and Remus standing face to face outside the building, the only light between them the tip of the cigarette, and it is a tableau filled with so much raw and barely restrained emotion that Mary cannot bear to watch, so she looks away and tries to focus on walking in a straight line without vomiting.

~*~

The moon shining overhead is bright and beautiful when Mary, still drunk and wobbly, makes her way outside to the back porch. She knows it’s Lily sitting there, can feel it somewhere deep in her bones. Stepping deliberately, ankles unsteady, Mary goes to sit on the bench beside her, shoulders brushing. Lily’s face is tilted upwards, the moonlight reflected back in her green eyes, a pensive expression on her face.

Mary wants; she wants so badly. What do you want, Mary? Mary wants her, she wants Lily. that’s what she wants. A yearning, gaping hole in her chest where the heart should be, but the heart is Lily’s. Mary would lay down her life for Lily, would scale the highest mountain if only to demonstrate her love.

“Are you just going to stare at me, Mary?” Lily is smiling at her, eyes winking in the light, and it takes everything in Mary’s body not to burst into tears or kiss her. “You can if you want to. Don’t let me make you self-conscious.”

“I’m still a little drunk.” Mary says as a lame excuse, but her heart flutters when Lily’s grin widens, and she pats Mary’s knee with a fondness that is so uniquely Lily’s, the love only she can hold.

Lily’s glaze flickers back to the moon. “Do you ever wonder how something so beautiful can be so destructive for someone?” Yes, Mary thinks, watching each freckle on Lily’s cheeks link together in a constellation of awe and wonder. “I used to love the moon, until I saw Remus flinch from it. Now I can’t really see it as anything but a vector of pain for him.”

“Nature is cruel like that, I guess.” Mary stares up at the sky, at the large burly tree in the distance, and touches at her wrist below her bangles.

“Can I ask you something?” Mary glances at her, at the way Lily’s eyes fix on the glint of the bracelet under her fingers, and nods. “Your bracelets… you started wearing those near the end of fifth year, right before my whole thing with Sev—Snape. When you went to the hospital wing. Snape told me what Mulciber had said…”

Mary sneaks her hand away from her wrist, plants her palm firmly against her thigh, and stares up at the moon. From here, she can see the crevices in its surface, the human flaws of a non-human entity. “Yeah.” That’s all she can say, voice failing her, but she doesn’t have to say anything. Of course, Lily knows. Who else pays better attention than Lily?

“Did he… Oh god, Mary, did he?”

She can feel the sweat under her hand, skin against skin. “Yeah.”

“Jesus.” Lily presses a shaking hand to her mouth.

“I don’t remember it.” Mary lies, because it’s easier, easier to believe she doesn’t than to see his face hovering above hers, to know it is true and that it was her rather than some indistinct woman whose face is blurred and unreal. “It’s okay, Lily. I’m okay.”

Lily shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him for that, Mary.” Her throat closes up, and her hand reaches for Mary’s, knitting their fingers together and squeezing. “I’m sorry I never asked before. I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it… but I should have been there anyway. I should have been there for you even if you didn’t want to tell me.”

“Lils—”

“You’re my best friend, do you know that? You’ve been my best friend since we were eleven. You understood what it meant to be there, and I didn’t feel as alone as I could have because of you. It was us against the world.” Lily is looking into her eyes, and somehow Mary has turned towards her, a sunflower yearning and twisting up to the sky for sunlight. Lily is beautiful and real and solid, and Mary could reach out a wavering finger and trace the contours of Lily’s face, because she exists. “You deserve everything good in this world, Mary. I know that because you are good, and you deserve to be happy. God, if I could give you the earth and sea and heavens, I would, you know I would.”

Mary thinks suddenly of earlier that day, walking to the phone box with Sirius and Peter, watching two black birds soaring through the air. She stopped in her tracks, watching them dive and spin and glide together, movements synchronized like a beautiful dance meant only for the other. They swooped and tumbled, wings brushing, winding around a tree, never quite getting too far from the other. A mating dance, she thought, but it was more than that: it was love. The bird in the front never straying too far from the one right behind, the dives carefully coordinated to remain in contact. It was fun, it was earnest, it was the purest form of love she’s ever witnessed.

“I love you, Lily.” The words slip from her lips, and she means it. She means it more than she’s ever meant anything in her life. “I love you.”

Lily doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t seem fazed. There is a resolved sadness to her lips, tears in her eyes as her thumb rubs lightly against Mary’s finger. “I know. I know.” It’s all she can say, and Mary knows it, but it doesn’t stop the hurt that chews its way into her soul, gnawing on the glowing ball of light from the luminosity of Lily’s smile, ripping her insides to shreds. She cannot say it back, and some part of Mary doesn’t expect her to, but her chest aches with a dull, pounding pain that hurts the longer she breathes. The only thing she can consciously think is that hers and Lily’s palms don’t quite slot together nicely, but she holds on anyway.

The birds ducked around a building, wings outstretched and glorious in the wind. Only one bird came back around, soaring away into the unknown. Mary craned her neck but couldn't find the other bird. It was over, almost as soon as it had begun. It was not meant to be.

“Mary.” The sheer tenderness in Lily’s voice is the trigger, is what sends Mary in a wave of sorrow and tears, unable to breathe around the lump in her throat. Lily is stroking her hand and Mary loves her, loves her more than her body can bear. “Mary.” Soft fingers against her jaw, brushing away wayward tears running down her cheeks, and Mary cannot see through the water, cannot reach through the haze to Lily. “I’m so sorry. I would if I could.” Repeating, over and over, Mary feels like she is being sucked down a drainpipe, whirling in the water like a tiny creature, unable to stay afloat.

“Mary, you deserve someone who can love you like that. I’m so sorry that it can’t be me.”

I wish it could be you, Mary wants to say. The problem with wanting; popping the cork lets loose the flood. All Mary does is want, want, want.

“I would ask a kiss of you if it would help.” Mary’s voice quavers, and she’s barely conscious of what she’s saying.

Lily just gives her a watery smile and reaches up to touch at Mary’s forehead. “It won’t help. I can’t make it mean what you want it to.”

Gently, Lily pulls Mary into her arms, resting her chin on Mary’s curls, and Mary breathes in Lily’s jasmine scent and the softness of her skin and has a terrible sinking feeling that this will be the closest to Lily she’ll ever get, because it will all be different once they pull away.

So, they stay, under the moonlight, slowly sobering up together.

Chapter Text

November 1979

There is no trace of Olivia Gleaves.

Poppy wakes up for the first time on the ground, ears ringing. With a shaking, disembodied hand, she reaches up to her face, pulling her fingers away red with blood.

There’s no wand that she can find around her, and standing up brings a dizzying rush to her head, so half-stumbling, she manages to get across the hall to the makeshift bedroom. The owl, Wallace, turns to stare at her.

“Get Minerva,” is all that she manages to say before she feels herself falling and barely has the awareness to move away so she doesn’t smash her head in.

~*~

The second time Poppy wakes up, she sees the bright lights overhead and winces. Blinking away the gunk in her eyes, she turns her head to the side.

Minerva is in the chair next to her, head slumped and lolling in sleep. Her hair is out of its bun, loose around her face, longer than Poppy’s seen it in years. Like this, sleeping, she looks peaceful. Poppy just wants to watch, because it distracts her from the dull throb in her temple.

Eventually, Minerva sniffles and snorts herself awake, blinking until her eyes land on Poppy. “Merlin,” she mutters, jumping out of her chair and grabbing Poppy’s hand, laying uselessly at her side. “Poppy, you’re here.”

Poppy tries not to think about the warmth of Minerva’s hand, the long fingers and knobbly knuckles. She tries to smile, but it comes out more strained than she’d like. “Wallace got to you, then?”

“Smart owl.” Minerva’s eyes soften a little. She doesn’t look like herself; an absence of whatever she has grown to believe was Minerva at her core. “You were out cold when I got there. Your pulse was weak. Merlin, Poppy, what happened? Where’s Olivia?”

“Gone.” Poppy’s lungs ache. “I don’t know where. I couldn’t find my wand.”

“Fuck.” Minerva shakes her head, grip tightening on Poppy’s hand. “Albus is out looking for her. She can’t have gotten far.”

“Did I have a pill bottle with me?”

Minerva looks puzzled. “No?”

“She has the anti-psychotics. Minnie, she might try—”

“Don’t.” Minerva’s eyes flash. “Don’t even suggest it. We’ll find her, alive.”

Poppy nods slowly, flicks her eyes around the room. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

Minerva sighs deeply. “I don’t know. You know I can’t make heads or tails of medical shit. The medi-witch said you’ll probably be released tomorrow. You’ll need to be careful, seems like you had some decent breaks and bleeding, but they’ve healed you up. An explosion, she said it looked like.”

She remembers it, the flash of light, like a blast of colour overwhelming her. It hurt, that’s what she knows. And it was Olivia, and it was magic. They didn’t know if she could even perform magic. Poppy keeps this to herself though, tucked close to her chest. “Am I going back to the safe house?”

“No way.” Minerva is still holding her hand, and looking down at her so tenderly, yet with a hint of amusement, and Poppy cannot believe she is seeing that look again. It isn’t right, but she feels too good seeing it that she cannot protest. “You’re coming back to Hogwarts with me, so I can look after you. You’re coming home.”

Poppy feels the ghost of a smile lift her lips. “Okay.”

Minerva glances down at their hands suddenly, cheeks flushing bright red, and the spell breaks. She lets go, retreats back to her chair, and pretends to engross herself in a book. Poppy doesn’t have the energy to pretend. She just watches Minerva until her eyes drift shut once more.

~*~

Emma’s room remains untouched in the flat.

Nobody dares to go in. the door remains shut, the way Emma left it. They move around it, giving it a wide berth, as though she will walk out of that room unexpectedly one day. Maybe she will still walk through that front door and need her room back. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Emmeline’s mother says they should start getting back to normal over the floo, which prompts Ba to glare at her. They end the conversation with Ba angrily whispering at Mà. Emmeline doesn’t bother to eavesdrop.

Maybe they’re right. They have been around longer than she has, after all. They have lost people too. Ba lost his father when he was twelve. He knows grief, and he moved on. He didn’t wallow forever.

Emmeline knows it is rational, but she cannot. There is an Emma-sized hole in her chest, where the black hole seeps in. it steals her memories and devours them. She forgets the exact colour of Emma’s eyes first, the sound of her laughter. This sends her into a stupor for five days until Benjy manages to coax her out of herself, blinking and disoriented.

Memory is all Emmeline has, memory and love. Without one, the other goes haywire. She feels lost in a haze, even more so than before, stuck on the periphery of the universe inside her body, watching the black hole consume everything she needs, everything that makes her up. It harvests at the deepest memories at her core, tucked into the marrow of her bones, and leaves her barely able to stand.

It’s not grief anymore. It’s emptiness. Hollowness. Someone has taken a scalpel to her skin and carved away until she’s nothing more than an Emmeline-shaped silhouette.

Benjy and Caradoc sort of retreat into their little private world. She gets the sense that’s the only way they can really cope, by becoming one person for a while, leaning on one another to form a fully functional human. Hestia snaps and begins screaming at Emmeline one night over spilled blackberries, and Emmeline just stands there and takes it. What else can she do? It isn’t her inhabiting her body that night, it is the black hole.

When Hestia creeps into Emmeline’s bedroom that night, snotty and weeping, and crawls under the covers with her to sob, Emmeline just holds her. She only remembers that vaguely, can confirm it is real because Hestia remembers. Emmeline needs a lot of confirmation these days that she is doing things, even on autopilot.

A letter from Dumbledore arrives one evening, on a cool November breeze. He’s asking her to do some translations for him of ancient runes, a notebook left by a Death Eater. Emmeline never responds to the letter. She drops it on her desk, curls back up into her blanket, and lays on the bed until she passes out.

Emmeline is just really tired. It feels like her bones are weighing her down to the ground. It’s the only reason her soul hasn’t completely floated up into the sky; the tether to the earth remains intact still. Sometimes she wishes she could just leave, leave it all behind, escape the black hole, take flight without hesitation.

~*~

Her patronus is an elephant. This was a source of great delight for her friends, who called her Emmeline the Elephant for about two weeks until the novelty wore off. Elephants have good memory; they are steadfast and sturdy, a gentle giant and protector.

Emmeline is none of that, not anymore. She’s barely a girl these days. Her shield is broken, crumbled at her feet. She cannot look after anyone, not even herself.

She loves astronomy, always has. Part of her always wanted to go to space, the muggle way, become an astronaut and see the earth from above. Emmeline could probably name you all the constellations, all the stars. She used to have stacks and stacks of books on her shelves and floor, that Casey would steal every so often, and she would yell at him to return it to its proper place.

The stars went out when Emma died. When Emmeline looks up to the sky, all she sees is black. Nothing left. Emma was the brightest star of them all. Without her, the world stops turning.

~*~

Casey sends her chocolate frogs from Hogsmeade. Weighing them in the palm of her hand, turning it back and forth and squinting at it, Emmeline leaves her room and knocks on Hestia’s door. When she opens, glasses on and hair pinned up, Emmeline extends her hand in offering. A truce, a reprieve from the solitude of grief.

They sit together on the couch, eating silently. Emmeline’s knee brushes against Hestia’s. The chocolate tastes like home, warm and soothing in her stomach. It’s grounding, and before she realizes, she is crying silently, fat drops of saltwater dripping onto her pyjama pants. It is almost a relief to feel her body again, to be so overwhelmed with emotion that she is literally choking on it. The black hole cannot take that from her.

Hestia leans in, wraps her arms around Emmeline, and holds her tight. Emmeline makes a sound like a wounded animal, burying her face into Hestia’s sweater. It is raw and uncontrolled, everything in her body erupting outwards. The dam of numbness has broken.

When Emmeline finally regains control of herself, she mumbles uselessly into Hestia’s arm: “I miss her so much.”

“I miss her too.” Hestia begins threading her fingers through Emmeline’s hair, and Emmeline leans into the touch like a cat, once again desperate to be loved. “I miss her when I wake up and when I fall asleep. Every time I am conscious, I miss her.”

“She’s my missing lung.” Emmeline gasps out. “I can’t breathe without her.”

“Shh, I know. I know Emmy. We just have to learn.”

“No—No, but, I can’t…”

“My love.” Hestia tilts Emmeline’s face up to look her in the eyes. “Emma wants you to keep living. You deserve a life. We’ll learn together, okay? Day by day.”

“Do you think she’s still here?”

Hestia considers this. “I don’t really know. When my dad died—We believe that he walked the earth for four days before his body came to rest. All our dead do. I… I dreamed about him a lot, though. He spoke to me, conversations we’d never had before. He was there, right in front of me, like he’d never come to rest at all.” Hestia reaches out a hand in front of her, as though reaching for something just beyond her grasp. “But when I woke up, I couldn’t find him anymore. Eventually I just… stopped seeing him.”

“Have you dreamed about Emma?”

Hestia’s face crumbles, but she just shakes her head. “She never came to me.”

“I keep wondering when she’s going to come home, as though she’s away on a mission.” Emmeline feels herself start to slip again, and she gnaws on the inside of her cheek to keep herself present. “I just want to hug her again and know that she isn’t going to leave. I can’t remember the sound of her voice anymore. Can she just talk to me again?”

Hestia doesn’t answer, just wraps her arms around Emmeline again and holds her until they both feel wrung out and quiet again.

~*~

Pandora is unconsciously counting down the days. She has done the preparatory work, has upheld her end of the bargain. Now it is time to make a decision, maybe the first in her life.

Regulus is waiting for her in the abandoned restaurant, watching her with a carefully detached gaze. His lips are thin, his face gaunt and exhausted, the half-zipped green sweater oversized and lopsided on his shoulder, stained with ink. He looks like a dead man walking, an Inferi.

There is also the girl tied to a chair, slumped over. A trickle of dried blood runs down her forehead under her blonde bangs. Pandora stares at her as she sets down her bag on the table.

“Did you bring the calculations?” Regulus asks expectantly, nodding when Pandora rifles through her bag to hand him the sheet, unable to take her eyes off the girl. Regulus follows her gaze. “Do not worry about her. A mudblood girl, all too eager to follow me into a secluded location. We will deal with her shortly.” He says this in a bored tone, as though this would not be horrifying to any onlookers.

Pandora doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything. Nothing can change what is about to happen.

“The book.” Regulus pushes a large, dusty tome her way. “Neil the second was all too eager to help… for a price.”

“What did he ask of you?”

Regulus shrugs, a stiff and inauthentic movement. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. He is weak at the knees for power. I know how to use that.”

Somewhere inside those dead eyes, a little boy pleads for help. Pandora ignores him. She must remain as cautious and impartial as possible. Otherwise, she will soften too much, and Regulus will win. He cannot win.

“I believe that’s the spell.” Pandora nods to the scroll in Regulus’ hand. “It’s bits and pieces from various dark arts. I’m not certain that it will work.”

“I have faith in you.” Regulus says plainly, turning his back to gather a few things. Pandora loves him, impossibly so. so many years of watching him, of knowing him, has made her care for him like a friend, a brother. This is a dangerous line of thinking. There is no such thing as love for a seer, not like Pandora. She is a subject to marching time, and simple stupid feelings are no match for such an adversary.

“Here,” Regulus turns back, the tip of a long white finger pointing to a page. Pandora leans in, scans it. “That’s your spell, right?”

“The book has it.” Pandora feels something wretched and nauseating crawl its way up her stomach. “You didn’t even need me, then.”

“Nonsense.” Regulus leans down to jot a few extra notes in his book. “Time needs you.” He flicks a gaze at her as he straightens up. “I know why you’re here, Pandora. My offer of safety wasn’t enough.”

“It’s not that.”

“Oh? Then, enlighten me. What could be better than what I am proposing?”

Acid burns in her throat. “I have no choice.”

“Who is offering you no choice? Is it time or Dumbledore.”

“I have nothing to do with Dumbledore.”

Regulus arches a brow. “You mean to tell me you are not a spy? I did not take you for a fool, Pandora.”

“I am a spy. I don’t deny it. I don’t agree with your side. But not for Dumbledore. He has no idea what I can do.”

“And yet you feel comfortable destroying everything that has helped you, everyone you have cared for, for a man who knows nothing of your capabilities?”

“Some things go beyond loyalty, Regulus. You of all people should understand that notion.”

“Hm.” Regulus eyes her. Then, carefully, “What is it that you want, Pandora?”

She takes a few moments to respond. “I want a quiet life.”

“Bullshit. You were not meant for that. You were meant for greatness, a life of recognition. All of you Rosiers want that, deep down. I remember your brother thirsted for the spotlight too.”

A lump lodges in her throat. “I am not my brother. I am not a Rosier.”

“Right. Because you are better than them. Even though you came from the same blood, the same house, you are superior. Interestingly, that makes you more Black than everything, even though you have none of our heritage. Funny how that works out.”

Her cheeks burn. “You don’t understand me as well as you think you do.”

“Oh, really?” Regulus leans forward. “Because I believe I know you better than anyone does.” Up close, his eyes are flinty, with specs of jade green close to his iris. Pandora stares, entranced. “Not Xenophilius Malfoy, not Evan Rosier, me. We work the same way, you and I, we think the same way. Do not bother denying it. I remember our notes to one another in the Hogwarts library. You want this just as badly as I do. So, why won’t you admit it?”

Pandora swallows down her anger, her sadness, her guilt. “I have no choice.”

“You do. I am providing you one. With me. With the one person who understands you. Why would you decline that?”

Pandora’s fists clench and unclench at her sides. “There is a specific role I have to play, Regulus. Time has placed itself within my grasp. You aren’t in control.”

“Is that so?” Regulus smiles, all sharpness and cruelty. Coldness radiates off of his alabaster skin. “Time is malleable, Pandora. I was meant to die when I was seven. I survived. Time has no hold on me anymore.”

“Your hubris is the reason you are going to suffer.” Pandora presses, voice cracking and desperate. “It will take its revenge, Regulus. You are not a god.”

She sees it, the flicker of light behind his eyes. “Not yet. But I will be. And I will be worshipped.”

~*~

When Regulus was seven years old, he drowned in the river behind the Black family estate in France.

Nobody hears him screaming, the only proof of life the bubbles of air that escape his lips and burst on the very surface of the water. He is alone; everyone else is inside, blissfully oblivious to the slip of the young spare from the manor. The water is frigid and burning in his lungs as he claws at the surface, still too far below to reach.

Pandora watches him on the beach, knees tucked up to her chest. Sometimes, if she focuses hard enough, she can join the memory, sit and watch it from within rather than on the outside, like a snow globe. She can feel the sand between her bare toes, the flutter of her dress against her thighs, the salt in the air when she breathes in.

From here, Regulus hardly makes a sound.

Time always gets its revenge. Someway, somehow, Regulus will drown. It is required of him.

Today, though, Pandora watches the tips of his fingers emerge from the water like mini sharks, next the knuckles, the hands, until she spots that head of black and white hair emerge with a gasp, and her chest aches.

He was never meant to die here. Time has always had a plan for King Regulus Black.

Except, now he believes he has cheated death, escaped time.

It will be his downfall.

~*~

“Regulus?”

Regulus hums from the other side of the room, busying himself with menial tidying. If she didn’t know him any better, she would think he’s nervous.

“Can you tell me something? Anything? Just so I know you know you’re human.”

“There is no point in trying to talk me out of this, Pandora.”

“I know. I’m not trying to. I just want to know you before we do it.”

He is quiet for a long time, a pale knuckle drawn up to and rubbing his lips in thought. He looks so much like a boy that Pandora cannot bear to look at him longer than through peeks. She will want to save him.

Pandora realized a long time ago that she can’t fight time. It takes and it takes and it takes. It took Mum, it took Felix, it took Evan, it takes Barty, it takes Regulus, it takes her. Once, this was a terrible force, one that she could never quite reconcile herself with. How can she do the bidding of a thing that destroys them all?

Pandora has not considered breaking with time until Regulus. She hates him and she loves him, she pities him and she fears him, he is hers and he is no one’s. there is no changing him. She must take him or leave him as he is.

“I write poetry.” Regulus finally says, and… is there something genuine in his voice? The mask slipping for just a moment, leaving him bare and small and real. “Mostly in French. My mother read to me when I was a little boy, and I decided I wanted to try writing my own thoughts. It is not very good… but it is mine.” His eyes trail up to her face but can’t meet her gaze. “I am not a monster, Pandora.”

She smiles, lips trembling, feeling her eyes begin to water helplessly. “I can’t let myself believe that you are.” Bowing her head, she lets out a strange, high-pitched laugh. “You know, somewhere out there, you and I did get married, like we were supposed to. We could escape this war, somewhere in the countryside, where there is no such thing as family allegiances and espionage. You could write your poetry, and I could raise ducks.”

“Ducks?”

“Yeah. I like their quacks.” Pandora meets his eyes, and he looks so vulnerable, lips tilting in a smile, and she begins to laugh as the tears fall, and he smiles, a lopsided grin that splits his face open and reveals too much of his gums. It is not the smile of a regal king, nor of a violent dictator, but of a boy. A boy who writes shitty French poetry and smiles crookedly and wiggles his fingers when he is nervous, because to flap his arms would take up too much space.

Pandora knew him as a little kid. He was not always a chess master. He used to follow Sirius around like a puppy dog and laughed when Andromeda tossed him in the air, he liked stomping in puddles and playing swords. He hated carrots and loved the taste of parsley, and his button downs were always lopsided, and his hair would never really lay flat on his head. He loved that cranky house elf, Kreacher, and helped him do housework until Aunt Walburga yelled at him to stop. Once upon a time, he had a heart.

Part of her wondered if his heart was ripped out when he drowned, if he was spat back onto the beach, waterlogged and choking, with a terrible hole in his chest. He never came back quite right, that has to be the answer. Not that he has been this way the whole time, hidden in the little boy who only ate strawberry ice cream, no other flavour. It is easier to believe he was damaged, that he was good before, than to admit he was always bad.

“Are you ready?” He is asking for her benefit, not for his.

Time to decide.

“Yes.”

~*~

The girl is dragged into the center of the room, chairs and tables shoved against the walls. She is still unconscious, slumped in a heap of flesh on the floorboards. Regulus scans his notes once more with an almost lazy expression. Pandora feels a deep sense of regret, down in the pit of her stomach, the very center of her soul.

“I will need to perform the soul-severing spell right after the murder.” Regulus states calmly, rubbing his palms against his sweatpants. “It has to be me who does it. Do you have the notebook?”

Pandora holds up a fresh, leather-bound notebook, identical to Regulus’ other ones save for use.

“Good. You will need to place it on the floor in front of me once the murder is complete. Stay out of the way. I cannot have the spell hitting you instead.” His eyes bore into hers, deliberate and threatening. “Are you ready?”

Pandora watches it all play out before her eyes, looping over and over again: a sight she can never unsee. “Yes.”

“Good.” Regulus marches over and slaps the girl across the face, knocking her onto her back with a start and a gasp. Her eyes are big and brown and panicked. Regulus points his wand at her face, the tip of her nose.

“Wha—where am I—”

“Quiet, Mudblood.” An edge sneaks into Regulus’ voice, his hand steady. “Your existence is an insult to us all. Accept your fate.”

“No, I—"

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

When Pandora was ten, her father dragged her into a Death Eater meeting and forced her to watch them slaughter and butcher a muggle mother and her teenage daughter. She remembers the flash of blinding green light, the sound of ripping flesh as someone – maybe Corban Yaxley, or Plano Nott – tore into the skin, trying to remove all dignity. Pandora stood and stared, and maybe she floated away at some point when it became too horrific, the blood and the laughter.

When she awoke, it was hard to tell whether it was a nightmare or factual. Nobody ever acknowledged it again, and Pandora tried to forget. Forgetting is hard when time exists all around you, all at once, but she refused to open her eyes and see it again. She has spent years of her life with her eyes squeezed shut so she cannot be hurt again.

When the girl crumples, like a cut marionette, Pandora knows it was real. She knows because she can feel it, the warmth on her skin of the magic, the way it rots at any exposed flesh around, because it is simply so terrible. She begins to shake, violently, like a leaf threatened by the wind, trying not to run or hide. She just stands and stares from behind her eyes, safe in the cocoon of her own mind.

Regulus is panting slightly, lowering his wand. There is no regret, no remorse on his face. He looks strained but at peace. How can he be at peace? She has no illusions that he has not killed before; that is simply impossible. But this, this girl, she is the death of anything good or kind about Regulus Arcturus Black.

She refuses to meet his gaze, just tosses the book onto the ground before him and returns to her frozen state, a gargoyle forced into observance. Her skin burns with knowledge and with shame.

The incantation is bizarre to her ears, a warped twisting of words in his mouth. It is spoken clearly and without hesitation, and yet she forgets it as soon as it leaves his lips. Everything in her body rejects its recollection, rejects any trace of it in her bloodstream again.

Regulus suddenly screams; a primal cry of agony and despair, and she starts to move towards him. He is holding his wand aloft, a glowing and pulsating ball of blood red light hovering on the tip. His face is twisted in pain, tears dripping ceaselessly down his face and into the collar of his shirt. With great effort, he staggers forward and plunges his wand into the notebook.

A moment. Breath rushes back into Pandora’s lungs. Everything in her body feels heavy and weighted down, as though she is chained to the earth. Trying to shake the feeling off, reminding herself she isn’t the one who is part-soulless now, she turns her head.

Regulus is collapsed on the floor in a messy heap, curled into himself like a fetus, his body eerily still and white. Moving as though through molasses, she fights through the space between them and drops to her knees beside him, pulling his head up and out of his arms to look at her.

He’s awake, breathing shallowly. There is a sickly pale tint to his skin, even more than before; it’s like he’s translucent now, and if she squints hard enough, she could see his bones and muscles through the flesh. A stream of red drips from his nose into his mouth, his eyes big and dark and fractured, as though half of the iris has severed itself from the other, held together only by the pupil in the center.

He looks broken, dead. Even as she presses her fingers into his neck, feels the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and strange, irregular heartbeat, she almost cannot believe he is still here. Except, when he smiles at her, and blood has stained his teeth and tongue red, and there is something triumphant and challenging in the tilt of his lips, and Pandora lets out a strange laugh at the sign of life, because it is Regulus. Severing his soul did not destroy the Regulus she knows and loves.

“What do you need?” She whispers desperately, close to his ear. He is still just smiling at her, even as his mouth continues to fill with blood and overflow onto his shirt and torso. It is as though he has almost drowned in a a river of blood, because Regulus Black always ends up drowning.

“Water.” His voice is raspy and barely there, and Pandora doesn’t hesitate. Pulling herself up, pushing through the thick air to the back, refusing to look in the direction of the dead Muggle girl. Her hands are shaking at her sides, feet heavy and tripping, as she fumbles through dusty cabinets for a glass, trying to fill it up at the tap, and making her way back.

He’s still laying there like that, and time is becoming too pervasive in her field of vision; images taking hold and obscuring all else. She can see him laying on the rocks, stomach down, sobbing with pain and trying to drag himself to the water for a sip, just one sip, but the hands are waiting, rotted flesh and gleaming bone poking from the surface and grabbing—

Hold it together, she scolds herself, but it is too much, the overwhelming sensations in her skin, in her mind, in her heart. She can’t stop seeing him everywhere: drowning on the coast, dragged into the water in the cave, dying on the floor here. Sirius reaching for his shoulders to hug him, Andromeda tussling his hair, Narcissa’s adoring gaze, Bellatrix fixing his tie. They would never forgive her; they will never forgive her. They may not know it is her fault, but their hearts will forever blame her anyway.

Somehow, she manages to kneel at his side again, tilting the glass to his lips, watching him swallow down the blood. Strangely, she isn’t afraid of him at this moment. She is the one who holds all the power between them, and that is scarier.

“How do you feel?”

“Powerful.” Regulus chokes on a laugh, his face twisted in something like pain alongside victory. He looks like a man who has nothing else left to lose. “Bring it to me.” King Regulus sliding back into his voice; a commander with demands.

It takes her a moment to realize he means the book—the Horcrux, now. Gingerly, she goes to it, lifts it with the tips of her fingers. It thrums with an unspeakable magic, deep and radiating through her body. It is horrible, and she loathes it, thrusting it onto Regulus’ heaving chest to be rid of it. With fumbling fingers, he pages through it, smile growing wider as he does. “I can feel it.” A whisper, sinister and true. He can feel a part of himself within the notebook.

Pandora feels so deeply ill; she cannot hide it anymore. Crawling away on her hands and knees, she retches onto the floor, nothing but bile coming out. Pressing her forehead against the cold tile, she begins to cry helplessly, the pounding in her skull painful and ticking. The clock is running down on her time, she knows, but she cannot bring herself to do what has to be done.

“Pandora.” His voice, echoing across time. This time, she vomits for real, trying to get the poison out of her bloodstream, lungs seizing and contorting. She wants to be rid of him, to save herself, except he haunts her. Maybe he’s right, maybe she’s more of a Black than a Rosier, than a Dubois. Maybe she was switched at birth, maybe she and Regulus have been one and the same all along, like he thought. A world of maybes that she knows far too much about to ever entertain seriously.

“If you are going to do it, now is your chance.” His tone is mocking. He doesn’t believe she can.

He’s right.

“Fuck.” She mumbles, wiping fervently at her mouth, trying to escape this decision. Somewhere above, the clock keeps ticking. She is small and insignificant, pleading to a force with no rationality.

Pandora stays like that for a while, just tapping her fingers against one another desperately. She realizes absently that Regulus has pulled himself into a seated position with his back against the wall, watching her. The notebook rests in his lap, still humming a high-pitched sound that piques at her ears.

“You wanted me here to watch you, so I would regret having to do this.” Her voice is low and bitter, unable to lift her head to look him straight on.

“You think me much crueler than I am.”

“You want to eradicate an entire people.”

“For our own good. Salazar Slytherin visited me in a dream, not long ago. He was proud of my efforts.”

“You’re fucking delusional.”

Regulus laughs, and she finally turns to look at him. The blood has dried on his upper lip and chin, and there is something crazy in his eyes. “How is it that you’re more human when half of your soul is gone?”

“There is no such thing as humanity for me anymore.”

“You will die a human man.”

“You have to kill me first.”

They stare at each other. Regulus’ face cracks again. “I understand his obsession. Power like this is… incredible. Except, he is weak. He cannot sustain it for long. I can.”

“Why am I here?”

His eyes fix on hers, split pupils wide and dark. “Because I wanted you here.”

“I am not your toy.”

“That is why I like you. you want to push back against me. Evan was all too willing to bend to my will. Bartemius has never not been his father’s plaything. My brother believes he has taken the moral high road. Our cousins are either too afraid or too ambivalent or too unstable. You are willing to destroy me.” Regulus runs his tongue over his red teeth. “I want to see what you will do.”

“And why’s that?”

“You are fundamentally weak.” Regulus smiles. “You care too much. You want to keep your hands clean because that keeps you removed. You believe you can move through this war playing both sides, keeping your options open, with the excuse that ‘time’ stays your hand. Except, you are too powerful to continue that excuse. I am the only one who sees that. Time to decide, Pandora. Are you a slave, or are you a queen?”

Pandora stares at him and then begins to laugh.

“Denying the truth is not freedom. You are pretending you are not free, but you are. I am giving you this choice. I am your best hope.”

“This is cute. Really, I admire your effort.”

Regulus arches an eyebrow.

“Do you genuinely believe you are above time? Above mortality? Regulus, you think you can control me. I’m afraid you’re sorely mistaken.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“That’s besides the point. I know that none of this is as calculated as you want me to believe. You just don’t want to die alone, because you know you will.”

A quiver of his lower lip. A tic, a giveaway. Like a Rosier, Pandora stalks her prey, moves in closer and closer for the kill. “You’re a scared little boy. Your father used to torture you, did he not? I remember your screams in the Black library. All those precious books, your sanctuary, stained with your blood. The strongest kings cannot be overcome by tyrants. You think you can overpower them, but you’ve never actually held any power at all. A boy, a puppet.”

A smile but strained. “Brilliant Pandora Rosier. Misguided Pandora Rosier. Who do you think you are?”

Pandora leans in, close. “Better than you. Because unlike you, I never show all my cards.”

~*~

Imperio is a tricky spell. Dad used it on her once, or so Evan says. She woke up in her bed, paralyzed with fear and soaked in sweat, unable to move until the tingly feeling receded from her limbs. Evan was watching quietly from the doorway, his eyes wide and upset. They didn’t talk about it.

Pandora knows how to mess with spells. It’s kind of her specialty, seer thing aside. Rosiers are good not only with making spells, but reaching the DNA, twisting and shifting it to alter the magic.

The Unforgivables are especially tricky, but Pandora has spent her entire life knowing this spell, knowing how to change it. She’s been seeing it ever since she was little, information that settled in her bones.

She figures out how to dive into the crevices of Regulus’ mind but keep herself far enough away from the gory details. She can manipulate him like a marionette, a broken devil masquerading as a boy. She knows how to make it his hands, his wand, his actions that hold the notebook aloft and set the thing ablaze. Fiendfyre, call that a lucky guess. Dad once razed a forest to the ground with it. He liked watching things burn.

It tears at his flesh, blood welling as he screams, a terrible sound that Pandora feels rattling through her skull, even as she stands to the side and watches. Like this, removed, she feels no pity, no empathy watching his soul reunify and rupture his body in the process. She can only hope it kills him. If not, maybe the Fiendfyre will leave some nasty burns.

He won’t die here, tonight, no matter how much Pandora wishes she can spare him the trouble. She stays in his mind for as long as possible, trying to keep him removed from the driver’s seat of his brain. She is long gone, away from the abandoned restaurant, wandering through the streets aimlessly, her presence elsewhere.

When it becomes too much, she lets him go, feels herself reverberate back into her skeleton once more, dropping in a heap on the sidewalk, ignoring the curious glances of a couple walking across the street. It is only a matter of time before that fire begins devouring other buildings, a surprise it hasn’t already. In her mind, she sees the burns on his skin materialize in that cave. It was always up to her how she destroyed the Horcrux, and she has given him the worst option imaginable.

Maybe the water will be cold against his burns when he drowns.

~*~

Xenophilius is waiting at the tree when she approaches. He is leaning against it, arms folded over his chest, his pale blonde hair drifting and dancing in the evening air. He looks like the moonlight, all light and beauty.

Pandora does not deserve him anymore. She feels rotten, hollow. Instead of a heartbeat, she has the ticking of a clock in her chest. She has doomed a man to death, a man she loves. She has made her choice. She has handed her life off to a war she cares nothing about, to a side that holds nothing for her in the event of its victory.

Xeno sees her coming and goes to greet her, but hesitates at the sight of her, covered in Regulus Black’s blood and dead-eyed. His mild-mannered demeanor shifts into something foreign: fear. “What happened?”

All she can muster is a smile, perhaps with blood in her mouth now too. “I need to change my name.”

Not Rosier, not Dubois, not Black, but another, something that is hers.

Pandora Lovegood is done being a pawn.

Chapter Text

December 1979

Lily has a big problem. A major problem, even. One that might ruin her life.

She is ill.

There are a few aspects to this predicament that you should understand. One: Lily does not like being ill. In fact, she despises it. This goes beyond your usual “being sick sucks and makes me unproductive” thing. No, Lily is terrified of being ill. Mainly, it really comes down to the idea of being “sick”, like, throwing up.

Lily does not vomit, and she will do everything in her power to ensure it stays that way.

She got sick once at a motel they were staying at when she was little, on their way to visit her dad’s family. She barely remembers it, just the sensation of her head lolling against Mum’s shoulder and the sour taste in her mouth, but it was enough to inspire a lifelong fear of throwing up.

Most people think she’s being dramatic. She’s actually just very rational and prepared. In her purse at all times are several containers of mints, and she never drinks enough to have a hangover – usually she just plays up being drunk and people believe her. Never has she put herself in a situation where she can get sick in public. She watches what she eats, avoids anything that has been a trigger once before (yogurt, granola), and keeps her distance from anyone sick around her.

This brings us to the second predicament: Lily does not throw up unless it is serious. Usually she can push it away, amazingly, distract her body until the urge passes.

Not this time.

It. Will. Not. Pass.

Lily tries everything. She tries ginger tea and her usual mints to combat the nausea. She tries old homebrews her mum used to make when dealing with nausea from the chemo. She lays very quietly and still in a dark room for seven hours, awake and listening to her heartbeat, until she is forced upwards and propelled to a toilet.

She begins to wonder if this is a long, terrible migraine. Petunia used to get them every month when they were little, and she always complained about the nausea as the worst part alongside the headache. Maybe she is just stressed, and her body is feeling it.

Three: Lily’s period is late.

That isn’t much of a surprise, either. Never in her life has it been consistent. On the outside, Lily appears to be a deeply organized and structured person, except everything inside her wholeheartedly rejects that assessment.
There are reasons for it to be wonky now: the war, the stress. James hasn’t been sleeping much lately, and Mary keeps her distance, and Lily is constantly sick. Shit happens, right? They all deal with stress differently. Lily just… is late.

If you put this all together, it points to a very obvious conclusion. Lily disregards this possibility. Nay, it doesn’t even cross her mind. Why would it? They’ve been careful, haven’t they? Lily’s on birth control, they use protection. There is no way in the world that it could be that.

Right?

~*~

When Alice invites the three of them over for tea, Lily thinks nothing of it. It’s just a check in between friends. Definitely not a life altering day.

They apparate over together, her and Mary and Marlene. Mary won’t look at her full on. It feels as though Lily keeps gaining and losing her, over and over again, distant and close and distant again. Lily just wants to keep her close, tucked into her side, because the thought of losing Mary completely is devastating.

They haven’t talked about it, that night in October. Eventually, when they went back inside, Mary went straight to her bed without a word to Lily. in the morning, it was back to how it was after graduation: Mary avoiding all of them – Lily especially – and lost in her own private world that none of them could quite access. Remus seemed off too, lately, and Sirius. Maybe it’s just that time of year.

Wizards do celebrate Christmas – or Yuletide, some call it – surprisingly enough. It was never really a happy time of year in Lily’s house. Dad cut down a tree, a straggly little one from the local forest (which was definitely illegal), and Mum made Christmas pudding, and they all got two gifts each. Still, it was always punctuated by Dad getting drunk and some sort of fight, whereby Lily would go up to bed early and cry herself to sleep.

Marlene is quiet around Christmas, probably thinking about her family. Lily knows she keeps Michael’s phone number and address tucked somewhere in her belongings at the Potter house, but hasn’t called. She’d told Lily quietly the other night that her dad is coming down to see her this year. Angus McKinnon is apparently a very busy man, constantly travelling on business for the Ministry. Very rarely these days does he make any sort of time for his daughter. Lily hesitates to say anything on the matter because Angus is the only one of her family Marlene still seems to love anymore.

Alice lets them in, smiling and yammering away about the snow outside. Her face seems fuller and pinker today, and something has shifted in her eyes. Lily scrutinizes her as she pulls off her coat, accidentally bumping her elbow into Mary’s side. Mary says nothing.

Alice and Frank’s house has always been Lily’s favourite. It’s all warm, yellows and oranges, plush couches and mismatched coffee tables. It reminds her of home, the thrifted decorations and repurposed furniture.

Alice sits them down on the couch, lined up in a row and crammed up against one another. Marlene’s side is warm against Lily’s, her jeans scratching at Lily’s skirt.

“Is everything alright, Alice?” Lily asks, trying to decipher the unconscious wiggling of Alice’s eyebrows.

Alice sighs, drums her fingers on her knees, and scrunches up her face, glancing away. Lily feels something cold and worrying spread through her body.

“Are you and Frank okay?” Marlene’s voice shakes a little, and Alice starts to laugh, wiping tears away from her eyes.

“Oh Merlin, guys, I promise everything’s fine. Better than fine, even. I just, um…” Alice stares down at her hands for a beat and then lifts her head. “I’m pregnant.”

“Wait, seriously?” Marlene says, incredulously. Lily’s ears start to ring.

“Yeah.” Alice is nodding and crying, a giant smile on her face. “We confirmed it a few days ago. I’m eleven weeks, due in June.”

“Congratulations, Alice!” Mary is the first one up, wrapping Alice up in a hug. Marlene is very clearly still processing, her mouth agape. Lily’s heartbeat keeps getting louder and louder.

“Holy shit.” Marlene murmurs, and then springs up to tackle Alice, laughing. “Alice, you’re gonna be a mum!”

“I know!” Alice chirps.

Lily somehow recovers herself, goes to Alice and presses a kiss to her temple. “Congrats, to the both of you.” Something feels very off-kilter in the pit of her stomach, no matter how much she tries to shove it down.

“Ugh, thank you girls. You were the first ones I wanted to tell—besides Frank and my dad, of course. Can you believe it? We weren’t really trying, obviously, but we’re both over the moon. You guys are going to be aunties!”

Whatever else happens in the next hour or so, Lily isn’t really sure. It sounds like the ocean in her ears, now, the rushing tide.

She is a month away from turning twenty. Her parents were only just twenty years old when she was born. Her parents should not have been parents at all. Lily was supposedly wanted but that didn’t change that she wasn’t exactly loved, and neither was Petunia.

Lily wants kids, one day. She thinks she could be a good mother. She wants a part of herself and James to be forever entwined, to become a beautiful flower. But, all she can think about is her mother, who resented her existence. Her father, who drank to ignore his daughters. The way the house shook with screams. Lily is made from them, is she not? Who’s to say that her kindness will remain in the aftermath of a child?

Alice plants the seed, and now Lily cannot see beyond it in her mind.

~*~

It’s only three days later when Lily shows up unannounced on Frank and Alice’s doorstep, the test hidden in her coat pocket.

Frank answers the door, his hair longish and messy. “Hey, kiddo. What are you doing here?”

“Is Alice in?”

Frank glances behind him and back at her. “Yeah, she’s here. She’s not feeling too well, but I’m sure she’s happy to see you. Everything alright?”

“Mm hm.”

“Here, let me get your coat.” Frank reaches for it, but Lily moves quickly out of his grasp, smiling tightly.

“I’m a little chilly, anyway. I won’t be here long.”

“Up to you, kid.”

Alice is lounging on the couch, her face bare and body bundled in blankets, a bucket on the floor next to her. She smiles tiredly when Lily comes in and pushes herself up. “Hey, wasn’t expecting you today.”

Lily takes one look at her and bursts into tears.

Two strong hands guide her to the couch to sit, and soft fingers brush at her face, wiping away tears, whispering support. Lily cannot stop the flow of tears running down her cheeks, cannot stop the emotion.

“Hey, hey, hey, breathe with me, Lils. You got it? Follow my lead. Deep breath in, hold… and let go. There you go, you’ve got it. Let’s do that a few more times, hey?” Alice’s hands squeezing her own, Lily tries to focus on the feeling of her breath in her lungs, not the weight of the test in her pocket.

They do that for a while, breathing in and out together, the three of them, until Lily is slightly hiccupping but calm. Alice, gentle eyes and smile, brushes her thumb against Lily’s cheekbone. “There’s my girl. What’s wrong?”

Lily cannot bring herself to say anything but pull the test from her pocket and lay it in Alice’s hands.

The three of them just stare at it for what feels like hours. Frank coughs, awkwardly. “I could go, if you want—”

“No.” Lily surprises herself with the desperation in her voice. “Stay, please.”

“Alright, kid.” Frank sits back down on the couch beside her, knees knocking. “I’m here.”

Alice is watching Lily’s face very carefully, her own betraying little of her thoughts. “Was that why you were weird the other day?” Her voice is gentle but prodding.

Lily nods. “I think i… I think I had a feeling.”

Alice scoots closer, and folds Lily’s head into the crook of her shoulder, rubbing warm circles on her back. “It’s okay, love. We’ll figure it out.” When they pull apart, Alice looks back at the test again. “This is muggle. Have you been to St. Mungo’s yet?”

Lily shakes her head. “I haven’t even told James yet.”

“Oh, darling.” Alice looks at her for a long time. “Any decision you make will be the right one, you know that, right? It’s okay to be scared, or worried, or unsure.”

Tears threaten to fall again. “I don’t want to end up like my parents, having kids too early and not loving them enough.”

“Lils, I have met nobody who has as much love as you do.” Alice reaches for her hands again and holds on. “I’m scared too. It’s not an ideal time… but I know I want this baby. It’s okay if you don’t, or if it’s not the right time yet, or whatever reasons you can have. You are not going to be your parents. You’re Lily Evans, and things will work out.”

“And we’ll be here, too.” Frank adds at her side. “Whatever you choose. If you want to terminate, we’ll be there if you want us. If you want to keep it, we’ll support you in any way we can.”

“Don’t let us lead you in any direction that you don’t feel comfy with.” Alice looks deep into her eyes. “You have options, Lily. Whatever you need, we will help.”

Lily starts to cry again. Through her tears, she hears herself say, “I don’t think I can do it.”

“Okay. That’s completely okay. Do you want us to bring you to St. Mungo’s? Do you want to talk to James first?”

All she can think about is her mum. Pregnant eighteen-year-old Annaliese Carver, kicked out of her house after the news got out. Did she regret it? Maybe later, she did, but what did she think then?

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” is all Lily can find in herself to say, repeating it over and over, as though those three words can possibly hold the answer. “I don’t know.”

~*~

James is holding her hand in the St. Mungo’s waiting room, and she is squeezing his fingers so tightly without realizing that his brown hand has gone pale white. She flashes him an apology look and loosens her grip.

When Lily went home, James was already waiting for her. She’d asked Frank, once she’d calmed down, to call James in advance. He didn’t need to say those words, but somehow James already knew. He’d hugged her, and they’d gone to St. Mungo’s together.

“Sickle for your thoughts?” James says quietly, close to her ear. Lily’s eyes are stuck watching a toddler magically bounce his toys off the ground over and over while the mum tries to get him to stop. For once, the nausea has subsided, lying in wait.

“It’s going to be really hard, James.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her eyes find his. “Your parents were older, and ready. Mine weren’t. mine didn’t know how to take care of themselves as well as their kids, and they didn’t have the misfortune of living through a war, never mind fighting in one.”

James nods slowly, swallowing the information. “Okay, I hear you.”

“We’ll have to be extra careful. I probably won’t be able to be in the field at all anymore. You cannot be as reckless as you are now. This baby has to be our first priority, above all else.”

“Lily—”

“Listen to me.” Her hand starts to grip his tighter and tighter again. “You have to be all in. we have to be all in. there is no half-assing this. My parents were shitty, and I refuse to let our kid face anything like that, ever. You understand me? If you have any doubts, any at all, you say it right now, and we will take care of it.”

“Lilyflower.” James reaches to touch at the side of her face. His expression is full of awe and adoring. “I want this baby. More than anything. But only if you want it too. I love you more than anything, you know that.”

Her breath hitches. His eyes are big and brown and hers. He is hers, and he is staring at her with such love that something small opens in her chest, like the sun itself, warming her body in an instant.

“Okay.” She says, very softly. “Okay.”

When the medi-witch calls Lily’s name, they go in there together, hand in hand.

~*~

Septima is tempted to let the buzzer keep ringing. From where she sits, lounging on her bed, poring over her muggle history textbook, she really has no interest in getting up.

“Septima! For fuck’s sake, get the door!” Doris screams from the bathroom.

She considers this for a moment, lazily turning another page without reading the words, until the buzzer sounds again, and she finally groans and rolls herself off the bed to go get it. Peering through the peephole makes her sigh very deeply and consider just going back to her bed. Except, Doris will be even more pissed and might not make dinner later for the both of them. Septima cannot cook for shit, so some priorities overtake her desire to be a dick.

Bathsheda Babbling is standing outside the door, holding a cake, and smiling like an idiot. Clearly, she cleaned up for this: her clothes are ironed, and her hair is pinned back and she’s even wearing tinted lipgloss that smells faintly of cherry.

She holds out the cake. “This is for you.”

Septima stares at her, says very blandly, “No thanks,” and starts to close the door.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Bathsheda calls, panicking, trying to stop the door with her foot but squishing it and making a small cry of pain. Septima is already walking back to her bedroom when she hears heavy footfalls following her. “I thought you liked cake?!”

“I do. Just not from you.”

“Oh, come on, Septima!” Bathsheda stomps her foot, and Septima tosses her gaze back over her shoulder. “I made this for you! it’s Hanukkah, right?”

Septima hesitates, watches as Bathsheda’s cheeks tremble with the effort of keeping a smile on her face. It is infuriating how nice she seems to be.

“Fine. Put it on the counter.”

Bathsheda’s face brightens, and she rushes to place it down. “I wasn’t sure what flavour you liked, so I just did vanilla.”

“I’m allergic to vanilla, Bat.”

“Shit, are you really?”

“No. Is that all you wanted?”

Bathsheda fidgets, swaying side to side a little. Septima watches her with an arched eyebrow. “I was hoping we could maybe… study together? For Evander’s test next week.”

“Nah.”

“I could really use your help…” Bathsheda glances up at Septima from the corner of her eye, shyly. Septima doesn’t blink, completely impassive.

“I’m a little busy now.”

“I can come by tomorrow!”

Septima sighs, glances at the clock. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow until 1.”

Bathsheda grins, revealing that cute gap between her teeth. “Great! I’ll see you then.”

“Uh huh.” Septima walks her out and takes great satisfaction in shutting and locking the door behind her.

~*~

Bathsheda Babbling has been a pain in Septima Vector’s side since fourth year.

Septima is a good student. Maybe not in every class (some she finds less intellectually stimulating, like potions), but her real talent is ancient runes. When she starts taking that class in her third year, it is as though a whole new world has opened up. She adores it: the puzzle of a translation, turning it this way or that to figure out the angle at which to approach, how best to dissect the grammar.

She’s a polyglot, that’s probably where the love comes from. Mum spoke Yiddish at home, and she knows some Hebrew from the Torah (even though witches technically shouldn’t be religious, Mum never gave two shits about what most people thought), and Dad speaks Spanish. Since then, she’s picked up a bunch more languages, but runes are the most elusive, the most challenging.

Septima likes being the best. Most people find her intolerable for that. Fine, she’s not great at losing. So what? It just means she works harder than most people not to lose, and that sounds pretty healthy if you ask her. Sage laughs at her when she competes with him in class for the highest marks. He’s good, but she’s better.

It is so unbelievably frustrating when a third year somehow jumps ahead to the fourth-year class and is beating all of them, Septima included, in grades. That, she thinks, is bullshit.

It is more bullshit when this little third year seems intent on becoming best friends with the fourth years. She’d explained eagerly that her mum was a Runologist and so she’d been given permission to jump ahead a year to match her skill level. Septima had glared at Quirinus and Sage from behind the girl’s head to get them to shut up, but they kept talking to her anyway.

Nobody finds her especially warm, Septima. Sage and Quirinus tolerate her because they too are weird and brusque. Like calls to like. Except, Bathsheda Babbling seemed to decide on that first day in their class that she wanted to be Septima’s best friend and would stop at nothing to win her over. That’s fairly unique, and Septima is not a fan. Friends never really have been her priority. The kids back home always called her weird behind her back, and she doesn’t entirely disagree. It’s not as though she’s concerned with their opinions, though.

Bathsheda will not leave her alone. When she graduated, Septima thought she was free of the girl. When she started studying with Evander Sterling (one of the greatest Runes Masters in England) up in Liverpool, it seemed like a whole new life. No longer having to put up with dumbasses and clowns around her; Septima was now surrounded by a small group of scholars, meeting every week to study and learn.

She joined a muggle university too. Usually, people frown on that, on anyone magical “indulging” in the muggle world, but wizards just don’t have the sort of higher education she wants. One day, she wants to get a PhD, and spend the rest of her life in academia, where everything makes sense in her head.

Of course, Bathsheda followed her to Liverpool, to Sterling’s class. And now she thinks they’re friends. Maybe they are. Septima isn’t a great gage of that sort of thing. She didn’t realize Sage wanted to be her friend until he had to straight out ask her. Non-verbal cues are not her strong suit. That’s why languages, runes, there’s something simple to it.

The end goal: professor of the Study of Ancient Runes at Hogwarts. A coveted position for the small pack of British runologists, for whom there are few positions: translator, administrator, or curator for the Ministry. What everyone wants though is the professor job. And Septima wants it, badly.

She’s the best student Sterling has, aside from Bathsheda. Between the two of them, the battle is on for the job. They need at least three years of experience before applying for a job, but now the wait is on until old doddering Quincy Brookside retires from Hogwarts.

Septima hasn’t really considered what she’d do otherwise. The plan is simple: get the Runes position at Hogwarts, take classes at the University of Liverpool to get her PhD, move into a little flat where she can have walls of bookshelves and a plush armchair to read on, and maybe a cat. Anything else; love, friendship, companionship of any sort, is not really on her radar.

She’s good at Arithmancy, too. That’s something fun she likes to work on in her spare time. The prof at Hogwarts told her she should consider that position, but Arithmancy doesn’t hold the same prestige, the same challenge as Runes does. It is a hobby, something she enjoys, but never something she can fully sink her teeth into.

What’s standing in her way? Bathsheda Babbling, with her round cheeks and cute smile and the cake in her hands, messily iced but clearly homemade. On the top, in clumsy strokes, is the Star of David. It’s endearing, sure, but Septima isn’t one to be swayed. This is probably so Bat can knock her off her game, retake the lead next time. Why else would she ask to study together? She’s going to mislead Septima completely until her head is spinning on the test.

The real question that Septima simply cannot understand: why is Bathsheda Babbling so goddamned nice? And why is she so goddamned nice to Septima, of all people?

~*~

It is frustrating that nobody else seems to understand how terrible this women’s alliance thing actually is.

Septima’s no fighter. She once stepped on a snail and crushed its shell under her shoe and cried for an hour trying to nurse it back to health. She’s the sit-at-the-desk type, not the warrior.

Unfortunately, Albus Dumbledore seems to realize that. He sends her an owl every week or so, to draw up the strategy plans. He knows she’s good at wizard chess, somehow, and so she envisions the pieces and the board, moving the pawns around to protect the queen. It’s supposed to be Dumbledore, the queen, but Septima just sees a faceless figure. No need to give him any of the dignity.

She’s the one who organizes the missions, decides who fights with whom. It’s a lot of power for someone seemingly so inconsequential. They aren’t real people, when she scrawls their names down. Marlene McKinnon becomes a blur, not someone she grew up with. Septima has a list of all their skills, provided by Dumbledore himself, and she makes the teams. She has no idea if they happen as she plans, if Dumbledore just tosses her letters out.

Initially, she refused to do so, and then Dumbledore threatened to put her in the field instead. If she acquiesces, she can stay in university, stay living here, not a foot soldier. She hates the man, but he does know how to fight a war.

She also does translations. Some of the Death Eaters use runes in their correspondence, and so a raid on a base will usually end up with a stack of letters for her to work with. All in all, it’s a fairly low risk gig.

Septima doesn’t want to see anybody get hurt. She just wants the war to end, so they can all go back to their regular lives. She hates the illusion of choice presented to them, that’s all. Living in a gilded cage isn’t living at all.

~*~

The prodigal son has been declared dead.

Rumour has it, Walburga Black felt her son’s magic go slack a few nights ago, and she knew. Orion Black had a stroke the next day and now lies dead in a box outside, waiting to be buried. Pregnant Narcissa Malfoy refuses to leave her bedroom, and old Lucy has taken to trying to break down the door. She will not let him in either. Bellatrix has smashed several plates in the kitchen and threatens to slit people’s throats if they get too close. Walburga sits very quietly in the dining room watching people flit around her, trying to revive her spirit. It is a useless endeavor. The lights have gone out behind her eyes.

It is fascinating, how they tick, that family. Juliette watches from the side, curious. So much madness, so much rage, pent up in slender, sharp bodies. How every breath becomes laboured from the sheer effort of carrying around the weight of their rotting ancestors on their shoulders.

The stench of death hangs in the air, lingers around every corner. There is no body to bury for Regulus Black, but he haunts this place nonetheless.

Juliette had caught a glimpse of him once in the last month, arriving by himself to the manor with a hooded cloak drawn up tightly. He moved strangely, the left side of his body stilted and hesitating. His eye met hers, and she saw the burned skin ringing his eye. that image sticks with her now: the handsome little princeling charred to a crisp.

Flesh on her tongue, the tang of blood on her lips. Juliette craves the hunger, the hunt. She would kill again for the chance to rip that boy to pieces. Poor little Regulus, who flew too close to the sun. only a fool would believe they wouldn’t fall. Juliette knows she will, there are no illusions. She just plans to make the most of it while she lives.

She fantasizes sometimes about Emma in her arms again. She was gone when Juliette returned, and later the Prophet got word. A Muggle family died for that a few days later. Emma was Juliette’s property, hers to own and dispose of.

She has an inkling it was the Rosier girl. Fucking freak. Juliette watches her closely, the way her eyes flick around as though seeing everything through a haze, especially these days, as she hides away with shame for some unexplainable act inside her head. Juliette will consume her too, make her live through it. Emma died too quickly, she didn’t feel it. that is no good. Juliette had dreamed of ripping the flesh from her finger bones while Emma watched, helpless.

People probably think she’s incapable of love. Severus has said as much to her before, in that quiet way of his, with those beady dark eyes that suggested he knew much more than he liked to let on. Juliette prefers to think of it as people not understanding what love means. Love means total devotion, consumption. Love is bloody and cruel and destructive. Juliette loved Emma Vanity, and so she had to kill her. No, not had. Got to kill her. Juliette had wanted that for so long, since they were little, since before she had the words to explain it. Emma Vanity would never get to exist without Juliette.

Power is intoxicating, but Juliette is no Icarus. She fucks Evan Rosier in the cellar and lets him follow her like a dog, stupid and horny, lets him believe he is nothing without her, even when she smiles demurely and acts as though she barely knows he exists. Neil Avery Jr. thinks himself a big dog but can barely kill without becoming severely ill. Juliette uses Imperio on him and lets him believe he is strong, lets him live out those fantasies. Whenever she can, she damages his leg when living in his head. So much to keep him docile.

It's all a kindness, no? To give these useless men what they want. Juliette is a saint, providing miracles. Why nobody thanks her is a mystery.

They’re all substitutes, though. Always substitutes. Milton and Neil and Regulus and Evan aren’t the real thing. The only real thing Juliette has ever had now lays in a box somewhere on the Vanity property, supposedly safe in death.

Never safe. Not so long as Juliette lives. Emma’s body is hers, and the Vanitys stand to suffer for living while Emma was stolen from her.

She will have what is hers back. That is a promise.

~*~

The Ravenclaw common room is lit up in hues of blue and white. There is a constant hum of chatter, cheers and whoops, someone’s record player playing the Beatles or something. A game of drunken Gobstones goes on in the corner, where Pete keeps beating everyone over and over again. One of the few parties that brings all of the houses together – except most of the Slytherins, of course – in anticipation for the new year.

1978. Mary, swaying absently, drink cradled in her hand, tries to imagine the future. It looms large and inconceivable in front of her. War, brewing on the homefront, graduation and life further beyond. Watching the world from afar, like a party, knowing that you will have to go and mingle at some point too, but it is too daunting to stray from the corner, where it is safe and protected and alone.

She cannot stop looking to the center of the room, where Lily is dancing without a care in the world, shoes off and a stupid party hat crooked on her head. But behind her is Hestia, dancing with her arms around Emmeline’s shoulders, and she is starting to smile again, just the hint of one but a smile, nonetheless. It’s been months since her face showed anything like joy, and Mary doesn’t understand why. One night, she was Hestia, and the next, she was someone Mary didn’t know anymore. They haven’t spoken in days, because Hestia doesn’t want to have sex, and Mary misses her.

Arms folded over her chest, Mary just stares as Hestia mutters something to Emmeline and Emmeline’s head flies up with an unfiltered laugh, and Mary feels something strange in her chest, curling around her heart and lungs. Is it longing? Is it jealousy? Hestia knows her but she doesn’t really know Hestia anymore, and Mary feels very small and vulnerable, like any sort of power has slipped from her grasp, because the one person who always cared about her feelings, who never made her feel pressured, won’t look her in the eyes anymore. She won't leave Emmeline's side and it is as though Mary doesn't matter anymore, like she never mattered.

Mary is lonely, and maybe love isn’t meant for her, but she wants it anyway. And whatever she and Hestia are, it keeps the nightmares away. If there isn’t Lily, there is Hestia, and the future opens up bright and beautiful before her: the idea of a life together, where Mary is Mari again and she is known.

Unfortunately, wanting has never gotten Mary anywhere. And when Hestia's eyes meet Mary's through the crowd, she has a sinking feeling that this time will be just like the others.

Chapter Text

Early January 1980

Agnus McKinnon doesn’t show for Christmas.

No, he arrives unannounced in Merlinspire two weeks after Christmas, long past when he should have been there.

Marlene waited for him at the door like a little kid. Perhaps she was… hopeful, hopeful that this time, he would show up like he was supposed to and not let her down again. That he would put her first instead of his job for the first time in her life. That he would realize that she was alone on Christmas, isolated from her blood family, and that he might take pity on her and travel down just for her.

Apparently, that’s too much to ask for.

The tree – chopped by Sirius and Peter in some muggle forest, probably illegally – has been brought outside now and James has taken down the Christmas lights, and the Potter house looks big and imposing and empty now with all the cheer stolen from it.

Marlene misses Effie and Monty. She misses them so hard she can’t really breathe sometimes. The other day, Mary started to put away one of Monty’s chipped mugs from its usual spot on the counter and Marlene screamed at her to put it back. She couldn’t help it; everything in her body protested at the lack. She needs to feel them there.

On the days where it’s really bad, she’ll go out to the graves on the outskirts of town. Tears freezing on her red cheeks, lips chapped and raw from crying, she just sits down next to them and talks about anything and everything, filling the brittle air with her voice and hoping it reaches them, wherever they are.

Wizards don’t really conceive of an afterlife. She’d asked Maura, Pete’s mum once, and Maura had responded that the common view of death was that the soul continued on in some way, but that there really wasn’t much to a world beyond death.

Marlene hopes Euphemia and Fleamont went to Heaven. She knows non-believers can’t really get in but hopefully her prayers to a god have been answered on their behalf. The thought that they’re restlessly wandering the earth, a soul without a body, is horrifying and the subject of many nightmares.

James comes to join her sometimes. He won’t speak at all, but he’ll sit on the ground and hold her hand, sharing their strength. He won’t talk about it at all, not with anyone. Even still, when he smiles, there is a weariness to his lips, a grimness, a haunted quality to the bags under his eyes and thinner face. The final death of James Potter’s innocence, finally catching up to the rest of them.

It’s while Marlene is walking back alone from the graves that January morning, the weak sun poking through the clouds, that she sees her father for the first time in a year and a half.

“Dad!”

He sees her from across the field, and she waits for the flicker of recognition. It takes a beat longer than she would have hoped, but finally he raises his arm and Marlene breaks into a run, all resentment and sadness forgotten as she traverses the snowy ground and slams into her father’s chest. Hiccupping, breathless, Marlene starts to laugh and cry as Angus folds her into his arms, safe at last.

“I didn’t think you would come,” is what she whispers into his coat.

Angus rubs her arm and pulls back. His beard is bushier, longer, and his hair is a little more unkept, but it’s him, it’s really him.

“I got caught up in Romania.” He says, scratching behind his ear. “I sent an owl, didn’t you get it?”

Marlene shakes her head like a little kid.

“Huh. Maybe you threw it away by accident. Your mother used to do that all the time. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What were you doing out there?”

Saying it out loud feels like pulling meat hooks from the fleshy parts of her heart, but she says it anyway: “James’ parents died in August. I go to visit their graves sometimes.”

“Oh. James, which one is that?”

“Potter.”

“Ah, right. The Indian boy. Real shame. I knew Euphemia in the Ministry. Attractive woman.” Angus shrugs. “Unfortunate, the way things end up. Nothing you can do about it. Aren’t you supposed to be at your mother’s this time of year?”

Marlene stares at him, blinks. “She didn’t tell you?”

“You think I keep in contact with that witch?” Angus laughs, a whole-body movement. Marlene’s fingers inside her worn mittens begin to freeze. “You two get into a petty fight again?”

Before she has a chance to respond – with what, she’ll never know – a voice rings out from across the field. “Marlene! What are you doing out there! Come back inside!”

“Coming!” Marlene calls back, then trails her glance back to Angus. “Do you want to come?” She asks, shyly, as though it is a burden to ask even the slightest thing of him.

Angus slings his arm around her shoulders and begins to walk, dragging her along with him. “Let’s go see those little friends of yours!”

~*~

It feels all wrong when Marlene and her dad step foot into the Potters’ kitchen.

Remus spots them first, setting down his cup of coffee. The bags under his eyes are at a record heaviness today, and his eyes themselves are a strange yellow-brown shade, like he’s sensing prey to hunt. Sirius at his side seems to sense Remus stiffening and glances up, his gaze meeting Marlene’s with an eyebrow quirked, a challenge.

Lily begins to cough on her tea, and James whirls around from his position at the stove. Peter’s face is blank. The only one missing is Mary, who has taken to sleeping ridiculously long hours as though to avoid them all.

Marlene musters a grin. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

“Mr. McKinnon,” Lily says between splutters, “I didn’t realize we’d still be expecting you.”

Angus shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking supremely uninterested. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Lily Potter.” Lily gets up from the table to extend her hand for Angus to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Angus ignores her hand, looks around the room until his eyes land on James. “Ah, Potter.” Brushing past Lily, Angus marches to James and sticks out his hand. “Angus McKinnon. I worked with your mother for a time at the Ministry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Marlene vaguely feels Lily looking at her, but she keeps her eyes on the floor, shame creeping up her neck and flooding her cheeks with blood.

James smiles tightly but does not shake. “I appreciate it, sir. But I believe you’ve just dismissed my wife completely, which I cannot stand for.”

“Oh.” Angus glances back over his shoulder at Lily, blinking at him. “My apologies. Didn’t know your little wife was so… particular about such things.”

“Excuse me?” Sirius stands up, all blazing Black anger and power in a fraction of a second. “You do not speak of her like that.”

Angus laughs, but this time it doesn’t feel warm and welcoming like it did outside. “Relax, gentlemen! I’m just having a bit of fun. It’s not often I get to be amongst the youth anymore. Total oldies club at the Ministry, eh Marley? Good to be able to joke with the kids again.” He goes to sit at the table, the rest gawking at him like an animal in a zoo. Marlene thinks about the ground opening up beneath her and falling into a pit of darkness.

What occurs to her, dully, is that Dad never called her Marley. Only Michael had that privilege. She was only ever Marlene when Dad was around. This shift is jarring and destabilizing, making her knees shake uncontrollably.

“Come sit, Marlene.” Lily murmurs in her ear and slowly guides her to the table, between Lily and Remus. Marlene can’t stop thinking about last Christmas, about the pain in her face. She tries not to think about that anymore, but the wound has been punctured and the warm blood of memory spills over her skin once more.

“Eggs and bacon, if you will, Potter.” Angus sounds as though he’s ordering at a diner, not a guest in his daughter’s friend’s house. It takes a moment, but James finally turns back to the stove, back straight and stiff. Angus surveys the table again. “So, all of you are Marley’s little friends. You all done Hogwarts?”

The air feels thick and heavy. Marlene cannot lift her head to look anyone in the eye. Finally, Remus responds. “Finished in 1978.”

“Ah! New to the game of life. Any of you working in the Ministry yet? That’s where we all end up.” Angus squints and jabs a thumb at Sirius. “Except you, pretty boy. I know a Black if I ever saw one. Heard about your brother in the paper. I suppose he had it coming, eh?” He waits for an answer that never comes. Sirius looks as though he’s departed his body, eyes blank. “Anyway, I bet your family would block you from getting a job quicker than you could even apply.”

“No, none of us are working there.” Remus replies evenly, though a vein has appeared in his temple.

“Just wait. It’ll come to get you.” Angus leans on his hands to look at Peter. “Petey Pettigrew, as I live and breathe! Still just as chunky as before, I see.” Peter’s face is impassive, giving nothing away. “Of all of you, I’d expect you to be a Ministry man like your father. Those Pettigrews, followers to the very end. How’s Nathaniel anyway?”

Marlene tries to sneak a look at Peter, but he just smiles in that thin way he does when he’s planning and folds his arms on the table. “He’s well. Getting on with things. I believe we invited you over for Christmas dinner at our place? My mother would have appreciated a heads up that you weren’t going to be arriving.”

Angus hesitates, and then puts his arm around Marlene’s shoulders again, heavy and suffocating. “As I told Marley here, I definitely sent a letter. You probably mixed it up with your other mail.”

Peter’s eyes sparkle a little in the light. “No, we would have remembered. A little rude to insinuate that of not only us, but your daughter, by the way.”

“Oh-ho!” Angus’ face splits into a nasty looking grin. “A fighter! Wouldn’t have expected that of you, Pettigrew. You were always such a stupid, mousey thing.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Peter smiles innocently. “Mice can get into the crevices the bigger animals can’t. I believe Marlene was waiting for you to show, and here you are. Two weeks later.”

“I got busy with a deal. Italy was being very particular about the terms and conditions of our agreement. That’s something I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Of course. You know a lot, except about your daughter. Have you even asked her what happened last Christmas?”

“Peter!” Lily says, shocked, but Peter isn’t backing down, his brown eyes boring into Angus’, whose lips are drawn tight.

“My relationship with my daughter is none of your business.”

“Oh, but you’ve made it our business.” Peter is as immovable as a rock, refusing to stop. “You see, you giving less than two shits about her means that we’re the ones who console her when her father cannot bother to show up on the first Christmas she spends alone with no parents in sight. That is our business.”

Marlene finds her eyes lifting up towards Remus, strangely. He looks… sad? She wants to tell him not to be, that this is normal, that this is just how it is with her dad.

Peter keeps going. “I remember the last time you came by. What, a year and a half ago? You have no idea what her life is like now. Her mother hit her. Did you know that?”

Marlene’s hands start to tingle, that strange sensation which makes her acutely aware of nothing else but that, the sparkles in her fingers. She tries to knot her hands tightly, but they won’t stop.

“What?” Angus’ voice falters a little.

“She tried to marry Marlene off to some preacher’s son, and you couldn’t bother to be there to protect your daughter. Do you understand how dangerous that was for her? Do you realize just how much she suffered in that house?”

“Young man—”

“And every time you came for ‘custody’, you didn’t give two shits about the clear signs of abuse. My parents cared. James’ parents cared. But you didn’t care.”

Her vision goes dark, and breath punches out of her lips. Under the table, her fingers are jerking and twitching, trying to escape that crawling, numbing sensation.

“I don’t agree on a lot of my ex-wife’s beliefs,” is all Dad says, and even through the fog of panic she can tell the room stills.

Slowly, she hears Peter start to speak again: “Your ex-wife would have killed her.”

Marlene can’t breathe, stuttering gasps trying to get oxygen. Her hands are spasming now, her body folding in on itself—

Two solid hands haul her up, not unkindly, from her armpits and steer her away. In the aftermath of the stunned silence, she can just hear Lily and James jumping into the conversation alongside Angus and Peter, but the sound gets swallowed up by the roar in her ears. Her vision comes in fits and spurts, blinks of movement and light.

Her back hits a wall, and she slides down, head in her hands, rocking back and forth to try and come back to herself. A hand against her shoulder blade. “Breathe, Sparky, breathe.”

Sparky. Sirius. Marlene tries to catch her breath but it becomes a mountain before her, looming and daunting. Little Marlene deep inside begins to wail, an awful haunting sound that ricochets off her bones and through her bloodstream.

“Okay, look at me.” She manages to tilt her face up a bit to see Sirius’ gleaming silver eye come into view. “Good. Follow my lead. Breathe in.” He’s exaggerating for her benefit, but his palm fits against her kneecap and it is easy to follow him, like on the Quidditch pitch, two beaters chasing one another round and round, Marlene following Sirius.

However long it takes, the tide recedes from Marlene’s ears, breath filling her lungs. Her right hand still twitches, but Sirius folds it into his own without hesitation. When he spots her staring, he winks, and she smiles a little distantly. “Alright now?”

“I think so.” Marlene reaches up to scratch at her ear. “Been a while since you called me Sparky.”

“Been a while since you needed reminding of yourself.” Sirius responds plainly. When she presses the back of her head to the wall in exhaustion and embarrassment, he adds: “How long’s it been since your last one?”

“Three months.”

“I wasn’t there for that one.”

“No.” Marlene stares up at the ceiling, tracing the scuffs and marks from years of love baked into this building. “I was alone.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything, and she turns her head to look at him. “Thank you.” She whispers, but he doesn’t even blink.

“You do the same for me.” He says quietly, so quiet that she may have misheard him. Maybe she did: Sirius Black has a hard time accepting his struggles.. Then, louder, “Do you want to go back in there?”

It’s quiet, Marlene realizes now. Her heart starts to pound in her chest. “Yeah.”

In the kitchen, breakfast has been abandoned. Lily is closest to the hallway when Marlene and Sirius go back in.

Angus isn’t there.

“Where is he?” Marlene’s voice breaks, shattered with hope and fear and youthful longing. “Where’s my dad?”

“He left.” Peter says from the table, hand pressed into his cheek. His eyes lift to hers. “Said he’d write.”

Her lip begins to tremble involuntarily, and she fights to keep her voice as stable as possible. “Why would you do that?”

“Somebody had to stand up to him.” Peter’s eyes soften looking at her. “Marlene—”

“No.” She tries to lock her expression, but her face betrays her instantly. “That wasn’t for you to do.”

Peter glances sideways at Remus, and this sets her off, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No, because he came for me, Peter! What fucking authority do you think you have to tell off my dad? The only one I have left? That isn’t fair. Why would you do that?”

He’s looking so weirdly at her, like she’s grown three heads, and maybe she has but all Marlene can feel right now is a piercing sadness, all she wants is a hug from her dad like she used to get when she was little.

“I care about you—”

“Really? Because somebody who cares about me wouldn’t do this.” Marlene is almost hysterical at this point. “That’s my daddy, Peter, and he loves me! He loves me, he loves me, he loves—”

“Okay,” Lily grabs her before she melts into the floor, sobbing and gasping for air. “No more of this. It’s okay, Marlene. Shhh, look at me? Shhhhh…”

~*~

Marlene goes to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.

Nobody will come looking for her here. Wrung out and dead-eyed; to entertain anyone is a nightmare.

Part of her regrets screaming at Peter. Except, something in his eyes wasn’t right. He enjoyed the fight. And what right did he have? That was her dad, and it didn’t matter that he’d shown up two weeks late and had no idea about what happened at Mum’s, because he was here for her.

Marlene wants to get super drunk by herself at the bar and forget any of this ever happened.

The bartender glowers at her when she settles up at the counter, but seems to notice her demeanor and backs off, just gruffly asking what she wants. She’s too exhausted to care. Anything, everything. I’ll drink it all.

She’s halfway through her second drink, staring at the wall with blissful absentness when she hears a rough laugh to her left. “Aw, little girl got lost in the big and scary bar, huh?”

Marlene turns her head to glare into the gleaming black eyes of Dorcas Meadowes. “Piss off.”

“Wow. Kitten’s got fighting words.” Dorcas’ white teeth are sharp and pierce into her bottom lip when she smiles.

“What happened to cutting my tongue out the next time you see me?” Marlene arches an eyebrow, desperately wishing she can go back to staring into the bottom of her glass.

“Oh, I still can. You’ve just caught me on a good night.” The lopsided grin that Dorcas gives her is totally off-putting. Marlene just stares blankly.

“You’re drunk.”

Dorcas lifts her glass haphazardly in the air as though to cheers. “What better night to sample Aberforth’s incredibly intoxicating concoction?”

Marlene rolls her eyes and jerks her shoulder in Dorcas’ arm to reposition herself on the stool. “I’m not in the mood for your fucking mixed signals.” She lifts her glass to her lips.

“You won’t get the distance you’re looking for from that.”

Marlene hesitates, the cool glass against the bow of her lip. Slowly, she lowers her arm.

Dorcas grins again. “So suggestable.”

“I’m coming to this decision on my own.”

“Suuuuure you are.” Dorcas is very clearly slurring her words, and Marlene wants that, she wants the carelessness and dissociation of drunkenness more than she’s wanted anything ever. “Aberforth!” Dorcas yells to the bartender.
“A round of your finest for the kid and I!”

~*~

Dorcas Meadowes makes a fantastic drinking partner.

The further she falls into the pit, the more Marlene loosens up, feels her joints and limbs becoming unhinged from her body. The less she resents Dorcas Meadowes, because this Dorcas is different. This Dorcas smiles, for one, and giggles like a schoolgirl. It’s as though she’s become a whole other person, and Marlene is tempted to ask if she has an identical twin. Nope, she did actually ask that, and Dorcas threw her head back and laughed a clear sound, nothing like the gravel and rocks when she is normal Dorcas.

Drinking Partner Dorcas doesn’t ask questions, because she still doesn’t care, clearly. She also reveals nothing about herself. Instead, they take it upon themselves after several rounds to begin taunting the bartender – Aberforth, what a stupid name – and Dorcas reveals her impeccable aim on the dartboard (while Marlene manages to land her dart in a fellow patron’s arm, over which she is screamed at for ten minutes while Dorcas keeps pretending to toss her dart into his head).

Marlene is laughing so hard that her body is floating away like a balloon, and her head becomes a bowling ball perched precariously on a bowling pin and it keeps tipping over and over again, and Dorcas was right, this mystery drink is fantastic, making her feel so light and impossible. All that exists right now is this dingy bar and Dorcas Meadowes with that scar on her face and her braids pinned back with a butterfly clip and the smell of sweat mixed with lavender when Marlene leans too close.

The wanting becomes too powerful when she is like this, all memory of little Marlene or Jesus gone from her head. Dorcas Meadowes is reachable, Marlene can reach her hand over and touch the inside of her thigh and Dorcas will let her, amazingly, snaking her hand around Marlene’s back as though she actually wants to.

They fuck in the bathroom, pressed up against the wall behind the door so they keep getting hit, but Dorcas is making Marlene moan so loudly she thinks the whole world can hear that she is currently being railed by Dorcas fucking Meadowes and nothing could make her happier than she is in this very moment.

~*~

Marlene wakes up in a bed that isn’t hers and is almost immediately overcome with nausea that she can’t breathe.

Hunched over the toilet, finally coming back to her senses, she tries to remember how the fuck she got here, or where here even is.

“Dorcas.” The name escapes her lips, almost wondrously. Where is Dorcas?

It comes to light pretty quickly that they definitely broke into a random person’s flat somewhere in London, totally trashed the place, and that Dorcas has ditched her, with no means of contact whatsoever. The kicker? Marlene has no idea where her wand is.

“What the fuck?”

~*~

By the time Marlene finds her way back to Merlinspire, she is exhausted and sweaty, still wandless. She wants more than anything to avoid everyone, to flop into her bed and sleep for sixteen hours straight.

Except, she knows even before she rounds the corner that Peter will be there, sitting on the doorstep, like they used to when they were kids and didn’t know how to apologize.

Any fight Marlene has in her is gone by this point, and more than anything she’s just sad. The hangover doesn’t help, her head pounding with every step she takes over to the porch, where Peter is staring out at the horizon, eyebrows knitted in that way he gets when he’s thinking.

When her ass hits the step, Peter says, unblinkingly, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Marlene scuffs her sneakers on the concrete. “I guess not.”

Peter sighs. “I’m really sorry, Marls. You were right, it wasn’t my place to go after him like that.”

Marlene finds it in herself to look at him, at the way he’s worrying at the inside of his cheek, at the way he is studiously ignoring her gaze, the way his nose wrinkles when he’s embarrassed. “Thank you, Peter, for standing up for me.”

This draws his attention, his watery blue eyes meeting hers. “What?”

Marlene shrugs, feeling the exhaustion and sadness in her bones, the weight of it all. “He’s… not nice to me. And you get that. I—” She shifts a little, staring at the ground beneath them. “I would have been more uncomfortable if it had been anybody but you.”

Peter nods slowly. “You don’t deserve that, Marlene.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll be here to remind you if you forget.”

“I know, Pete.”

“C’mere.” Peter opens his arm out and Marlene sinks into his side. “I’m sorry your dad’s such an asshole.”

Marlene laughs, and that triggers the tears to fall. Burying her face into his jacket, she murmurs: “But he’s all I have left.”

“That’s not true, and you know that.” Peter’s thumb traces circles on her upper arm, the way he used to calm her down when she was little. “We’re what you have left.”

Marlene sniffles, dries her face on his shirt which earns her a dirty look when she straightens up again. Peter is watching her so tenderly, and not for the first time, she wonders why he couldn’t be her brother.

Except he is her brother, after all, after everything, isn't he? Because he's Pete, and she's Marls, and it's always been the two of them against the world, ever since they were little and fighting like pirates in the backyard. It was always them.

“Are we okay?”

“We’re okay.” Marlene leans her head on his shoulder.

“Good. We were worried when you took off. Where were you?”

“Oh.”

“You hooked up with someone, didn’t you?” Pete’s tone is light but accusing.

Marlene feels her cheeks flush bright red. “Uh, a lady never kisses and tells.”

“It was Dorcas, wasn’t it?”

“Dude!” Marlene shrieks and jumps up, staring down at him with bulging eyes as Peter bursts into uncontrollable peels of laughter. “What the fuck! How did you know?”

Between wheezes, Peter says, “Because I know you, Marley!”

She smacks his arm, and this sets him off even more. Eventually, she can’t help but join in, until they’re rolling around on the porch together when Remus comes outside, followed by Sirius, bundled up in coats and scarves.

“They’re totally cracked.” Remus says blandly to Sirius, and with that they wind around Marlene and Peter and tromp off together into the snowy landscape.

“Seriously, though.” Peter says once they’ve both recovered, clinging to one another as the cold begins to nip at their limbs and as the hysteria recedes from their bodies. “Dorcas Meadowes? The woman who has been a bitch to you since you knocked into her at Hogwarts?”

“She was… different.” Marlene’s cheeks are red-hot. “Very drunk. And nice, too.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know she had it in her.”

“And she stole my wand, I think.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake’s, Marlene! Why can’t you go after somebody achievable who isn’t a total dickwad?”

Marlene shrugs, resting her head on his shoulder once more. “Tis not my nature, dear Pete.”

Peter reaches up to stroke her hair very lightly. “Don’t change, Marley. Don’t ever change.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

~*~

There is a woman sleeping in the-bed-that-isn’t-hers when Amelia wakes up. Glancing over her shoulder as she quietly puts on her pants, she sees a head of dark curls on the pillow. A muggle woman, presumably. Amelia knows better than to frequent anywhere where she might be recognized.

Leaving is easy. It’s always easy. Shoving her hands into her pockets, walking down the snowy sidewalk, feeling utterly wrung out. This is the sort of emotional shutdown she likes, the dulling of all senses for a few days. It’s the treat she allows herself every once in a while, to swallow the annoyance of drinking and dancing at muggle clubs until a beautiful woman approaches and chats her up. Outside of terribly strenuous exercise, it’s the only thing that forces her to stop and rest for a few days.

In the morning, the woman might not even remember Amelia was there. She isn’t all that memorable, aside from a flash of pink hair and crooked teeth, maybe. All the better.

She’s not really looking for emotional intimacy, nor does she even enjoy sex really at all. It’s just something she can do, a means to an end, a way to force her body into a stasis for a while. Otherwise, she’d probably just keep working until she died, which is fine and all, but even she can concede that a break is in order every few months.

Part of her considers visiting Mum and Dad, but that idea dies quickly. She’s not in the mood to sit through pleasant small talk about work or having to hear about Oscar and Edgar’s children, with the underlying tone chastising her for her lack of anything concrete in her life, a family or spouse or anything that proves she isn’t just some sort of robot.

Whatever. Let her be a robot. At least she gets shit done.

The sky has a strange tint to it, and Amelia pauses at the corner of the street, craning her neck upwards to look. Normally she wouldn’t bother, but she feels boneless and alienated from any concept of herself. In this state, maybe she could fall in love, start a family, becoming something more than a useless clerk at the ministry, promised a job she’ll never actually get.

Down the alleyway, there’s a woman staring at her. Amelia stares back. Her eyes are small and bruised, and there’s a dried trickle of blood on her chin. Feral, uncontrollable, exuding some sort of magic, but nothing Amelia’s used to. They meet one another’s gazes and something goes between them, some sort of spark.

Amelia carries on her way without a second thought spared for the strange girl in the alley.

~*~

“Can I sit here?”

In the hazy, strange lighting of her dream, Hestia looks up into Mari’s eyes and nods.

Sitting there together, Mari’s bare leg pressed against Hestia’s jeans, she stares up at the stars and wonders why it couldn’t always be this easy with them. In the dream, quiet and warm, there’s nothing wedged between their bodies anymore. It’s just comfortable.

“Why is it better in a dream?” She asks aloud, hearing her voice echo off of the clouds.

Mari doesn’t answer right away, considering her words. Hestia stares at her, at the curl against Mari’s earlobe, and feels a pang of irrevocable sadness. Dream-Mari is beautiful and kind and soft, but she isn’t the real thing. The real Mari is complicated and flawed and no less beautiful to her.

“Everything’s better in a dream.” Mari says finally, wistfully. “That’s why they’re dreams.”

“I would kiss you, if it would help at all.” Hestia whispers. “Just to breathe better when I’m awake.”

Mari’s face contorts briefly. “You don’t mean that.”

“What can I say to make you believe me?”

“Nothing.” Mari’s eyes gaze across the horizon. “Nothing.”

Hestia just looks at her, tries to hold onto this feeling of having Mari back. “I can’t bring myself to think of you when I’m awake.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Maybe.” Hestia sighs, drops her head. “Instead, you haunt me when I’m asleep, and I can’t fight you.”

Mari swings her dangling legs, leaning forward into the cosmos. “I can’t disappoint you in your dreams, because I’m you. It’s safe.”

“You weren’t very good to me, sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Mari sits with that for a moment, and then says, quietly, “I’m not her, you know.”

“I know. But you’re all I have left.”

“Okay. Just as long as you know.”

Hestia reaches her hand over without looking, and Mari follows suit, tangling their fingers together on Mari’s thigh and holding on to one another as the sky starts to change with the sunrise. Hestia’s grip on the dream starts to slip, and feeling the panic rise in her chest, she blurts, “I love you,” to her left, except Mari’s already gone without a trace, her hand in Hestia’s leaving only a tingling sensation.

All she can do now is watch the sun rise as the dream melts from her body, bringing her back to a world with no Mari lying beside her, no Mari to even be found.

Chapter Text

Late January 1980

“You’re going to be great,” Peter had told her that morning, smoothing his palms over her shoulders and looking her deep in the eyes. “That job is yours, my love. Go out there and show Dumbledore who’s the best at Divination.”

She keeps his words circling around her head as she waits patiently in the Hog’s Head, up in a secluded meeting room that isn’t typically open to the public. Dumbledore pulled a few strings, she guesses. He hadn’t wanted her to travel all the way to Hogwarts (citing security concerns or something) and was adamant that this interview could not take place in public.

It’s not as though any of that is new to Sybill. A fact of life: people don’t like being seen in public with her. That existed long before Hogwarts, because there have always been bullies. Everything she does is a threat to normality, as though being a witch isn’t supposed to be fun and exciting. There is such beauty in this world! Why can’t Sybill experience it, soak in all life has to offer, without being tripped or hexed or having all her things stolen and dangled high above her head so she cannot reach it?

Peter goes out in public with her. Peter, with his twinkling eyes and coy smile, taking her hand and pulling her to dance in the pubs, letting her close her eyes in joy because nothing will happen to her on his watch. He won’t back down because he’s afraid of losing his status. He just likes Sybill.

Peter is weird. Maybe not obvious-weird, but he’s certainly quiet-weird. Why else would she like him so much? The only people Sybill loves are freaks. She doesn’t hate regular people, just feels bad for them a little. They don’t have the freedom to explore life as much as she does. Maybe one day they’ll realize she was on the right path all along. Maybe one day they’ll be able to live without fear and truly enjoy it.

Her shoes keep tip-tapping on the floorboards. There’s an unconscious pattern: one, two, two, one, two, two. She’s been doing that since she was a kid, and Mum used to get so irritated with her. Dad does it too, though. Whenever Sybill pointed this out, she got grounded. Why does telling the truth equal a punishment? There are many rules that Sybill merely pretends to understand about society, though maybe her pretending isn’t as subtle as she once thought.

She’s not sure Peter’s mum likes her very much. When they had dinner, Sybill was sure to be very polite and complimentary of the food, but everything she said made Maura Pettigrew’s frown deeper. Later, Peter brought her over to the Potters while he went back to “talk”. He kissed her lightly on the cheek first though, and so she wasn’t worried. Instead, Mary came over and they hung out in the living room flipping through Muggle magazines. Eventually, Sybill started talking about crystals and astrology, and Mary just sat on the carpet and listened. It was nice.

Sybill likes Mary the most of Peter’s friends. She is withdrawn, but not quiet. Her laugh is the loudest of all of them, and Sybill likes that she can be heard so easily. She has very kind eyes, and she doesn’t look away or sigh when Sybill is talking to her like Sirius or Marlene. Mary doesn’t treat her like a burden to care for in Peter’s absence, like James and Lily. Mary shows Sybill Muggle celebrities and lets Sybill read her palm and doesn’t laugh or mock her.

Sybill has decided that even if Mary Macdonald’s kindness is false, a way to mock her, she doesn’t really care. Whatever Mary does, Sybill believes it comes from a place of love and authenticity. She’s a good egg.

Mary is in an argument with Lily. Sybill asked her about it that evening, when it became almost an hour since Peter had brought her over, and maybe she did it wrong because Mary sighs and Sybill thinks she might start berating her, but Mary is just quiet for a while and says, “it’s complicated.”

“Why is it complicated?”

Mary shrugs. She looks very pensive, not as sad. “Friendships are complicated sometimes. I think that’s part of the game, especially when emotions are involved.”

“I’ve never really had friends like that before.” Sybill says, matter-of-factly. “With my only two friends, things are very simple.”

“How does that work?” Sybill looks at her, but Mary seems serious, propping herself up on her elbow. “I’m genuinely asking. How can it be that simple?”

Sybill thinks on that. “I listen when they talk. I try to remember things. If we both do that, then we can start to understand each other.”

Mary stares at her for a long time. Sybill wonders if there is something on her nose. “You know,” Mary says, softly. “I don’t know why people have given you such a hard time. I think you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Sybill’s cheeks heat up considerably fast. “I’ve never been told that before.”

“Not even by your friends?”

“No.”

“Then you should get some better friends.” Mary gives her a small smile. “You deserve better.”

Peter comes back not long after, hair tousled and face red, muttering that he and Sybill will stay the night at the Potters’ house until the air clears back home. Curled up together in bed, Sybill tracing Peter’s ear with the tip of her finger, she whispers, “Your mum doesn’t like me?”

Peter sighs. “She’s… particular.”

“Well, we’re all made of particles, I don’t see how that affects anything.”

Peter chuckles a little, reaching a hand up to stroke her hair very gently. “She doesn’t like anybody who doesn’t fit her standard of life. She’s always been like that. I try to ignore her judgement when I can.”

“My mum’s like that too. She says I can’t tap my feet or flap my arms because that makes me weird.”

“Your mum’s wrong. So’s mine.” Peter leans in to kiss the tip of Sybill’s nose. “Let’s just not listen to them, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Ms. Trelawney?”

Sybill snaps out of her reverie and looks up at Albus Dumbledore, standing tall in the doorway in plum robes. He looks so formal that she’s probably underdressed, but she leaps up, dusts off her skirt, and pushes forward to offer her hand, which he accepts.

“Thank you for meeting me!” Sybill can’t tell if she’s yelling, because she can hear her heart in her ears and it’s messing up her entire sense of sound. Thankfully, Dumbledore doesn’t seem to mind, nodding to the little table.

“Please sit, Ms. Trelawney. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking notes during this interview.”

“I love notes.” Sybill sits, trying desperately to keep her toes from tapping again.

Dumbledore quirks a smile and then glances down at the tiny notepad in front of him. “This is for the position of Professor of Divination at Hogwarts. Can you tell me why you believe you’d be a good fit for this role?”

“Well, I’m a seer.” Sybill beams across the table. “I have made a number of predictions across many mediums—”

“Pardon me, Ms. Trelawney, but what is the accuracy of those predictions?”

Be confident, Peter told her. “Well, assessing the accuracy can actually be pretty bad. If you overthink it too much, things get complicated.”

“I am not looking for false predictions, Sybill.”

Sybill hesitates. “They’re not fal—”

“I believe you’ve predicted the death of one of your peers every single year in Divination, on which basis no one, not even former Professor Urquart, can understand.” Dumbledore leans forward. “I am no longer convinced about the efficacy of Divination. I’ve called you here in the hopes that your ancestry may provide some genuine skill.”

“I have genuine skill.” Sybill splutters, feeling her face go red.

“You have divined the death of one Aurora Sinistra, claimed that Hogsmeade would be exploded in the winter of 1979, argued that the United States would enter into a war with France last year… these are not correct, Sybill. They are grasping at straws.”

“I have the Inner Eye, sir!” She’s losing track of this, she knows. Her feet are tap-tapping away. “My predictions are correct, I assure you, perhaps the timing isn’t accurate, but I know what I have seen—”

“Do you know why I asked you here?”

Sybill feels herself deflate. “Yes, sir.”

“Your great-grandmother—”

“Um, two greats, actually.”

“Cassandra Trelawney was a gifted seer. I had hoped her descendants would also inherit her skill.”

“It usually skips three generations. I’m a seer, like she was.”

“No, Ms. Trelawney, it appears you are not.” Dumbledore stands up. “This was a waste of time, I believe. I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.”

She doesn’t know what happens. One second, Dumbledore is walking to the door; the next, he is standing closer to her, eyes wide and very blue. “What did you say?” He asks, very slowly.

Now’s her chance. “Please, Professor Dumbledore, I know what I’m talking about. I want this job, I love Divination. Nobody else will take me, because they don’t believe me, but I am a Seer. Yes, I’ve maybe gotten some details
wrong, but—”

“Alright.” Dumbledore’s eyebrows are settling back into their usual position, but he’s watching her carefully, like she’s a wild bunny running past a lion’s den. “You’re hired.”

Sybill blinks. Blinks again. “Really?”

“However,” Dumbledore holds up a hand. “I would like you to spend the next year studying the Divinatory Arts. I know several individuals in Spain and Norway who would be willing to teach you. You’ll receive a salary but will not begin teaching until the school year of 1981. Is that clear?”

Sybill gapes at him. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, i—”

Dumbledore is glancing at the door. “I must depart. I appreciate your time, Sybill.”

He whisks out the door faster than Sybill can say goodbye.

“Holy shit.” She murmurs to herself, and then, louder, “Holy shit!”

She can’t wait to tell Peter.

~*~

There is very little Lily and James can hide from Mr. Bloodhound himself, Sirius Black.

The day before their annual New Year’s party, Sirius walks into the kitchen while Lily is alone, stops in his tracks, and says, “Lily, are you pregnant?”

She stares at him. He stares back.

Lily marches over and slaps his arm. “How the fuck did you know already? James and I agreed to tell you tomorrow!”

“I can smell it!” Sirius yowls and grabs Lily into a massive bear hug. “You can’t hide anything from me, Lilyflower! A Prongslet! We’re going to have a Prongslet!”

It’s as though Sirius is the baby’s third parent, for Christ’s sakes. He’s already bought the kid several Gryffindor jumpers and read so many Muggle pregnancy books that Lily bought. Even James isn’t freaking out this hard. Admittedly, it’s kind of sweet.

They tell the others at the New Year’s party. Alice and Frank are there too, of course. Lily shows them the ultrasound (she’d insisted on going to a muggle hospital after St. Mungo’s, if only to get the ultrasound scan the muggle way) and the place erupts. Marlene practically charges her and squeezes her until Lily’s slightly worried the baby got squished, Peter won’t stop mussing James’ hair, and Remus amusedly congratulates them while Sirius bounces around. Even Mary comes over to wrap her arms around Lily, the ice thawing between them. Lily holds her and cries into her shoulder, because stupid hormones, no other reason.

It’s just good to have her best friend back in her arms.

Lily’s due in July, according to her scans. James wants to raise the baby here, in his childhood home, and she agrees, mostly because she sees how much it means to him. Grieving is the one thing he hasn’t really been able to share with her, not really. He smiles and jokes and is regular old James sometimes, but Lily can see when it hits him again and his eyes dim and his lips tighten, that he remembers: James Potter is an orphan now.

Lily misses Effie and Monty too, but there’s a world she doesn’t have access to. A world that only James, Marlene, and Sirius can occupy. Especially Sirius.

She was there when the Prophet came in. She was the first one who caught a glimpse at the headline:

BLACK HEIR PRESUMED DEAD

She’d looked at Remus, next to her, tried to hide the paper but Sirius was a dog on the scent. There was no hiding it from him.

Sometimes, Lily wonders if she ever really grieved her mum. When she thinks about it, she just feels fine, a series of logic running through her head: I don’t know if Mum loved me. I loved her, but not enough to go home for her. I know how to live without her. I am not saddened by her death.

It’s callous, but maybe Lily has been grieving her mother her whole life. There was always the looming threat of death, wasn’t there? It was a given that her mum would die before Lily got old and gray, and so when it happened it wasn’t a surprise.

They had all fallen prey to the idea that Euphemia and Fleamont Potter – larger than life figures in all of their lives – would live forever. It was never really a question: they would live to see Lily and James grow old too, because they were Effie and Monty. They simply couldn’t die.

And Sirius… oh, Sirius. The only one who really knows it all is James, but Lily remembers the way Sirius’ face would twist when he talked about Regulus. It was the kind of twist she recognized on her own face about Petunia. Anger and resentment and jealousy but also love. Kinship against it all.

Lily’s never thought about Petunia dying. She realizes with a start, watching Sirius read the headline, that her life would be over. That tether, tying Lily to Petunia, would snap and Lily would fall helplessly into the dark. Petunia is the only constant in her life, even when she isn’t there. Even when they cannot talk without fighting, cannot love each other without drawing blood, there is no Lily without Petunia. Who else would walk the earth first to tell her it’s safe? Who else would tuck her in at night and protect her from the monsters? Who else could love her so innately like a big sister would?

Part of Sirius shattered that morning, and he is still picking up the pieces. His eyes still look broken, even though he pretends they aren’t. he drinks more heavily, and he picks fights, and everybody knows that he is not okay but won’t say it, because Sirius Black will not admit this real pain to anyone.

The world of the grieving. Lily can’t reach it, and she watches three of the people she loves swim in that black ocean, losing sight of them as they bob in and out of the water. She keeps calling out for them, but they either do not hear or ignore her to stay a little longer in the darkest place in the world.

James will go away sometimes, his eyes vacating. She’ll nudge him back into his body, but he’s hurting, and he can’t even tell her why. They’ve fought over this, several times, and James just gives up at the tipping point, the moment where normally he would explode into a wave of raw, unfiltered emotion. It is as though he is stopping right at the brink of jumping off and cannot continue. He just backs away, and Lily resents him for shutting her out. I’m good at helping, she wants to scream, but he won’t hear her, all the way down in the tide of grief.

The baby provides a distraction, at least. Lily is so fucking sick that her body is weak. Her boobs hurt and her body feels sluggish and slow, and there is a list pinned to the fridge of foods that cannot be in the house, lest Lily be sent on yet another voyage of sickness.

She is determined to be better than her parents. She researches, she plans, she tries to quell the fear that rises in her chest. She will be good, no, she will be the best mother that this kid could ever have. They will never lack for love as long as she is alive.

All along this, though, she wants Petunia. Wonders what she’d say. “You said you’d never be like Mum, yet here you are. Just barely twenty and up the duff. Ironic, isn’t it?” It hurts, but Lily just wants her sister to say something, anything, to her. Doesn’t matter what it is, she just wants to hear her voice again.

Still, part of her is settling into this life. Yes, the war is still going on. Lily brews potions in the spare room and she watches her friends go off on missions and come back scarred in more ways than one. She is afraid, but there is something to hope for, too. A hope for their child, a hope for their friend group, a hope for the wizarding world. Finally, Lily feels it: the sense that all will be alright in the end, that the sun will rise on a peaceful day once more.

~*~

The phoenix arrives while Lily is busy cleaning the kitchen.

James is out with Sirius, probably on Sirius’ new flying motorbike. Lily is antsy, and so she decides to clean the kitchen the old-fashioned way. It eases her mind a little, much more than the magical way. That was something she used to do back home, when Mum and Dad were mad at her and she didn’t know what to do: she cleaned.

And so, she cleans now.

She cleans because she is sick and exhausted, and she misses her husband so much even when he is just in the other room, and she feels so fucking alone some days for no reason, because she’s not alone but she is, she always has been. She cleans because Marlene and Sirius and James are grieving, and Mary is ashamed about her feelings. Did Lily not see the fear behind her eyes when she said it, as though petrified that Lily would reject her?

No, of course, Lily wouldn’t reject her. No matter what that voice in the back of her head whispers, Lily doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. Besides, it doesn’t change why Lily loves Mary. It doesn’t change why Lily loves Marlene either, or Remus and Sirius. Of course it doesn’t change. How could it ever?

She hears the voice behind her and nearly jumps out of her skin. The bird, silvery and beautiful, perched on the counter, cocks its head and speaks its message again: “I am coming to you. We must speak, urgently. Be prepared.”

Lily’s hands start to shake as soon as the phoenix dissolves into dust and air. This isn’t good, she thinks uselessly. This isn’t good. Where is James now?

“Lily?” Mary is standing in the doorframe, eyebrows raised, and arms folded over her chest. Lily wonders blankly how she must look right now and tries to straighten up and plaster on a grin.

“Dumbledore’s coming.”

Mary noticeably stiffens. “Where’s everyone else?”

“I don’t know.” Lily goes to set the sponge down on the counter and rubs her tingling palms on her thighs. “James and Sirius are out flying. Pete’s with Marlene in Diagon Alley, trying to get her another wand. Remus—”

“He’s upstairs.” Mary says quickly, and Lily blinks at her. Part of her suddenly processes that Mary’s only wearing a plush pink bathrobe, and maybe what she’s thinking shows on her face because Mary snaps, “Jesus, Lily, no. He’s been locked in his room all morning. Hip pain, apparently.”

Lily’s jaw clicks shut. “Right.”

Mary rolls her eyes and glances away. Lily stares at the side of her face and tries to remember a conversation they had where Mary wasn’t strange and skittish around her anymore. She comes up empty.

“He didn’t say who it was meant for, though.”

“If it came to you…” Mary shakes her head. “No. It’s probably about some task he wants you to do. Don’t worry. I’ll be here with you.”

Lily’s heart glows. “Thanks, Mary.”

“It’s nothing.” Except Lily doesn’t miss how Mary’s cheeks flush.

~*~

Approximately nine minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, there is a knock at the door.

Mary, fixing her wand to point at Dumbledore’s face, opens the door and says very dryly, “You once complimented my hair. What accessory did you compliment in particular?”

The amused reply: “A Muggle hair tie with colourful baubles attached. I’m glad to see you, Ms. Macdonald.”

Dumbledore emerges into the house, his eyes locking on Lily immediately, who jumps up from the couch in panic. “Hello, Mrs. Potter. Is your husband home?”

Lily shakes her head. “No, he’s out with Sirius. Is everything okay?”

Dumbledore swallows, his eyes drifting to Mary, then back to Lily. “I need to speak to both of you, yourself and James. Do you know when he will be back?”

Her hand starts to tremble again and jumps to her stomach. “Are we in danger?”

Dumbledore’s eyes are dark and mournful when he finally meets her gaze again. “I’m afraid so.”

~*~

There are two little boys playing in a meadow together.

They are small, and still innocent despite it all. When they smile, the future seems possible. No, they are the future. They are the goodness in the world, amongst all of the pain and death and terror. They are good, and they deserve the chance to live and to make the world their own, to create a beautiful life. To have the chance to live, to love, and to be loved.

One of those little boys is marked for death. he was never going to have a chance, not like this. He’s going to die before he ever gets to live.

Lily is holding James’ hand so tight that their hands have gone pale from a lack of blood, but she doesn’t feel it. Dumbledore is speaking, but she doesn’t hear it. There is a rushing in her ears that blocks out any sound, and she’s left staring at Dumbledore’s lips, catching words here and there: Prophecy. July. Safe house. Hiding.

Death.

Remus and Sirius are there, and Pete and Marlene, and Mary. Dumbledore tried to make them leave but James stopped him. Next to her now, his face is bloodless, eyes narrow and unblinking in that way he gets when he’s desperately trying not to cry.

The other couple is Alice and Frank. Dumbledore’s moving them to safety too, but Voldemort wants them. He wants Lily and James.

She said no when he approached in Knockturn Alley, right after graduation. Hooded and silent, but she knew it was him. God, she’s tried to forget it, forget how her hands shook and the way his cruel smile split through the darkness.

“You can be forgiven.” Forgiven for what? The sin of being muggleborn? Was her tainted blood suddenly pure enough for these freaks, enough to save her? Was she supposed to believe that she wouldn’t be used and disposed of shortly?

In Voldemort’s world, there was no future for Lily Evans, and she told him so.

And she has suspected that he has come for her and James again. A deathly white hand holding a twisted wand. A leering smile before apparition. It makes her skin crawl, knowing that these memories, now surfacing from the fog of the war, have marked her boy for death.

It’s that day that the world changes in an instant. Any concerns Lily Evans Potter may have had once are gone. What matters is her child, her son. He needs her to protect him, and she will. She will run and hide for decades if it means her little boy gets to live. She will do anything to make sure he is safe.

Anything.

The Potters practiced blood magic in the Middle Ages or so goes the rumour. It’s a side of magic that very few choose to consider, much less pursue, because of its connotations. Maybe once, Lily herself would have turned her nose up at it.

Except.

On her deathbed, Euphemia Potter reached her hand out to Lily’s to give her something: a key. A key that neither of them had to say out loud was a secret, but Lily understood. In that moment, they said everything they needed to in silence.

There is a trunk in the attic, barely noticeable unless you know what you’re looking for. Most people would assume it contains old Christmas decorations, or James’ baby clothes. Of course, the Potter Estate near Lancaster is the most likely location for ancient and highly dangerous texts that could alter the course of human history, right?

In the four hours after James comes home, Dumbledore tells them, and they must begin preparing to leave, packing up their little life to leave on the drop of a dime, Lily goes up to the attic, unlocks the chest, and takes out the books within. They contain the darkest, most cruel instincts of humanity, and Lily will use them.

She will protect her son, even if it is the last thing she does. Even if she dies in the process. Even if it destroys the life she has fought hard for and suffered for. For him, she would do anything.

Anything.

Chapter Text

February 1980

“Have you ever been skydiving?”

They’re sitting in the Shrieking Shack, against the opposite walls, just looking at each other. Hestia’s hair is braided back, and she’s curled into a warm blanket that hangs around her shoulders. Remus, a white bandage across the bridge of his nose, has changed back into his brown sweater, but keeps his legs covered by a blanket until the pain subsides enough for him to put on his pants.

“Hestia, I grew up on a farm in Wales. What do you think?”

“I think you’re definitely the kind of guy to have gone skydiving and thought it wasn’t a big enough deal to tell anybody.”

“Huh.” Remus makes an impressed face. “Interesting analysis of my character.”

“Am I wrong though?”

The look he gives her makes her laugh. It only occurs to her later that this is one of the few times she’s laughed since Emma died.

“One more question for you.”

“Alright.”

“Would you ever change anything about yourself?”

Remus gives her a wry smile, eyebrow arched. “Besides the obvious?”

Hestia snorts and shrugs. “I don’t know. You could have a different answer for all I know.”

“Okay, fine, what about you?”

She thinks on it for a while. Remus is watching her, but there’s less of that guarded suspicion in his gaze. The pain is there, certainly, but his eyes are less… clouded, maybe. He seems a little lighter today, despite everything.

“My anger, I think.”

“Hm.” Remus tilts his head. “Can I steal that answer?”

“Go right ahead.” Hestia rests her chin on her knees. “Anger, huh?”

“Maybe it’s the, well, you know.” Remus waves a hand at his battered and scarred body. “I fought with my dad a lot as a kid. Regular shit. I guess I picked it up from him too.”

“Oh. He never… he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Never laid a finger on me. He just yelled. Broke the odd vase, but just because he was gripping it too hard.” Remus shrugs, wipes his running nose with the back of his hand. “But he never really hurt me. Maybe not in the way he ever meant to. Yours?”

“No, never. My parents never really yelled or got into fights, actually.”

“What was that like?” Remus asks sardonically.

“Quiet.” Hestia fidgets with the end of the blanket. “Too quiet. Like they never really said what they needed to. My mom would go for a walk and my dad would make angry banana bread, and when they came back together, it was like nothing ever happened.”

“I get what you mean.” Remus stretches out his legs, and Hestia stares at a thick, silvery scar that inches up his calf and curling around his knee. “I think my house is haunted with all the secrets none of us have ever said. Nobody dares to break the peace, even if its not peace at all.” He goes quiet, thoughtful, staring at his feet as though forgetting she’s there. “There’s so much I’ve never told anybody.”

“You can tell me.”

This is the wrong thing to say. Instantly, his eyes fly up to hers and shutter, and Remus Lupin is once again locked away somewhere far inside himself, where Hestia can’t reach him. “I’ll let you know when,” he says, almost jokingly, but his voice is low and strained. When he catches her staring, he jerks his chin to the side. “I think I’m doing a little better. I’ll finish getting dressed and we can head out.”

That’s her cue to scramble up, darting into the hallway and pressing her head to the wall in frustration. It’s been almost a year, a year of Hestia taking care of him after the moons, and yet he will never quite open up to her. Maybe she’s doing okay, but it doesn’t feel like it, not when he retreats into himself at the end of their time together, put off by something she said or did. Part of her wants to grab his shoulders or kneel before him and beg to know what it is she has done wrong, but that isn’t fair to him. He deserves his privacy, especially after everything he has been through. To be so exposed to another person every month, shown at your most vulnerable state… she can’t even imagine the feeling. If he protects himself within his walls, she cannot fault him for that.

Hestia likes Remus. Really, she does. There is a soft, tender part of her heart that has his name carved into it, along with all the people she loves most. It has shifted over time: at first, he was the boy Hestia needed to save for Mari, needed to save because he had a future and needed her. Now she wants to protect him because he is Remus; kind, sarcastic Remus, who brings her chocolate on moon nights to share, who answers her stupid ice-breaking questions without malice, who makes sarcastic remarks to deflect from vulnerability.

The angriest part of her wishes she could love less easily. Except, when she hears this, the tiny voice curling around her ear, she hears her father’s response: “No. Hatred is what hurts us, not love. Humans are so good at hating things, because they are afraid of the work that goes into loving the world. don’t give in to it.”

Nobody loved the world more than her father. In a way, Hestia took on that trait and continued his work after he died. She became the person her family and friends could rely on, the approachable stranger to provide a smile or helping hand. Sometimes it’s easy to feel that gentleness in her body.

Grief has scraped her raw, clinging to an idea of herself without anything left to use. In its place, the anger bubbles close to the surface, but she never lets it out. It burns her insides, but she would never protest it.

Looking at Remus now, turning the corner and nodding at her, she does not want to hurt him. It feels like that’s all she’s capable of doing these days. Like everything she does is the wrong thing, and she can see the invisible wounds on their skin: Emmeline, Benjy, Caradoc, Remus. There is too much power in her hands, her voice, her body. It's not what she wants to do, and it is all the more devastating that she cannot stop pain. No, she inflicts it. What a horrifying feeling, to know you can never escape what you are, that goodness always lies just out of reach, and in this state of grief and anger and profound longing, all she can do is destroy.

Hestia became a healer because her dad would have wanted it. no, he would have wanted her to be happy. But, she needed to do something. To prove she could put good into the world, like he could. To prove that humans are worth doing good for, that the bitterness of her mourning is wrong.

Is she doing any good now? She hurts the people she loves. She cannot save anybody. Her dad is gone, and Emma is gone, and Mari has slipped from her fingers, and really she's all alone in this vacuum, and nobody can find her because she's so far gone—

“Hey.” Carefully, as though coaxing a baby animal. She looks up into Remus’ amber eyes, still tinted with yellow from the full moon. He doesn’t ask a stupid question, like if she’s alright. He waits for her to say something.

“I’m sorry.” It takes a lot of effort to school her features into something less pitiful. “I don’t ever mean to pry.”

Remus doesn’t say anything. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she glances away. “I haven’t been quite right since… since Emma died, and I think I’m just trying to hold onto whatever I have left. It’s not an excuse… I just…”

“I know.” He says softly when she trails off, eyes landing elsewhere and tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s a lot.”

It’s a lot. For some reason, those words land deep in her chest. It’s a lot. The war, the grief, the isolation. Blood under her hands, listening for breath. How many injured has Hestia begun trying to save these days? Madam Pomfrey calls on her more often now, and yet it never gets easier. It never gets easier watching Remus tear himself to shreds, listening to his pained howls from outside, thinking of the boy inside shattering every fucking month. They never let them see Emma’s corpse, but Alice saw. How mangled was she? How destroyed and stripped of her individuality could she possibly have been to not let anybody whom she loved see her body? Was she conscious at the end? And what of Maria-Gabrielle, what tortures did she endure? Could her fractured mind take any more abuse?

Hestia’s job is to save them, right?

Then, why can’t she?

“Hestia, it isn’t on you.”

Hestia shakes her head, eyes stinging and blurred. “It has to be.”

“Why, so you can beat yourself up about this?” She sees the vague outline of his face approach her eyeline. “I was bit when I was a kid. There was nothing you could do about that. Emma Vanity was killed on a mission. There was nothing you could do. Your dad died, but there was nothing you could do.”

“I should have been able to save them.”

“No,” Remus says, and the shock of it jolts her eyes back into focus. His hands are warm on her upper arms, steadying her. “No, you shouldn’t have. Life is awful, Hestia. People die, and maybe it’s your fault, but what more power do you have than any of us?” She starts to protest, but he cuts her off, “No, you can’t fall down that path. You are saving people. You’re saving me every month. Do you understand how big that is? Most healers wouldn’t even bear to touch me.”

A tiny smile lifts the corner of her lips. “I’m not most healers.” She admits in a watery voice.

Remus nods. “That’s right. It can’t be all on you, Hestia. No matter what you do, everything ends. You’re one of the few things that makes the in-between bearable. Happy, even.” His grip tightens with emphasis. “That’s all you have to do. Care about people for as long as you can. And you are doing that, I promise you.”

She stares into his eyes and realizes: he gets it. That little voice in her head, the kind one, that’s his too. Dad is there, and Mari is there, and Remus is there, speaking to her, urging her to stay true to herself, to love. It is her first instinct, always.

She doesn’t even need to say what it is she’s thinking now, because he gets it. and its simple and unquestioning. She trusts him and, in some way, in his own way, he trusts her.

How strange? A year ago, he was virtually a stranger to her. And now, slowly and quietly, he has become someone she loves. She loves him with the thorns knotted around his heart to protect it, and she is certain she would love him without. He does not need to tell her anything. Whatever he says now, it won’t change anything.

When Hestia loves, she loves forever. And she knows it now: they are stuck together until the end of time. She will not let go, and neither will he. Not anymore.

Heart squeezing in her chest like a vice, though not from anger, she chokes out: “You be safe, okay?” It’s all she can really say, small and inconsequential as it is, but she knows he understands what she means. He knows it means so much more.

Remus manages that coy half-smile of his that she loves so dearly, except there’s something slightly bashful in his expression. “You, too.” And then, hesitatingly, not meeting her eye. “I’ll tell you one day, I promise. When it doesn’t hurt to breathe.”

Tenderly, his hand squeezes her left arm, and she listens for his fading footsteps before she starts walking, letting him get the head start. They’ll be back here in a month, for one of the worst moments of Remus’ life, but maybe it’ll be the slightest bit less unbearable now.

All she can do is make sure he is loved.

~*~

Poppy has not stopped worrying for one minute about Olivia Gaunt since she knocked Poppy out and fled the safe house.

Unfortunately, time stops for no one. She has to fight the disembodying feeling that laps at her heels and focus, screwing her eyes up whenever her grip on reality begins to loosen.

She has a job to do. Dumbledore visited her at St. Mungo’s but didn’t chastise her. He had an odd calmness, as though he was expecting this to happen. Once she was recovered, he emphasized, she was needed to resume her regular duties at Hogwarts. Hestia Jones would continue looking after Remus Lupin, and he had several eyes out on the streets for Olivia.

So now, she’s been relegated back to her hospital wing, except it doesn’t feel right anymore. Mending bones from Quidditch falls, administering potions and medicine to stress headaches or the flu, her skin itches. Is she alive? Is she okay? Is she afraid?

She senses Minerva’s unease grow more and more weighty as time passes without any answers. When she passes Dumbledore in the halls, or sits next to him at dinner, he gives her a subtle shake of the head. They have no news about her. Much as when she was a child, she has vanished from view.

What can she do? She teaches the next small group in Healer Training, hoping to get some sort of life force from their presence. One girl, Maud Ashborn, a small brown girl with perpetually crooked pigtails, impresses her with her efficiency and skill. The way she grins up at Poppy makes her think of her own youth, tailing the Hogwarts Matron around the Hospital Wing begging for lessons.

It is disorienting to look herself in the eyes as a girl, only to be snapped back to the present day like a rubber band, to find herself older and less hopeful. The lights too bright, the voices too loud. She can’t find anyone she recognizes, grasping blindly around her. Mum? Alphard? Minnie? Lyall?

Where are you?

For a brief moment, the weight of her anxieties has left her shoulders, but all she has these days are her worries. The people she wants most from when she was little are gone now, or at least they'll never be hers like they used to be. The past becomes a lonely place, a ghost town, and she slips back home, back into her body, folding her inwards with longing. Part of her wishes she could be free again, unburdened by the weight of saving lives.

Though, was she ever really free? Her father’s death became a building block in her entire sense of self, her entire life. There is no Poppy without the pain of holding life in her hands and being unable to stave off death. She has always been subjected to watch it ravage the world, forced to continue on in this silly thing called life in its wake. Like Atlas, she holds the sky up, and it will never end. It is simply the eternal punishment for loving too much.

~*~

Minerva asks her to get dinner at the Three Broomsticks one night. Her hands fidget at her sides until she finally clasps them in front of her to stop the jitters. It’s the exact same way Minerva asked her out the first time, when they were sixteen, and decided that making out in a closet wasn’t actually confronting their big, daunting feelings head on.

Poppy knows it isn’t that, though. It can never be exactly that again. But this dinner is an olive branch, and they are both so scared and anxious these days that the world looms up, scary and cruel. There is so little they can do, but somehow they’ve ended up in this situation together. So, Poppy agrees.

And Merlin, it’s nice. It’s nice to sit across the table from her and laugh and steal fries, to see Minerva smile properly again, that face splitting grin that makes her look so young and happy again. They don’t talk about anything that lingers between them: Alphard, Lyall, Remus, Olivia. They talk about their students and share pieces of gossip about their coworkers, and Poppy laughs her head off when Minerva, two drinks of Firewhiskey in and a notorious lightweight, ends up explaining to Rose Rosmerta their ranking system for students (of which Rose ranks decently high, Poppy is sure to add between giggles).

It’s nice to look across the table and see a friend again. For a while, that title wasn’t wide enough to suit them anymore. Maybe it was too complicated to call Minerva such a simple word, especially because they didn’t really know each other like this.

But now: Minerva, friend. Love and warmth blooms in Poppy’s chest, watching as Minerva pathetically tries to ask for the bill with the self-imposed rule of not saying the word bill, while very tipsy. I love you, she wants to say. I missed you. But when Minerva glances back her way, gums poking out from her upturned lips and a spark dancing in her eyes, Poppy knows she doesn’t need to say it. She knows.

Their arms are linked as they sway out of the Three Broomsticks, still laughing about something or other. Big, watery snowflakes land heavily on their hats, breath lingers in the air, thick and warm robes brushing up against one another at the shoulders. Minerva’s mitten burns against Poppy’s hand. She kind of wants to lift her fingers up to tuck away the stray strand of dark hair that has fallen into Minerva’s eye, those soft curls that she once spent hours carding her fingers through, marvelling at their beauty, especially on such a beautiful girl. And she almost does, almost lifts her fingers, because Minerva is looking at her from beneath her lids, and she isn’t resisting, just watching as though to see whether Poppy actually will, and Poppy knows that look, knows that Minerva wants her to do it, and so her hand starts to lift, but stills in the night. Out the corner of her eye, she sees something bobbing closer and closer, and so she looks.

The spell breaks.

“Do you see that?” Poppy squints, trying to see through the snow, growing thicker by the second.

“You know I’m not one to rely on to see when I’m drunk, Poppy.” Minerva jokes, but there’s an underlying bemusement in her tone, as though she knew Poppy wouldn’t, couldn’t do it. couldn’t make the first move. As though this confirms everything she has known about Poppy since they were eleven.

“No, I’m serious.” There’s a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach, watching the bobbing dark figure grow larger through the snow. “What is that?”

“Is that not just a really tall man?” Except Minerva’s voice quiets when Poppy flashes her a look, that feeling growing more and more insistent in her gut. Something is wrong. She lets go of Minerva’s arm and takes a few steps closer, craning her neck and cupping her palm to her eyebrows to shield her vision.

What she sees first is the flag, flapping wildly as the wind picks up speed. The snake winding around through the skull’s mouth, arching up with its fangs bared. The lines, stark black, but smeared with red.

Then she sees the body.

“Minerva.” Her breath punches out of her, a barely suppressed scream. Before she realizes, she’s running, trying to reach the body before anyone else can, but a hand grabs her wrist and yanks her back.

“Stay behind me!” Minerva shouts at her, all illusions of drunkenness gone. Replacing it is a cool authority, only the slightest quaver in her voice. Her wand is outstretched, eyes scanning for enemies as the body floats closer.

Poppy stays close to Minerva’s back, wand drawn now too, trying to make sure any random denizen of Hogsmeade doesn’t choose now to emerge onto the street in curiosity.

As they get closer, she sees it clearer. A stake, clearly spelled, floating seemingly of its own volition. The flag, hastily pinned to it. and the body: stripped, beheaded, limbs speared into the stake at odd angles, blood staining that horrible symbol like a promise.

Minerva taps the inside of her wrist twice and Poppy springs forth, running a few short steps to the stake to grab at it, yank it down. Minerva guards her as Poppy wrestles the blasted thing down, hands scrabbling to detach the body. There is nothing but utility in her mind right now, scanning for the wound, looking to staunch the blood—

but of course, there’s no saving to be done here. There is nothing she can do.

Something shifts in her brain. Cradling the body in her arms, limbs hanging limply and twisted at its sides, it hits her, the thought, and it knocks the breath from her lungs.

Is this Olivia?

No, it can’t be. Rational thought still seeps through the cracks in her disoriented state. This is a boy’s body, gangly and thin with adolescence, knobbly and undignified in the way Poppy knows teenage boys to often be.

And the wounds, the open slashes and tears across his torso, the jagged cut of his neck, the burn marks dotting his arms. They brutalized him. The snapping lines, as though a knife was jerked away in the middle of cutting… he was alive for this. He had to have been.

Oh, Merlin…

“Poppy?” She hears Minerva above her, but she can’t drag her eyes from the body. In her arms is Remus, is Alphard, is her father. A broken boy, destroyed and dehumanized, stripped of any identification. They were not meant to know who he was right away. Isn’t that the point? It could have been anyone.

Her breath is heaving in her chest. She’s trying to hold the body together, keep the flopping limbs in her lap, leaning her head down into his chest in a sort of hug, giving him the comfort he certainly didn’t receive when he died. Just a boy, just a boy. She weeps bitterly into his bare skin, recognizing faintly the coldness of death. it doesn’t matter.

She couldn’t save him.

~*~

Somebody tries to tear her away from the body. An Auror, another Healer, who knows. Poppy is so beyond herself that she lashes out, trying to hold on, to push away intruders who seek to hurt him. It takes Minerva’s gentle hands to guide her away, sit with her on the street, bundled in their robes, trying to rub warmth into Poppy’s chapped and shaking hands. Apparently, somewhere in the commotion, Poppy flung off her mittens, and they are now lost somewhere among the throes of people.

Alastor is there, and Dumbledore. A set of Aurors have taken off in the supposed direction of the stake, searching for the culprits. They won’t find anything, Poppy knows but cannot bring herself to say. They’ve been gone for a while yet. The boy was cold.

When she did her training at St. Mungo’s to get her Healer license, before she came to work at Hogwarts, Poppy had to manage dead bodies. It’s a way to weed out the squeamish and less committed, she supposes. Unpleasant but necessary. She held a witch’s hand as she bled out, had to close the eyelids of a wizard whose entire lower half had been Splinched. She is not a stranger to death.

Why, then, is she so shaken up? In her shock-addled brain, Poppy cannot understand why. She can’t think of it now, the blinding terror of holding a dead child in her arms. It is simply too terrible. So, she just stares at the crowd of people and tries to keep track of what’s even happening. She can’t even conceive of Minerva at her side, holding her hand. It just cannot compute.

Dumbledore comes over to them after a while, followed by Alastor. Their faces are grim, a haunted look behind each of their eyes. Tears roll down Dumbledore’s cheeks, and Alastor’s jaw keeps ticking from the gnashing of his teeth.

“He was a student of ours.” Albus says slowly, his voice breaking. Minerva makes a small, terrible sound, but Poppy can’t move. She just stares up at Albus, uncomprehending. “Jude Vance. Alastor’s people found his robes in the valley, in a bush. There was a letter from his sister in his pocket.”

“Jude.” Minerva whispers. Her face is ashen. “Oh, god. He’s one of my boys. He’s just a fourth year.”

“We don’t know how long he was missing.” Albus runs a hand down his face, and he seems so old right now, skin and bones. “It couldn’t have been before yesterday, unless he snuck out.”

“I can’t remember.” Minerva is pressing her hand to her lips, trying to hold back tears. “Albus, I can’t remember when I saw him last.”

Why don’t they know? Poppy can’t figure it out, this story weaving before her. It all seems so strange, laid out to her in this numbed state. How is it possible that they all don’t know, and a boy is dead?

“We’ll check records.” Albus says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. He looks just as lost as the rest of them. What can they really do anymore?

“Alastor?” Minerva murmurs, as though pleading for something good, any good news that could possibly come in this horror.

But Alastor is barely holding it together, hands squeezing so tightly at his side that they’ve gone stark white. “We’re hunting down the bastards who did this.” He hisses, throat tight and choked. “We’ll find them. I promise you that. I’ll find them myself if I need to.”

Poppy can only look at Albus, at the way his eyes flicker down to his feet in deep melancholy. “It was them, wasn’t it?” She asks, still numb. “I saw the symbol. It was Voldemort?”

She feels Minerva’s head snap her way, but she can’t bring herself to think of why. All that matters is Albus, who swallows thickly and meets her eyes.

“I believe so.”

Minerva covers her face with her hands, and the grief around her is so palpable that Poppy begins to wonder why she can’t feel it yet. There’s only one logical question she can think of, following in her training: learn what the problem is, then figure out how to solve it.

“What do we do?”

Albus shakes his head, and she has never seen him at such a loss. He seems broken, fractured, as though any more pain on his shoulders and he will shatter into a million pieces. This is more to him than he can ever let on. Alastor too, scowling at the moon as though anger will heal him faster than sadness can.

“I don’t know.” And it sounds like he really believes it. “I don’t know.”

~*~

Albus promises to bring them more information when he can. For now, though, he tells the two of them to go back to the castle. To Minerva, he tells her to institute a total shutdown. No students out of the castle, even on the school grounds, until further notice. Quidditch is cancelled, all trips to Hogsmeade barred. Nobody goes out alone.

“There will be chatter tomorrow.” He says quietly in her ear, as Alastor helps a dazed Poppy up from the side of the street. “Classes are cancelled. Students are to remain in their common rooms. I will speak to the other staff early in the morning and give a unified message once we know more information. I’ll contact the family when I get back. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be out here a while.”

“Albus.” It’s all she can bring herself to say. The pain ricochets around her ribcage, punching at her lungs, bruising her insides so severely she can feel it when she shifts even a little.

“I know.” He looks so awful, so miserable, that she can hardly imagine how he feels: the Headmaster, the one in charge of the safety of his students, suddenly faced with the death of a boy. A fourteen-year-old boy, who trusted him to protect him. How can he stand here and not be thinking of Ariana, his fourteen-year-old sister? Who needed his protection and died anyway? How is he not crumbling under the weight right now?

However terrible Minerva feels, she knows Albus feels worse. Her hand finds his in the long sleeve of his robe, and she holds on, hoping it says everything she cannot force out.

He gives her a strange, sad half-smile. “I’ll speak with you when I can. Go, Minerva. Please.” His voice breaks just a bit on the last word, a slip only she will ever catch and a reason only she will understand: he is about to break, and he refuses to break in front of her. In front of any of them.

Nodding, feeling like a balloon, she reaches for Poppy’s solid body, who clings to her back as though afraid letting go will mean permanent separation. Alastor is there, handing Poppy off, and Minerva nods to him. He nods back. He understands it, feels what Albus is feeling. They will look after one another.

And so, bumbling and weaving, Minerva and Poppy wind their way back to the castle, holding onto one another for dear life, unable to speak even a word. Inside, her organs burn with pain, the grief acid and corrosive.

Little Jude Vance, youngest of his siblings. The Gryffindor boy obsessed with muggle football, who tried to teach his peers the sport. He became a chaser just last year, did she remember? He had the biggest smile on his face, zipping around the pitch, and after the games he knew just where to find her in the stands, running over with his hair plastered to his face and sweating, asking what she thought of his performance and whether her praise could translate to extra credit in Transfiguration. She always said no to that last one, but now she wishes she hadn’t. that she could give in and hand him a bonus point, if only to see the joy on his face again.

It gnaws at her bones, destabilizing her entire body. Oh, he had such a bright future. She wanted to watch him grow, to become a person under her watchful eye, to become someone she could know. Maybe he would come back to visit, they would share a coffee. He would regale her with stories of his fantastic life, and she would sip at her drink and tell him she knew he was destined for great things. And to play even a small part in his growth is a success, is a joy Minerva cannot express. She feels this way for all of the kids under her purview, even from the other houses: to be a part of their lives and to know that they are the future, it is a humbling yet striking feeling.

Except, he’s gone. She’ll never get the chance again to tell him to be quiet when he talks a little too loudly during her lessons, threatening house points and him smiling back, unafraid. She’ll never pass him in the hallways again, never see the flash of hair in the crowd that she knows to be his. She’ll never cheer him on in Quidditch, never read his scraggly handwriting. She’ll never see him again. He’s dead.

Somehow, maybe because of their joint effort, they reach the castle. Poppy won’t leave Minerva’s side, and so Minerva does her tasks as Deputy Headmistress with Poppy holding onto her arm, the mechanical instinct that kicks in fading away when she steps back and realizes that she’s done. There is no other thing left for her to do besides sleep.

It doesn’t matter where that happens tonight. All Minerva feels when she tries to bring Poppy to her own bedroom is that she can’t be alone right now. Neither can Poppy, who hasn’t spoken another word and whose eyes are starting to widen with realization. And so, they go back to Minerva’s room, strip down to their underclothes, and get into bed together. They have nothing to say, nothing they can say to ease the pain.

In the night, when Poppy begins to shake uncontrollably, Minerva reaches her arms over to bring Poppy into her chest, curling around Poppy’s frame, and holding her until she calms. It’s only then, so close and comforted by the other’s presence, that they are finally able to sink into the land of quiet dreams; a world where Jude Vance is still alive.

Chapter Text

March 1980

There’s a photograph that hangs above the mantle in the Vance home.

Ba took it, back when he could still be considered just an amateur photographer, back before he quit his stuffy Ministry job so he could take pictures of rare plants, both magical and muggle, travelling the world to capture nature’s hidden beauties.

The three of them are crouching together along the coast of a river, near their old home, lifting up rocks and crumbling tree branches, trying to find bugs or shells or something that glitters to their child eyes. Emmeline’s the one who sees the camera first, squinting through the light, her face breaking into a wide and gummy smile. She must be, what, ten in this picture? Before Hogwarts, certainly. Her hair was only just long enough for lopsided pigtails, sticking out from her head like antennae.

Casey’s trying to whistle, pursing his lips as he leans in to dig deeper. He’s wearing Emmeline’s old red raincoat, but the sleeves keep slipping down to cover his hands. He doesn’t look up at the camera; he never cared much for that sort of attention.

But Jude looks up. He’s the one staring out for the entire shifting tableau. He’s just a little kid, aging out of infancy, and he flaps a blue cup in his hand, trying to reach for whatever Emmeline’s just found in the mud.

The picture replays over and over, but it always ends. It ends when Jude finally looks back down. The world freezes, as though there is no access to it without him.

He’s the one holding them all together.

~*~

Everything happens in snippets, as though she’s watching her own life from a train compartment, seeing everything blur past, obscuring all but the slightest details: Casey’s trembling hand, Mà’s horrified gasp, the phoenix, featherless and all but dead, quizzical dark eyes meeting hers.

She keeps forgetting. Why is she waking up in her old bed, staring up at the ceiling that’s painted like a galaxy? Why is her hand bandaged so thickly so she can barely move her knuckles or fingers? Why is there an aching bruise over her heart, pressing her back down into bed and enclosing darkness onto her unwilling eyes?

It has to be Casey to guide her away when she can’t understand why Mà won’t stop crying, standing at the kitchen counter, unable to walk past the living room at all lest she see any reminders. Emmeline just feels muffled, disembodied, recognizing everything around her only in an abstract sense. she feels the black hole, of course, but she can’t find the source within her. Something innate, something natural, her body must have been born with the damage. It has grown stronger and taken over the controls for a while. She’s merely a passenger.

Casey holds her hands, even the bandaged one, when he tells her: Jude is dead. It has now been fifteen days since they found him. The Death Eaters killed him. Emmeline drove her hand through the mirror when they got home and tried to cut herself. Mà hasn’t been able to do much of anything besides cook and cry. Ba goes to the Ministry every day to demand answers from the Aurors. Casey isn’t going back to school for a while.

She can’t process any of it. She stares at the freckle on the corner of his eye and tries to remember, pointlessly, if it was always there. Reaching into her brain means falling into the abyss. Nothing exists except the present moment.

When Casey starts to weep, she holds him, without really understanding anything. Her little brother, the boy she held in her lap when he was a newborn, his body tense with responsibilities Emmeline understands all too well. It feels unimaginable that once, she was the one who held this family steady. Now, she feels too weak to hold her head up straight.

Benjy has been here, Caradoc and Hestia too. At the funeral, people came from all sides to console her. She cannot remember any of it. She asks when Van is coming, but she realizes before Casey tells her: she is gone too. All the threads, slipping through her fingers like sand, reality coming apart in her very hands.

She is undone. Broken. Unable to think clearly or say anything, unable to remember in the morning that her baby brother is dead. Days ticking past, not quite seeing the end of the misery. Unable to fight her way out of the black hole. Stuck only on staying alive, just barely, peeling her eyes open to see the sunlight for a brief second before it becomes too unbearable to be awake. To know, deep in her bones, that something is missing, but being unable to find it through the smoke.

~*~

In her dreams, Jude is there. He is everywhere: up in a tree, legs dangling down, laughing at her. On a broomstick, tossing her a Quaffle. Carefully chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Taping a football poster to his wall. Trying to eat dirt. Finger painting. Wearing Ba’s old shirt as a nightgown. Him watching a movie, the light dancing on his face. Showing off a new spell. Making clothes for his cat out of fabric scraps. Intricately crafted paper snowflakes dotting his room. A strawberry birthmark under his earlobe. Damp hair pressing into her chest in a hug.

Everywhere, he’s everywhere. Emmeline can’t grab him. Dissolving into air when her fingers graze his shoulder. Trying to reach into the void, but the void reaches back into her too. It takes and takes and takes, Jude isn’t hers anymore, she can’t find him anywhere and one by one he fades from her dreams, memories stripped from the crux of her bones and never to be returned, unable to remain, slipping through the cracks of her mottled brain and leaving her so uselessly empty when she wakes up, crying for reasons she can’t understand, trying to find the black hole deep inside her and realizing that no, there is no “her” anymore, just the black hole doing a shallow imitation of the thing once known as Emmeline Vance.

There never was anything else.

~*~

It’s useless to be out here these days, scouring the snowy landscape for any clues. They would have turned up by now, but Alastor was adamant that they keep looking.

And so, they do.

At least Gideon and Fabian Prewett have the decency to shut up while they look, their heavy tread of boots on wet snow the only sound accompanying them. Dorcas stays a little behind the pair, unwilling to talk or let them cover her.

No, she does not trust them. Though, admittedly, who does she really trust? There have been two people, and one of them is dead. The other looks these days as though he’s seen a ghost. For now, Dorcas is her only protector. Fine by her.

There is a tuft of orange hair sticking out from the back of Fabian’s head, where he clearly got a shitty haircut. The brothers are tall and stocky, Fabian bearded while Gideon has just the stupid mustache, like a caterpillar on his upper lip. Most people think they’re twins, because they look so similar and are never apart, but Dorcas sees how Fabian always defers to Gideon’s leadership, inclined towards him like the sun. it annoys the everloving shit out of her, for reasons she can’t exactly articulate.

At least they’re leaving her be, this time. She’s had to deal with them a lot, first as Aurors, now as Order members. Strong, maybe, but way too conversational. They love to throw questions at her on missions, like the time she got caught on a stakeout with the duo and they talked so much that they missed crucial pieces of information from their targets, a few mid-ranking Death Eaters. Afterwards, she broke Gideon’s left kneecap out of pure frustration, which Alastor yelled at her for, but she didn’t really care. The satisfaction still rolls in, seeing Gideon’s limp as they march along together now, eyes peeled and wands at the ready.

She hasn’t been allowed to do anything of substance since the Edmund Debacle, as Alastor describes it. Part of her knows that he’s following Dumbledore’s instructions not to let her into the actual field, and she hates him for it. more than once, she’s tried to pick a fight with him, but Alastor just waves her off. Especially lately, with that shell-shocked look in his eyes. She very well could just disobey them both, but Dorcas operates on a system of utility. Simply put, nothing’s caught her eye yet.

So, of course, she’s been put on investigation duty. Trying to find scraps of evidence about the dead fourth-year student who magically floated into Hogsmeade as a decapitated corpse. In theory, interesting, but not at all so in practice. Nobody’s found the kid’s head yet, which, at this rate, means they likely won’t. these killers will not have made a stupid mistake.

The tip of Marlene McKinnon’s wand jabs into her ribs as she walks, a constant reminder. She can’t really figure out why she’s been carrying the blasted thing with her everywhere she goes. She had the grand idea of tossing it into a large body of water, but that feels needlessly wasteful.

When she woke up in that flat (its owner having been threatened away by Dorcas and a knife, though she was never really going to do anything serious with it), staring up at the ceiling while the warm body snored beside her, she could feel that crawling sensation in her palms, that terrible paralyzing feeling trapping her to the bed, the only thing keeping the scream from escaping her straining throat. She was so acutely aware of the rise and fall of breath next to her, muscles so tense that her body shrieked in pain. For a second, she saw the fly hovering above her, threatening to land on the tip of her nose, and that did it. Her resolve snapped, and Dorcas did the only thing she ever knew to do.

She ran.

The wand was just an extra thing, a way to hang onto her slipping control of the world, trying to keep the scream enclosed so she could get away. Marlene, just a lump under the covers, looked too much like—

The only way Dorcas experiences joy these days is when she’s drunk. It’s the only way to get out of her head, to escape the hallway of nightmares that she walks constantly, back and forth, on the wire edge of sleep. And that night, nothing else really mattered. Her grand plan was to drink herself to death, to go out on a high note. Simple, easy. It’s not like she hadn’t tried before, albeit quieter.

This time, she knew to go to Aberforth, the barman at the Leaky Cauldron, cause he knew Alastor but not well enough to report back to him. She knew he had a special concoction he could make her, that would quiet the world and let her float away as though she’d never existed. She knew it would work this time.

Except, she saw Marlene McKinnon, seated at the bar, drowning her sorrows, and inebriated Dorcas decided that now was the only chance she’d ever get again to indulge in something stupid and petty and inconsequential, something Dorcas wanted in spite of herself. Why not, she figured, have some fun and kill herself right afterwards?

None of it is logical, or rational. That quiet voice is always there when she is sober but grows wings when she drinks, promising a greater escape than vodka ever could. Alcohol gives her the distance; the voice gives her the motivation to cut the thread.

And maybe with it all, Dorcas was happy that night. Happy that she could put it all to rest, to feel warm again, if only for a few hours, to have company, but an escape plan. That for once in her goddamn life, she wouldn’t have to think about blood and screaming and corpses ever again. It would just be nothing. How beautiful, she thought in that bar, watching Marlene throw a dart into a patron’s arm, to exist no longer as something, to become nothing.

Except, standing out on the pouring street the next morning, watching the steady glow of the sun rise through the sky, two wands in one hand, she knew she’d lost her chance. The moment was over. She’d have to live.

So, she went home, lit a series of trees on fire, stowed away the letter for Alastor for next time, and fell into a pit of nightmares, seizing her body up once more to begin the cycle anew.

And now she’s here, alive, Marlene’s wand tucked into her robes, flask in her other pocket, investigating another boy’s death instead of her own.

Maybe, now that she’s unfortunately got the chance, she’ll return Marlene’s wand to her.

They’ve circled back around to where the bundle of clothes was found that first night. Gideon just stands there, staring at the bush, face strained and eyes wet. Dorcas stares at the side of his face and wonders how much of this he actually means. How much it means to any of them. A boy is dead, and they spend their time searching baselessly for clues as though it means anything. When Fabian presses his head into the crook of Gideon’s shoulder, as though mourning together, it hits her: they’re almost shocked. Shocked! As though this senseless death does not fit into their carefully structured lives.

Dorcas has lived three metres from death her entire life. An omnipresent threat, ready to take her or her mum away at any moment. Did she ever think she would live to be twenty-two, or however old she is now? Did she not just stare Death in the face a few months ago and nearly go with him? Of course, a kid could die. To think otherwise is foolish and ignorant.

The difference between these men and Dorcas: she isn’t about to just accept that.

~*~

When they regroup at Hogsmeade, she sees Alastor and Dumbledore talking. Alastor must see something in her eyes, even through his fog, because he excuses himself fairly quickly and grabs Dorcas’ arm tightly as they apparate back home.

As soon as they feel the dizzying sensation subside, Dorcas yanks her arm away and starts striding towards the house, but Alastor grabs her again, spins her around to look her eyes. “No, do you hear me?” He barks into her face, eyes wide and still haunted, but sharper now. “You’re not doing shit, Dorcas. No fucking way.”

She doesn’t have to ask how he knows. He knows her too well for that, but she also knows him.

“What, so trying to occupy us with menial searching is doing something?” Dorcas challenges, that fire in her blood welcome and reassuring. “You think we’re actually getting somewhere?”

“Of fucking course not!” Alastor looks ready to tear his hair out. “It’s not about that! In life, some things have to go by procedure. Clearly you haven’t learned that yet so I’m teaching you a lesson!”

“Oh, real rich of you. Need I remind you that you were with me last time? You were there too, Moody. Trying to pin any of this on my immaturity is petty and false.”

“This isn’t your place.” Alastor snarls. “I am your boss, and I am telling you, stand down. This is not your mission.”

“So, what, are you going to fire me?” Dorcas takes a step back and spreads her arms wide. “Do it. You think I’m threatened by bureaucracy? Fucking try me, old man.”

“If I find out that you’ve done anything, anything at all, to disrupt this case, I will see to it personally that you never work as an Auror again.” Alastor’s hands are clenched fists at his side, white in contrast with his red face. “Do you understand me? I am not backing you up any longer in this fruitless fucking pursuit of death that you’re on.”

Dorcas laughs, for reasons she doesn’t exactly know – exasperation, maybe? – but Alastor keeps going, “No, I’m serious, Dorcas. I’m not participating in your downward spiral. I’m not going to sit by and let you kill yourself in pursuit of justice. You seem to think that bypassing authority and doing everything yourself is helping people, but you’re just causing more harm.”

“Taking the moral high ground is really fucking ironic, Alastor.” Dorcas shakes her head. “You think I don’t know that once we’re done talking, you’re going to go do exactly what you’re telling me not to? You’re going to go hunt down these bastards yourself, and you don’t see at all how double-sided this is?”

Alastor’s eye flashes with genuine fury, the first time she’s really seen the depths of it, and she knows she’s got him. “One last time: I. Am. Your. Supervisor.” He punctuates every word with a step closer, face twisted and gnarled. “I swear to whatever fucking gods are up there, Dorcas, you do anything, and—”

“And what?” Dorcas tilts her chin up. She’s taller than Moody now, with his prosthetic, and she likes the startled expression that flickers across his face. “What are you going to do to me, Alastor? What are you going to do to me that I haven’t already been through?” She leans in. “You. Don’t. Scare. Me.”

They stare at each other. Even Alastor’s blue eye is focused on her. And then, slowly, Alastor says, “You are not leaving my sight. Not for a second. You are not going to do anything rash, or dangerous, that will get you killed. Not on my watch.”

“Oh, and then what? Those killers get away with it?”

“Dumbledore has it handled.”

“Are you serious?” Dorcas bursts into peels of angry laughter. “You’re letting him handle this? Suddenly you’re not concerned about his use of child soldiers to fight his war, huh, if it means avenging a child—”

“No.” Alastor shakes his head, the vein in his forehead bulging. “No, we are not questioning him now. Not with this.”

“Because suddenly, he has the right? I thought we were the law, Alastor. Isn’t that what you said?”

But Alastor doesn’t respond. He just pushes past Dorcas to storm into the house. And, fire pulsing through her body, she follows, unwilling to give up. “What, are you just his fucking lapdog now? Decided now’s the time to lay down at his feet and pledge allegiance? Do you seriously think he’s the one to get justice? If it were up to him, Edmund Shafiq would be sitting in a cozy jail cell right now—”

“And what of it!” Alastor erupts again, knocking a chair to the ground to turn on her. “Maybe we were wrong, Dorcas! We were wrong. You could have gotten yourself killed. From now on, we follow procedure. You follow my command. That’s final.”

Dorcas blinks at him. This man, so utterly unfamiliar to her now, pretending he’s one thing when Dorcas knows he isn’t. it’s embarrassing. “You’re a coward, Moody. A fucking coward.” And, for good measure, she shoves her shoulder into his, exactly where she knows his recovering wound to be. Good. She hopes it hurts.

She’s got a job to do.

~*~

By nightfall, she’s got knives strapped to her body, Marlene’s wand tucked away and secure next to her skin. She can’t just sit here and wait for a breakthrough. Maybe she doesn’t know where she’s going but she’ll find her way.

She knows he’s sitting at the dining table, waiting for her. Of course he is. He knows her, knows what she’ll do.

“Fire me.” She says into the darkness, closing her bedroom door behind her. “I don’t care.”

Nothing. And then, quietly, “You don’t even know who you’re looking for.”

Dorcas shrugs. “Then I’ll kill any bastard who gets in my way.”

Alastor is silent. She can make out his outline through the shadows, the clink of his flask against the wooden table as he spins it like a top, over and over.

“I’m so sorry, Dorcas.”

“Why, come to your senses? Realized what a coward you were being?”

“No. I’m sorry I couldn’t raise you to be better than me.”

A soft glow fills the room, emitting from Alastor’s wand, which he lays carefully on the table and leans forward to look at her. Her body falters a little. The light makes him seem so old, so brittle. She takes a step back, feels the mask clamp tighter over her face to avoid giving in. “You’re not going to sway me with some sort of sob story, Alastor. You’ve explained the punishments, I don’t care. Let me go.”

He’s just looking at her, and she recognizes that look. She recognizes it from the months after her mother died, when he treated her like a little kid. It brings bubbling fury up to the surface, rage at the implication that this look will somehow stop her. “I’m not your daughter!” She screams at him, trying to breathe fire, trying to burn him so he will just leave her alone. “Stop acting like I am! Jesus, fuck off Moody!”

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t taken his eyes off her. It starts to make her really uncomfortable, and she keeps backing up until she hits the wall and has to stop. “Alastor, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Have I ever told you about my sister?”

This is not what Dorcas is expecting, and she cocks her head a little. He doesn’t seem like he’s bluffing or trying to distract her. He just seems so sad.

“Not in the mood for storytime.”

Alastor sighs, shifts in his seat again, and looks away, lips twisting as he seems to mull over his words. “Her name was Epione. She was my younger sister. The kindest, most outspoken girl you’d ever meet. Impossible not to love, even my father couldn’t ignore her as he did my brother and I.” He meets her eyes again. “She was good. She had a bright future.”

There’s a lump in her throat. Impossibly, she thinks of Florence, only twenty, and gone in an instant. Still, she cannot say anything. It isn’t her story to tell.

“I was with her when she died. Fourteen years old, and a blood curse. It wasn’t fair.” Alastor hesitates, licks his lips, and stares off into the distance with a desperation that she’s never quite seen on his face before. “There was no one I could blame. It was nobody’s fault but my own, that I couldn’t save her.” A strange, strangled exhale. “I became an Auror for her. Otherwise, I would have fucked right off with my life like my dad expected of me. I became an Auror so I wouldn’t make the same mistake, so I could save kids like her. Kids like you.”

“No.” Dorcas snaps a hand up, between them. “No, you’re not doing that.”

Alastor shakes his head again, “Dorcas, sometimes there is nothing you can do. Killing all the Death Eaters in the world won’t do shit. You’re not actually avenging anyone. You’re not beating up anybody but yourself.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to justify your incompetence.”

“I’m old, Dorcas.” Alastor spreads his arms out, giving her a terrible, twisted smile. “I have spent a lot of time trying to do some good to make up for my failings. I can tell you, none of the things I’ve done have actually saved anybody, not really. The best thing I did was—”

“Fuck you.” Dorcas snarls. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Would you rather I lie to you? Let you walk to your death? No, I’ve learned too much to make that mistake again.”

“Your sister would be ashamed of you.” She hisses, trying desperately to shield herself within, build the walls up higher so she can’t see his eyes.

But Alastor just sighs. “Yeah, she probably would be. And I don’t blame you for being ashamed of me either. I should have done better for you. But I’m not going, Dorcas. I’m not going even though every instinct of mine says I should, because I’ll only do more harm than good. If I’m not going, you shouldn’t go.” When she hesitates, watching him like a predator, he just says tiredly, “I know you don’t trust Dumbledore, but I do. I know how he operates. He will do the right thing here. It isn’t on us to fight this one.”

“Why would you trust him?” Some of the fight bleeds out of her, even though her bones scream and itch for a brawl. “Haven’t you seen all that he’s done?”

“Can’t say that I’d do any better, running the war effort.” Alastor shrugs. “Neither would you. neither would any of us. That’s where the trap lies, thinking you can be good and run a war. You can’t. there are always sacrifices for the greater good. At least he understands that. He knows when to fight and when not to.”

She doesn’t say anything, her jaw locked shut. It doesn’t change anything, not for her. But Alastor looks like a broken man, putting his faith in a corrupt man, and Dorcas just feels pity. Pity for the man she respected once, loved, maybe. Finally, slowly, she slides into a seat at the table, staring at his hand, lying uselessly on the wooden surface.

“You scared me, kid.” Alastor mutters, an edge of softness to his voice. “You fucking scared me.”

Dorcas rolls her eyes along the ceiling, trying not to give in to the exhaustion that she feels starting to settle along her shoulders, the aftermath of rage taking its toll on her body. “Are you just going to sit here and talk to me until I decide not to go?” She asks, trying to be snarky but finding her voice empty, devoid of fight.

“However long it takes.” Alastor looks at her, and finally she meets his gaze. “I’m not going to let you do it.”

She gets the distinct sense they’re talking about something else, but she just lifts her chin and says, as coldly and impersonal as she can muster, “That’s not your decision.”

“No, it isn’t.” Alastor considers his words. “But I’m not going to be a part of your catastrophic decline.” She remembers training, blood on her top lip, Alastor pinning her to the floor as she thrashed. “I’m not going to stand by while you throw your future away. I won’t have it.”

“So, what? What are you going to do?”

“Try and convince you that life is worth living.”

She laughs. “If that’s what you think it’s about, then you really don’t get it, old man.”

“Don’t i?”

They stare at each other.

Alastor reaches to take off his coat on one arm, rolling his long sleeve up. And she sees them. White and stark against his skin, a constant reminder. She stares and stares, until her eyes glaze and what’s before her loses all meaning. Somewhere, in her head, she reorders every piece of evidence to fit this one. A timeline of sorts, all in an attempt to understand Alastor Moody. And maybe, herself as well.

“You’re not leaving me here alone on this earth, kid.” Alastor rolls his sleeve back down, eyeing her carefully. “We’re in it for the long haul, you and me.” He doesn’t have to say much else. She knows.

It takes a lot of effort for Dorcas to drag her eyes away from his now covered arm. His normal eye darts across her face, trying to figure out if he’s made it through to her at all.
She doesn’t have it in her to fight. All she feels right now is like a child, weak and frustrated, wanting nothing more than to run and hide somewhere safe.

“Fine.” She says, an inch of bitterness remaining in her voice, her final protest. But Alastor knows what it means, and when he stands up, his hand gently rests on the top of her head for the briefest second, but she lets him. Maybe she doesn’t mind. And when he says, very quietly, almost as though it’s meant for him alone, “It was you,” she doesn’t fight him. She just sits there, paralyzed by the weight of her sorrow, and lets him say it.

Once he’s disappeared into his bedroom, Dorcas allows herself a moment to breathe before she goes back into her room, holds the art book to her chest, and lays in the corner of the room, enclosing herself on all four sides with the furniture, and falls into a desperate, furtive sleep surrounded in a cage of her own making.

~*~

She knows exactly who did it. They parade around the manor like kings, bragging to anyone who will listen. How the boy, innocent and defenseless, never stood a chance. How easy it was to subdue him but leave the life in him for a while, kicking and thrashing against the restraints, how they tormented him with spells and weapons alike. Apparently, Muggle tools are justified if it means benefitting their cause.

Except, it brings no glory to their cause. In fact, Lord Voldemort is furious. A senseless killing of a student, not even a muggleborn student at that, just a half-blood, that is bad press.

Pandora, flattened against a wall, listening in, somehow agrees with Voldemort. It does nothing for anyone. Never mind the cruelty: it’s just stupid.

What interests her is who isn’t gloating. Who she knows is guilty and yet who remains quiet. She watches him from afar, the only way she really can these days. Once, they were thick as thieves. Now, she’s stuck watching his life on the sidelines.

He retreats to his lab, and she follows. Isn’t that odd? She was born first, and yet she always follows him. He paves the way for her, until he decides he doesn’t want her anymore, but she still cannot break the cycle.

The room is icy cold, lined with jars where limbs and organs and chunks of flesh float in a clear coloured liquid. On the table is a head. A human head, pale in death. None of this scares her. Growing up with Evan Rosier, very few things scare her anymore.

And he’s near the back, rinsing his hands in the sink, his blonde dreads tied messily back from his face. Here, his shoulders are not as slumped; there’s a sort of pride that seems to fill his body here, a sense of purpose.

“Your lord doesn’t approve of what you did, you know.”

He’s never surprised to see her. Annoyed, possibly, but never surprised. He could probably feel her presence in the air if he was paying enough attention. Certainly, she’s never surprised to see him. Maybe the love she feels hasn’t quite transferred.

“It wasn’t for him.”

“Oh?” Pandora leans against the counter, folding her arms over her chest. “You might want to tell him that. He’s right pissed at you guys.”

“He wouldn’t need to know if it wasn’t for those numbskulls.” Evan shoots over his shoulder, busying himself by grabbing his tools from carefully organized drawers and shelves. He really has set up a whole little world for himself. Why does he even bother to leave it, Pandora wonders. “Why do you care, anyway?”

She bristles a little at that. “You killed a teenager. Am I supposed to not care?”

“You’ve done worse,” is Evan’s reply.

No, he can’t know. Distantly, she remembers the feeling of fire licking at her skin and dismisses it immediately. “Whose idea was it?”

Evan shrugs, turning back and walking to the table, setting his tools down before planting his hands on the sides, leaning slightly as he looks just slightly askew from her eyes in the way he’s always done. “Does it matter? We all did it.”

It’s strange to be standing here, having a conversation with him again. Across her life, there are few of these where they are adults, not just the frightened kids they once were. Here, he looks across and sees her as something of an equal, even though he’d never admit that. She wouldn’t blame him if he resents her, for whatever reason. Whatever was good about him was dissected long ago, and she has rotted. They make a fine pair, these days.

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

The question startles her a bit. “Who?”

“Regulus.”

When she doesn’t respond, he shoots her a look. “I know you, Pandora.” He doesn’t have to say the last bit, though it hangs in the air between them: But I wish I didn’t.

She settles for, “Not directly,” because it is true, and also it doesn’t matter if she lies to Evan; he’ll know anyway.

Evan nods slowly, staring down at the decapitated head before him. “Right. He was kind of a prince, anyway.”

King, she wants to say. He was a King. “I guess.”

“Do you think you’re better than me because of that?” He’s started tracing the outline of the face, trying to decide where to make the first incision.

“No.” And she means it. There’s no moral high ground to be reached in this life, not with what she knows. There’s never going to be any salvation for her, for what she did. She is forced to just keep on living in spite of it. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Not sure yet.” The scalpel slides into the cold, lifeless flesh, quick and easy. She watches him slice at the skin and sees him a hundred times over, killing rats and men alike just to rip them open and discover what makes them really tick. What he can do to bring them back to life. “It’s just another part of my work. Why’d you do it?”

“I had to.” It’s the simplest way of saying it; there was nothing else she could have done. She had a choice, in theory, but the many doors were just an illusion. They all led to one destination.

“Well, so did I.” Evan smiles as he pulls the blade out, reaching a gloved finger to lift the flap he created to peek under. “I never had a choice, either.”

“No,” Pandora says quietly, watching her twin brother reach into a dead boy’s head with such fascination and precision, perfectly comfortable in his own world. “No, I guess you didn’t.”

What else is there to say? Except, she can’t walk away now, just stands there and watches him work, because there are so few moments like this left for them. The bruise, poking out from his shirt collar, makes him seem six and scared again. She can never really look at him without seeing who he was before, the way she knew him once.

Finally, Evan glances up at her again. “You don’t want to be caught here.” That’s how he frames it, because here, alone, he still hasn’t quite figured out how to be cruel to her. Not here, in this secluded space, away from all the prying eyes he is always so desperate to adhere to. Maybe, in some sick way, he’s still trying to protect her, like when they were young.

“Fine.” She says, but she still lingers a moment by the door. Hope is a futile thing for a creature like Pandora. It’s pointless to hope. “Good luck with your experiment.”

Evan doesn’t bother to look her way. “And yours.”

Heart squeezing in her chest, she leaves.

Later, when she gets the unsigned letter asking if she has any information on the death of Jude Vance, she lets it sit on her desk for a while until she decides: no, she won't say a thing. He'll find out eventually, without her help. For the time being, Evan will be safe.

In the end, she's still trying to protect him too.

Chapter Text

April 1980

As the sun begins to set, glowing gold and pink and orange on the tide, Alice sits by herself on the beach. Her toes dug into the sand, skirt fluttering in the breeze, she tries – and fails – to breathe deeply.

Frank is away on a mission. Originally, when Dumbledore came to them, it seemed like they were both going under tight security. He loosened up a bit on that point, probably because losing two of their Aurors for the cause was a bad idea. Alice isn’t allowed out on the field right now, obviously, but Frank is able to go. Granted, he’s placed on shifts with extra protection. Right now, she thinks he’s out with Dedalus Diggle and Kingsley Sterling, who more than certainly can watch his back. She needn’t worry, she was told with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to be back soon.

They’re living here, on the coastline, in a small house. As far as she can tell, it’s not as bad as Lily and James, who have officially moved to an undisclosed location. Very few people can visit them. Alice and Lily send letters back and forth, but it’s not the same.

Merlin, Lily must be so scared. They’re due around the same time – late July – and Alice can’t imagine how terrifying it must be for her right now. Alice can barely sleep these days, the anxiety knotting her up inside. What must it be like for Lily, who has been designated the primary target?

As though in response, Little Buddy kicks, and she moves a hand to poke him right back. They’ve both taken to calling him Little Buddy in the absence of any good name options. Frank’s mum, Augusta, has been pushing them to use a family name, and Frank has more than once been forced to send Howlers telling her to butt out of it. Honestly, she’s never really been able to figure those two out. They scream and bitch about each other constantly, but somehow, it’s the only way they really know how to communicate effectively.

It’s planted the idea, though. Frank’s middle names are from his uncles, and he’s quite partial to Colin. On her side, there’s not much choice. She’s certainly not going to name Little Buddy Florean, after her dad. They’ve still got time, though, at least that’s what Frank keeps reminding her.

Alice sighs and picks up a smooth rock laying near her. Tilting her hand, she throws it, watching as it skips across the colourful water and finally sinks. Dad taught her that on a camping trip when she was twelve. It was the summer after her first year, and they spent a week away from Merlinspire, camping in the woods someplace she can’t quite remember the name of anymore. They made fires and roasted marshmallows, and Dad told stories about the witch trials with a flashlight under his chin to creep her out, even though he kept slipping into regular excited Dad mode. It was maybe their only real trip together, besides Merlinspire, because Dad actually hated camping and the wilderness. Alice was just happy to go along, to see something new around her.

She feels so far away from that camping trip now. A month away from twenty-five, in her second trimester, a job and a house, and yet deep down, she still feels that loneliness that she did when she was little. Some things never change. Here, though, staring at the setting sun, it feels bigger than it used to. She didn’t have a word for it, then. Now, she knows what she’s lacking.

Every week, Hestia Jones comes to their little house to perform a check up on Little Buddy. She’s kind and gentle, as always, except Alice can’t bear to say anything to her. Every time, a lump lodges in her throat, blocking the words she needs to say: I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her. I said I would, but I couldn’t. She can’t see Hestia properly anymore, instead she becomes that little Hufflepuff girl trailing her around the common room. Alice has just hurt that kid, and it’s a horrible feeling.

Hestia doesn’t blame her. She’d said as much the first time she came around, back in January. As Alice pulled back on her shirt, mulling over how to get past the block of ice between them, Hestia murmured, “Alice, it’s not your fault,” her tone soft and forgiving. It didn’t make Alice feel any better, because she knew it was her fault. She shouldn’t have left Emma alone, end of story.

The ache has dulled to a faint bruise on her chest. It gets easier with time, waking up in the morning, not thrashing around trying to get to someone she can’t quite reach. Still, the bruise will remain. She wants it to. She doesn’t want to forget.

Andromeda sent a letter last week. It was brief, a congratulations on the pregnancy from her and Ted, her initials A.V.B printed neatly at the bottom. No mention about their last conversation, or even how she knew about the pregnancy in the first place. Odd, especially for Andromeda. Alice didn’t really know how to explain it to Frank, who took the paper in his calloused hands and tried to scan for any hidden messages. No luck. The letter had to be a message of some sort, and Alice has proven herself incompetent to decipher it.

Incompetent. That’s a word to describe how she feels now: unable to affect any actual change, unable to protect the people she loves. Standing by, meant to stay idle, that isn’t in her nature. Alice needs to move, she needs to fight.

And she will.

Alice picks herself up off the beach, goes back into the house, and drafts a letter to Dorcas. Within an hour, the response has already returned with one sentence hastily scrawled: Leaky Cauldron, ten minutes.

Little Buddy kicks again, and Alice knows she’s making the right decision. She’s glad that he feels the same way too. Maybe one day, when he’s older and scared, he’ll remember that she fought despite it all, fought for a better world even in the face of her own gripping terror. Courage, she hopes, will come easily to her little boy.

~*~

“Keep your eyes closed!”

“I promise, they’re closed.” Mary lifts a hand to feel at the silky bandana covering her eyes. “How much further?”

“Not much.” The hands guiding her, one on her waist, the other holding her shoulder, are tender, not forceful. If this were anybody else, Mary wouldn’t let it happen. To have her eyes covered, led somewhere without her control… it evokes bad memories.

But Hestia wouldn’t do that. She knows not to touch Mary’s wrists, to keep her grip light and soothing. She’d been so excited for this surprise that Mary had to agree, feeling Hestia’s infectious, giddy smile spread across her own lips. They haven’t been able to see each other much, with all the commotion of the new school year and teachers beating the fear of NEWTS into them. Here, at least, they’ve both made excuses – Mary claiming to be studying with Lily in the library, knowing that Lily will definitely fall asleep there and not blow her cover, and Hestia gone to the owlery to write a letter – to steal a few hours together.

Truth be told, she’s missed Hestia. A lot, if she’s being honest. The summer is a quiet, lonely time for her, where the line between Mary and Mari become blurred and it becomes harder to keep track of who she really is. Finally, after years of trying to keep the divider up, Mary had to cave and let Lily and Marlene visit, and all throughout dinner she thought about sinking into a deep dark pit in the earth where no one could find her. Mum chastised her for not going by Mari for all these years, even with her friends, and Mary’s ears went up to her shoulders when Lily and Marlene blinked at her in surprise. What could she say that wouldn’t hurt either side?

No, she ended up telling her mum that she prefers to go by Mary, and watched the hurt cross her mother’s face, hurt that Mary was suddenly rejecting the beautiful name she’d so lovingly handpicked. All the things she wished she could say flooded up in her mouth, but they weren’t things Mary would say. So, she slumped back in her seat and picked at her plate until the girls were finished eating.

Mary and Mari. The older she gets, the more incompatible her two lives become. To be one, she must sacrifice the other. How depressing it is to know you don’t quite fit anywhere you’ve considered home anymore. Just a splinter lodged into a beating heart that no longer recognizes your presence.

At least with Hestia, it’s easy. There are no complications. Here, in their little world, there isn’t the constant struggle between her selves. She just is.

And she’s missed the sex. That’s a pretty crucial part of it, too. There was a wizard guy, someone from Hogwarts that Pete knew, this summer at a magical house party that she had some fun with in a closet, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t for her, this, it was to prove to her friends who cheered and roared with approval when she made a huge show of dragging him downstairs with her. It was to try and cover up any questions about her identity: I am Mary, and I sleep with men. Don’t look any further than that, I don’t know if I could bear the scrutiny.

His breath was very hot on her cheek, she remembers. His hands were rough, and he finished very quickly, and when he smiled at her afterwards in the dim light, she saw food in his teeth. That just made her miss Hestia more, miss the way they fucked and how good always she smelled, like fresh laundry detergent and sunshine. She missed not having to pretend.

And now they’re here, and Hestia is guiding her very carefully, and Mary is grateful that they’re together again. She’s missed having a real friend.

“Okay, we’re here.” She feels Hestia’s fingers untying the knot and pressing into her curls, and suddenly the light hits her eyes. Once the shock clears though, she blinks a few times, not understanding the scene.

“Hestia, where are we?”

“The kitchen.” When Mary looks back at her, Hestia’s eyes are twinkling, and a sweet smile is sneaking across her lips. She shrugs, innocently. “What?”

“We’re in the kitchen, for all of Hogwarts?”

“This was one of Helga Hufflepuff’s favourite places in the castle.” Hestia reaches for Mary’s hand, her skin soft and familiar. “I’ve been here a few times. The house elves are lovely, but I try to stay out of their way when they’re busy.”

Mary cranes her neck, trying to see it all, but the room is sprawling, lit with a golden hue that makes it hard to see far. “Why are we here?”

“I thought we could cook something together. For your birthday.”

For a second, she thinks of home, of cooking with Mum, moving in sync through the kitchen with the ease of familiarity. The image fades as quickly as it appears, though, and she feels the weight of it all land on her shoulders once more, the loss of a moment she took for granted once. Mum doesn’t know her like that anymore.

“Hey.” Hestia is looking at her carefully, her thumb gently rubbing against Mary’s. “Is this okay?”

Mary stares into those big amber eyes, fringed with long, dark eyelashes that curl ever so slightly at the end. On each of those eyelashes, she’s made a wish: something she can never speak aloud, but that lives in the vulnerable part of her chest. In those quiet moments, when they get the dorms to themselves and sleep side by side, Mary imagines a whole future through Hestia’s peaceful face.

It’s nice. It’s so nice. She’s so nice. But in that glowing joy that makes her heart beat faster, the beast rears its head once more: No, you can’t have this. You can’t be Mary and Mari at the same time, because everything is already fractured. You chose Mary, for Lily. You turned your back on everything you once called dear, all for the dream of pressing a kiss to the small of her back. Except, it’ll never happen, because she loves James and love isn’t meant for someone like you. Someone incomplete, half of a fully realized person, how could you ever have enough love to give someone else? How could someone love a persona? It’s too late.

Did you see the way Mum flinched when you disowned your name? the way Ana doesn’t recognize the sound of your footsteps on the floorboards anymore? Rafe hides in his room when you leave because he can’t bear to watch you change into somebody he doesn’t know. Nico doesn’t speak to you in Spanish anymore, maybe he’s forgotten you still know the language. When was the last time you and Dad went to the local farmer’s market together, just you and him, to pick out ripe strawberries and joke about the weird combinations of fruit jam that one lady always tries to sell them?

None of your friends know your full name, or maybe they’ve forgotten. You date boys for their satisfaction, not yours. Have you ever told them about the vinyls of Latin pop that you keep organized on your bookshelf back home, or the oak tree in the backyard that you used to climb? What about the scar on your shoulder blade from a snowball fight, where a rock snuck into Nico’s snowball? Do they know about your stuffed bunny, Conejo, that you’ve had since you were a baby, and who’s missing one ear from a vacation gone wrong but still smiles up at you from your bed with utter love?

When was the last time you actually belonged somewhere? When was the last time you were truly yourself? When was the last time you accepted love without questioning it?

The answer: long before Hogwarts, before Lily and Marlene and the boys. Before Hestia. Before she was ever called Mary, before she ever learned what it meant to be alone. She’s just too fractured now to ever go back, to ever try again and succeed.

And Hestia is here, holding her hand, and Mary has counted the freckles on her face and memorized the shade of her eyes, but to say yes would be to topple the delicate house of cards that is her whole existence, to revert to somebody she can’t remember being or to become something new and inauthentic.

Loving Lily lets her live in the liminal space between her lives, because it’ll never be. She’s learned that a while ago. Fantasizing about a love she’ll never experience will have to be enough. It’s the only pleasure she can afford, toeing the line between Mary and Mari. Hestia offers something dangerous, something to upend the balance. Maybe she doesn’t realize just how much of a coward Mary is. It doesn’t matter what she wants, she just cannot have it. It’s pointless to wish on the eyelashes of a pretty girl.

Somewhere along the line, Mary made a mistake, splitting herself into two. Maybe it was the only way to survive, but all it does is hurt. This is the only option left for someone like her.

“Marisol?”

Mary forces a weak smile and lets go of Hestia’s hand, her palm sweaty and fingers shaking. “Uh, I’m not feeling too well. I might, um, I might just head back to the dorm.”

“Oh.” Hestia’s face drops, eyebrows furrowing slightly, as though she’s trying to work something out. “Was this a bad idea? I’m sorry, I just got too excited, I probably should have checked with you first.”

“I—” Her breath is uneven, and she presses a palm flat to her chest, over her heart, trying to smooth out the rhythm of her lungs. That floaty feeling, the one which she managed to avoid for much of the summer, starts to bleed into her vision, turning everything hazy and unreal. “It’s just… too much.”

“Okay. Okay, heard. I won’t do that again.” Hestia glances around, rubbing her hand against her upper arm anxiously. “Can I walk you back to your dorm, at least?”

“Hestia,” Mary feels the tears prickling in her eyes, lifting her hands to cover her face. The tide of sadness and frustration threaten to devour her, to destroy her completely. God, she wants so badly, so much that it aches in her body and makes her feel small and helpless again. Happiness cannot be a factor, not when having it means a total dissolution of everything that she’s worked so hard to maintain just to exist in this world. “You know we aren’t dating, right?”

The words come out a rush, and Mary hates herself for saying it. Hastily, unable to keep herself from talking, she adds, “Cause, you know, we can’t, like, really date—not publicly, I mean, and... it’s just, if you walk me back to my dorm, then we’ll be seen together, and people might ask questions—I just—”

“I’m whatever you want me to be.” Hestia says quietly, and for a second, she looks so sad that it shatters Mary’s heart, but then it’s gone, replaced by a small, bittersweet smile. “Okay? No pressure at all. You just let me know what you need.”

“Okay.” Mary echoes, because it’s all she can say in this state, her vision spotty and her breath painful in her chest. It’s easier like this, she wants to tell Hestia. It’s not you, it’s me. I’ll never be quite right, and so it’s better to keep you at arms length. “I, uh, I should go.”

“Mino-dibishkam.” Hestia murmurs, and when they meet eyes, she’s the only thing that doesn’t feel unreal in Mary’s vision. “Happy birthday, Marisol.”

~*~

Marlene is the one who proposes the idea.

They’re at Sirius and Remus’ flat, since none of them can really bear to stay at the Potters’. James still owns it, but it echoes with his and Lily’s absence. Still full of furniture but devoid of life.

So, they’ve scattered. Sirius moved back permanently to his flat with Remus, and Mary’s claimed the couch. Marlene’s staying with Pete. They’re all uneasy with being separated, it’s clear on everyone’s faces. After months of living under the same roof, nightly dinners just aren’t the same as the safety of presence.

Mary’s been having bad dreams again. Not the Mulciber dreams, save for the usual ones, but dreams about things she doesn’t want to remember. That warm feeling she gets in the seconds after waking up, so quickly replaced by dread and self-loathing. Folding into herself, becoming less of a person by the day feels like the only option in this misery. Her mind becomes more and more like a prison, the memories her guards. Every time she catches a glimpse of one through the bars, she splits further and further into two incompatible pieces.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, chewing half-heartedly on a slice of pizza, she can tell that Marlene across from her is buzzing with an idea. She’s been practically bouncing off the walls for the last several weeks. Everybody knows about Dorcas – Marlene couldn’t keep her lips shut in her excitement – but there’s something else there, a restlessness just below the surface. None of them are coping particularly well these days, not without their anchor. Without them, they all feel incomplete, though no one will admit that out loud to the others. Vulnerability is quickly becoming a currency in this war-torn life, one which does not come without a price of its own.

Despite herself, Mary glances quickly at Remus beside her, at the crease in his brow, the thinness in his face. He doesn’t like to show it, but he’s struggling too. He hasn’t been eating much, either; a sort of open secret in this flat, based on Sirius’ facial expressions. Part of her can’t really tell what’s going on between them. They fight a lot, big explosive arguments where they both become unrecognizable, twisted versions of themselves. Mary pretends she can’t hear them, or she’ll leave the flat. Based on the concerned way they speak to her afterwards, it’s for the best that she feigns ignorance, lets them share a relieved look that they haven’t dragged in another person into the battle.

Sirius is the only one who can visit Lily and James. It makes sense, given James and Sirius’ relationship verging on codependency, but it doesn’t hurt any less; the constant reminder that the rest of them weren’t chosen for such an honour, that they simply weren’t close enough to make it.

So, Sirius is the mediator. Lily writes them all constantly, pages and pages of ramblings that make it clear just how boring being in hiding really is. James adds doodles and addendums in the margins, but he doesn’t write letters. It’s clear that only Sirius gets those updates in person, which he relays to them all later.

In a weird, terrible way, Mary is a little glad Lily isn’t here with her. It quiets that screaming, yearning part of herself that Mary loathes, that gets louder whenever Lily is around, that jasmine scent wafting through the air. Certainly, her life is duller without Lily’s radiance lighting her up every day, but Mary feels too unworthy of happiness, right now. At least now, she doesn’t have to play the avoidance game, trying to tamp down her feelings for the sake of resuming a normal friendship.

Of course, whenever she thinks this, she feels so rotten down to her core that she basically loses all drive to do anything with her day. That television that Sirius managed to wrangle his way into buying and the worn, ratty couch have become Mary’s constant companions.

“Hey,” Marlene breaks the strange, uncomfortable silence that has fallen over the room. Her hand presses against her upper arm, tracing that starburst scar over and over again. “I want to go visit Emmeline.”

The name lights a spark in Mary’s chest, not warm and comforting, but painful and hot. The shock must show on her face, because she spots Peter glancing at her.

“They might not want guests right now, Marls.” Remus says quietly.

“I know, I just—” Marlene huffs, trying to find her words. “I keep thinking about little Jude Vance watching us play Quidditch, and I can’t imagine how she feels right now. We have to do something. Right?” Her voice quavers a little on the final word, and it clicks for Mary: Oh, Marlene feels powerless. She knows that feeling. Her fingers brush the beads on her bracelet.

“It’s a good idea.” Peter says in that way of his, making everyone feel okay even in the darkness. “Maybe we can make her something? Do you know what she likes to eat?”

Marlene nods. “I can make her some cookies. Would you—”

“Yes.” Peter says simply, with a hint of playful exasperation. “I’ll help.”

“I don’t think I should go.” Remus exchanges a glance with Sirius. “I don’t know her that well, and the last thing she needs right now are extra visitors.”

“Hey.” Marlene shuffles over to where Mary is sitting, touching her forearm lightly. “Will you come with me?”

“I—” Mary tries to look everywhere but at Marlene. “Like Remus said, it’s probably not for the best—”

“Please?” Marlene is staring at her with those big puppy dog eyes, the ones she turns on when she really needs something. “I know Lily, James, and I were closer with her, but you two were friends back then too.” Then, because she knows Mary is wavering, “It would mean a lot to me.”

Mary sighs. It’s almost impossible for her to ever say no to Marlene. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

“Thank you.” Marlene grabs Mary for what seems to be a normal hug, but almost immediately pulls her down into her lap, kissing all over her face while Mary giggles and tries to pull away. “You are a knight in shining armor, Mary Macdonald.”

“Anything for you, Princess.” Mary teases once she gets away, but she can’t hide the frown that settles across her lips once Marlene has turned away.

~*~

They end up outside a nice-looking townhouse, the sky overhead crystal clear and blue. In her hands, Marlene’s holding the tray of chocolate chip cookies – made almost entirely by Pete, while Marlene lounged on the counter and sang tunelessly to “You’re My Best Friend” – and Mary’s got a letter from Lily in her coat pocket. The wind lazily picks up strands of Marlene’s hair, newly cut into a sort of shag style that suits her well, though her brown roots are already poking through.

“Hey, did you and Emmeline have some sort of falling out?” Marlene asks curiously, out of the blue. “You never talk about her, even though you guys were friends too in seventh year.”

Mary doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn’t want to think about seventh year and who she might have known and what she might have done. That time in her life is over; it has to be. Back then, she thought she could be some combination of her two selves. That just isn’t possible, and it never was.

“We just… stopped talking, I guess.” Mary shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I was never as close to her as you and James were. We didn’t have much in common.”

“Huh.” Marlene tilts her head slightly, as though puzzled. “I always thought you two made a good match.”

Mary’s heart bursts out of her chest. “Oh, God no,” she says, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she realizes really what she’s saying, all just to protect herself.

Marlene gives her a strange look, and Mary realizes suddenly what she might have implied. “Oh, uh, no, Marlene—”

But Marlene is already shaking her head to herself and walking up the stairs to ring the doorbell. Mary, cursing internally, chases after her. “I didn’t mean it like that, Marlene—”

“It’s fine.” Marlene’s voice sounds dead, eyes lowered as she rings the doorbell. A soft buzz goes through the house, followed by the sound of footsteps. And then—

Emmeline is standing there, and Mary’s breath catches in her chest. It’s been a long time since they’ve been face to face like this. Honestly? She looks like shit, though maybe that’s to be expected. Her brother is dead. Mary is kicking herself for all these weird thoughts. Maybe being here is throwing off her internal wiring, the careful balance threatening to collapse with one single visit.

Emmeline’s eyes are framed by deep purple circles, her face sharper than usual. A pink t-shirt hangs loosely off of one shoulder, and her left forearm and hand are all thickly bandaged. Still, she gives them a tired and weary smile, hand bracing on the doorframe. “Hi, Marlene.” Her eyes flick to Mary, and there’s that confused squint again, as though piecing things together. Mary straightens up and prays that it won’t happen now. But the corner of Emmeline’s lip just ticks up a little higher. “And Mary. It’s nice to see you.”

“I’m so, so sorry, Emmeline.” Marlene reaches her arms out, cookies extended away, and Emmeline falls gratefully into her, holding Marlene’s back like a lifeline. Mary considers running far away, but she doesn’t do that. She just stands there, somewhat awkwardly, and waits until Emmeline lets go and looks towards Mary.

Except, Emmeline doesn’t ask her for a hug, and Mary doesn’t offer one. They stare at each other for a moment, two, as though unsure of how to continue. Mary's chest hurts like she's been punched. Finally, Emmeline just gives a watery smile and steps out of the doorframe. “Come in, you guys. My father’s out but my mum and brother are in the kitchen.”

It feels so strange to be stepping foot into Emmeline’s house. All the little lived-in details, like the customized key holder on the wall, the shoes lined up messily on the side, it just makes her chest hurt. It isn’t right for her to be here, intruding like this. She’s a second away from making up an excuse to leave before Marlene’s hand finds hers and squeezes once. No, she can’t leave. Mary steels herself and follows.

A plump Vietnamese woman, hair messily tied at the back of her head with a clip, spots them first as they come into the kitchen. Sitting at the table with her is a teenage boy, hair longish and curling slightly at his earlobes. Like Emmeline, their eyes are ringed with purple.

“Mà, this is Marlene and Mary. My friends from school.” Emmeline says evenly, but when Mary glances at her out the corner of her eye, she sees a strange sort of emptiness in Emmeline’s face, a blankness that Mary associates with her own spells.

Marlene steps forward, offering the cookies. “Hi, Mrs. Vance. I’m so sorry for your loss. We wanted to come by and offer our condolences.”

Mrs. Vance stands up and accepts the cookies. “That’s very kind of you.” Her voice is accented and warm, and Mary recognizes that welcoming quality to her tone that Emmeline had also. “I remember your name. Jude saw you play Quidditch, and it made him want to play too.”

Marlene’s cheeks flush. “He was a really good kid. I remember him from tryouts my last year. He didn’t make it, but nobody could match his enthusiasm for the sport.”

Mrs. Vance smiles wistfully and turns her gaze on Mary. “You know Emmeline from Hogwarts?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary clasps her shaking hands together to maintain some semblance of dignity. “It was important for us to visit Emmeline to see how she’s doing.” She can feel Emmeline’s gaze burning a hole into the side of her head, but she refuses to shift her eyes, to acknowledge the question she’s certain would meet her, whether Emmeline means it or not.

“I see.” Mrs. Vance eyes them both. “Are you fighters?”

She means the Order. Marlene nods. “I am.”

Mrs. Vance’s face becomes sharp as steel. “You kill those animals, you hear me?”

“Absolutely.” Marlene, resolute as ever.

Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Vance turns to the table to set the cookies down. “Let me know if you girls need anything.”

Emmeline nudges Marlene’s arm. “We can head upstairs, if you guys want.”

No, Mary wants to say, but then she accidentally makes eye contact with the teenage boy – Emmeline’s brother – and feels her cheeks flush with shame. This family has suffered, and she can’t look past her own internal dynamic to be present for them. Her chest hurts with the self-hatred.

Emmeline’s bedroom is small and cramped, wood furniture in various shades of brown crammed together. Books spill from every nook and cranny, along with little knickknacks and figurines. The bedspread is a sparkly indigo, the ceiling painted like the Milky Way, hues of purple and pink and blue lining the sky. It’s all so personal, like walking into Emmeline’s head. Trust her, Mary knows what that’s like.

“How are you doing, Em?” Marlene asks softly once the door is closed behind them. Emmeline goes to curl up on the bed, back against the wall, and Marlene comes to sit with her. Mary stays standing.

“Oh, you know.” Emmeline waves her non-bandaged hand in the air. “Taking it day by day.” Her voice sounds so fake, so put on that Mary can’t understand how Marlene doesn’t see it. She’s just resting her hand on Emmeline’s knee, and Mary’s the only witness to the cracks she can see forming in Emmeline’s pretty mask. “Ba – my dad – has been going to the Ministry almost every day to demand a proper investigation.”

“I think I saw in the Prophet that the Aurors are already investigating.” Mary says quietly.

Emmeline frowns, the space between her eyebrows becoming wrinkled in confusion, lips pinched and nose screwed up. Then, as quickly as it appeared, her face smooths out. “Right, yeah. I think he just wants more people on the case, you know?”

She didn’t know about the Aurors, Mary realizes with a sinking feeling. Because if what she suspects is real…

No. No no no. there it goes, the brain shoving that door closed so she doesn’t have to see it anymore. She cannot think about that. No, grief messes people up, that’s the answer. She remembers how weird Remus got after his mum died, about Hestia at the funeral, James and Sirius after Euphemia and Fleamont. Even though grief is foreign to her, Mary can imagine losing track of details would be a common experience.

“If I hear anything, I’ll tell you immediately.” Marlene promises, and that sparks a flicker of recognition in Mary’s head. She draws the letter from her pocket and holds it out.

“It’s from Lily.” Mary says lamely.

Emmeline takes it gingerly, that confused look crossing her face again. “Oh, I would have liked to see Lily. Is she okay?”

Mary and Marlene exchange a glance. It isn’t common knowledge that Lily and James are in hiding, at least not yet. But Marlene arches an eyebrow: why should we hide this from her now? There’s still a level of sadness on her face, from before (which Mary makes a mental note to apologize to her about when they go outside, that it wasn’t about the girl thing but about something else, something sinister) but still, they’re allied in this. Nothing could change that.

“She and James are in hiding.” Mary starts carefully, but Emmeline’s head snaps up from the letter to stare at her with alarm. “They’re okay… but they’re in danger.”

“Lily’s pregnant, and there’s a prophecy.” Marlene adds. Emmeline’s gaze swings between the two of them.

“We don’t know where they are.”

“Sirius is the only one who can go back and forth—”

“—and Lily passed this letter along to you cause she couldn’t be here.”

Emmeline blinks at them. “Merlin.” She murmurs after a few seconds of silence. Her eyes flicker down to the letter. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Common theme these days.” Marlene says wistfully, which is strange.

Mary opens her mouth to say something, but there’s a knock on the door, and a head of dark brown hair pokes in: Benjy Fenwick. He seems startled to see them. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi, Benj.” Emmeline says quietly from the bed, turning the letter over and over again in her hands. That conversation seems to have exhausted her, she almost looks wilted, like a dying flower.

Benjy gives Mary a weird smile. “How are you?”

“Alright, yourself?” Mary responds, equally strained.

Benjy shrugs and glances at Emmeline. “I’m cooking for you guys again tonight. You cool with Bun Cha?”

“I forever thank my mother for teaching you to cook.” Emmeline says with a small, wan smile.

Mary glances at Marlene and says quickly, “We should probably head out.”

“Please, let me know if you need anything.” Marlene adds, moving over to the small desk to find a scrap piece of paper and a muggle pen, jotting down two lines of addresses. “Here, you can find me either of these places, or I think Sirius is getting a phone. Maybe. To be determined.”

“Thank you, Marlene. And Mary.” Emmeline’s eyes meet Mary’s and it’s as though she’s sinking, the door in her mind being forced open again, the feeling of recognition without awareness. “Thanks for coming. Seriously.”

Mary’s barely able to squeak out a sound before she’s hurrying out of the bedroom, yanking Marlene along with her, trying not to think at all about Emmeline Vance but being stuck with one final image: the mask crumbling to dust under Mary’s gaze, the only moment of a clear cry for help, though perhaps not intended, but a definite indicator that she is not well.

Mary is a coward, and so she runs back to Sirius and Remus’ flat, collapses on the couch, and stays there for three whole days until that pit of self-loathing in her chest eases somewhat, but doesn't vanish fully, because it never can.

Chapter Text

May 1980

Godric’s Hollow reminds Lily of home.

It’s so… normal. Lily goes to the market on Sundays, makes small talks with the shopkeepers and other residents. Mrs. Warren promises to bring scones later in the week, and the young boy who delivers the papers always accepts an apple or a friendly wave as he marches along the cobblestone street. Maybe, if she squints, she could see Cokeworth again. Though she never really wanted to go back there, it puts a strange feeling in her chest to remember it so well here.

They don’t use magic when outside of the house. There are a number of Muggles here, and either way, Lily wouldn’t know if anyone was magical. They all pretend, hiding in plain sight.

Dumbledore chose this place for them because nobody would know who they were, why they were here. As far as anyone was concerned, Lily and James Potter were a young couple, fresh out of school, expecting a baby and starting their lives. The only people who know them here are Bathilda Bagshot (legendary author and former Hogwarts professor; Lily freaked when Bathilda invited her over for coffee the first time) and, well, Sirius, when he comes to visit.

Nobody else knows where they are. Nor are they invited, per Dumbledore’s orders. The only one who knows where they are is Sirius. They know Dumbledore’s planning to use the Fidelius charm, but for now they’re protected enough. Voldemort won’t come to them before the baby is born.

The baby. James has been trying a whole bunch of names to try and get a kick from the baby, but none so far have stuck. The baby just kicks because he wants to, and Lily can’t argue with that.

It’s been harder than either of them really anticipated. That’s not exactly true: Lily tried to predict everything that could go wrong in the days and weeks since they found out about the pregnancy. Maybe it was hard to understand how strange she would feel, sick and bloated, out of control as her body changed and grew. When she “popped”, she had a whole bit of a breakdown, where not even James could calm her down.

As a kid, Lily had wanted nothing more than to take up as little space as she possibly could. She had never quite been able to do this. There was just too much of her, her body, her intelligence, her spirit, to conceal. These days, it’s like she’s ten years old again, and her skin crawls with discomfort.

The feeling she has now is hard to explain, sort of an out-of-body experience, like she’s checked her real body at the door of their new home and is now floating around, watching this unfamiliar person go about her day. It looks like her down there, but is it? Sometimes, Lily can’t feel fabric on her hands, the scalding water that comes out of the pipes too quickly, can’t recognize when James touches her arm or thigh. She can see it, on that other girl, but it isn’t her. It can’t be her.

There’s a shadow that she feels on her back, even in the floaty moments. Something she can only just see out the corner of her eye, looming. Her mum used to describe feeling Death on her heels whenever the treatments weren’t working, and privately Lily used to think that was nonsense, just another way to guilt-trip her and Tuney, but now she understands. Lily is twenty, and already she knows her time is running out.

She and James have been fighting so often. Little things, like Lily forgetting to wash the dishes or James saying too much about their situation to Adam, the old man down the street. They just scream at each other, faces going red and fists clenched in rage, about things that don’t even matter. And hidden in their words, like secret daggers, are accusations and real anger: You didn’t know how to console me after my parents died. You got me pregnant and into this mess. I can’t see my friends because of this. Me neither.

And when it’s all over, after James has stormed out to go do an intensive and furious work out, after Lily has cycled through the routine of crying, punching pillows, trying to work up the nerve to break James’ wand (which he always forgets somewhere around the house, the stupid man), and ultimately crying some more over that cruel thought, they’ll come back together for dinner and cuddle in bed, where they kiss and whisper platitudes to one another that smooths over the conflict until the next day, when they’ll do it all over again.

They don’t hate each other. There are days when the sunlight shines through the window just right, and James looks at her so warmly, when they dance and laugh and sing together, when they can both pretend, if just for a moment, that they are exactly what Godric’s Hollow thinks they are: a happy young couple starting the beginning of their lives.

Except in the dead of night, while James is snoring beside her, Lily can’t stop thinking about falling asleep just like this, listening to her parents yelling downstairs, throwing whatever they can get their hands on at each other, and thinking “I will never be like them”.

That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? you can never escape your bloodline, no matter how hard you try.

She wrote to Petunia a few months ago, not long after they came here, but she never got a response back. Sirius says he checks the post every day for her, but she knows nothing is coming. Out there, somewhere, her big sister wants nothing more to do with her. And what can Lily do? She can’t exactly march over there (if Tuney’s even still living in Cokesworth) and demand to see her. So, she feels the cord between them slowly wither and die. It hurts more than she could ever have expected.

The letters give Lily something to chew on. She’ll sit down and draft out responses for days, writing until her hand cramps or she has to stand up for the sake of her back and legs. She writes about everything she can think of, the minutiae of her day, the philosophical rants she’s begun reciting to herself, making up stories about the other residents here (using pseudonyms and no real information, of course). What she can’t bring herself to say is how lonely she is, how much she wishes all of them were here with her right now. She hopes the simple “Love always” at the end of the letters can say it for her.

There’s the other thing too, that Lily is working on. James doesn’t know, cannot know. He would be against it completely, but Lily doesn’t much care what he thinks about the endeavor. It isn’t his choice to make, and she won’t let him take on any of the burden.

Euphemia and Fleamont kept the book’s existence a secret from James for a reason: because it would ruin him. Somebody as good as James Potter wouldn’t hesitate to throw that book into the fire and watch it burn, because of the pain it could cause. Obviously, Effie and Monty knew it had to stay alive. It found its way into Lily’s hands, and she has no illusions. She is not as good as James Potter, nobody is. And when it comes to her little boy? Lily will forever eschew goodness if he gets to live.

So, on every second day, when James goes out for his four-hour workout spree, Lily packs herself a bag with food and a blanket and goes out to the graveyard on the outskirts of the town, where nobody will see her.

These graves have been neglected for years, if not decades. Ivy, wound around each headstone, grimy stone and marble obscuring names. The first few times she came here, Lily tried to clean them up as best as she could, but there were too many and she didn’t really know how to do it right. It breaks her heart, watching time slowly consume these people’s memories and names, so she conjures flowers to lay down on the graves. A small thing, but hopefully something sweet.

The book is heavy in her hands when she carefully extricates it from the bag, holding it carefully in her hands. It radiates a sick sort of aura, though perhaps that’s just the pregnancy heartburn. It makes her skin crawl, anticipation and something much more sinister thrumming through her body.

At times, the writing dips into Latin, scrawling penmanship in the margins, adding and changing details, providing advice for future readers in a clumsy hand. She recognizes it as the Potter scrawl, that awful handwriting James and Fleamont shared. Clearly it goes back generations, and this is a strangely heartwarming thought.

In a weird way, it reminds her of Severus. That pang in her heart, she’s gotten used to it but still it remains. Severus, making notes in his textbooks, perfecting and obsessing over every tiny detail. He would know what to do with all this. Except, Lily knows what he would use it for. That brilliant mind of his, always turning and crafting, wasted. He would see no use in protecting any son of James Potter’s, no matter what friendship he and Lily had once had. She’s alone in this endeavor; she has to remind herself over and over.

None of this is made for simplicity. This is a puzzle for Lily to solve, finally, something challenging and impossible for Lily to put her mind to and work out piece by piece.

At the start of fifth year, when Lily sat down with Professor McGonagall for their career discussion, McGonagall just looked at her for a while, much longer than was comfortable. Lily, shifting in her seat, trying to read the papers upside down and avoid McGonagall’s eyes. She’d always liked McGonagall a lot, saw herself one day in this very office, head of Gryffindor house maybe, following in her steps. Of course, they’d never had the bond that McGonagall had with Sirius and James, because who could?

Finally, McGonagall cleared her throat and leaned in. “Lily, do you understand how brilliant you are?”

This caught her off-guard, not because she didn’t know. Back home, this sort of thing was an insult, said by Petunia in a spitting voice: “Lily the brains, be as smart as Lily.” Lily knew she was smart, but she worked at it. to prove she belonged here, she had to. There could be no coasting on natural intelligence, not among some of the brightest minds with the most privilege.

But from McGonagall, the compliment was surprising. She was never exactly… effusive with her praise, and Lily hadn’t quite realized how much she’d wanted to hear those words.

“Thank you, Professor.” She managed to say.

McGonagall nodded curtly, eyes flashing around the room before coming back to Lily. “You don’t need me to tell you what you should do with your life, even though there’s so much I’d love to see you do: go study with one of the great Potions Masters in Vietnam, or travel through Peru to record the Indigenous magic systems up there. Become an Auror or spend your life tracking rare lizards. It doesn’t matter what I think. You’ll make the right decision, because you know yourself. You know what you need out of life. You don’t waver. That’s more important than you realize right now.”

Lily blinked. “How will I know where to start?”

“You find the first puzzle to solve and go from there.” McGonagall shuffled her papers – an indication that it was time for Lily to go – and gave her a rare smile. “You’ll be one of the greats, Lily. Don’t shy away from it.”

One of the greats. It’s impossible to deny that Lily hadn’t dreamed of such a future as a little girl. Lily Evans, poor girl from a poor town, who wanted to become something greater. The Sorting Hat, whispering in her ear, “Her ambition is a great strength”, but her fists were knotted tight for a reason she didn’t understand. Sev was going to be a Slytherin, wasn’t he? He said his mother had been, and all the great wizards had been in Slytherin too. She sees the purebloods at their table, whispering and sneering at her already, and the hat made its choice, without another word.

And Lily has worked day and night to prove herself as one of the purebloods, on their level or higher, trying to prove that this world, which she so desperately wanted to belong to, was not above her. Yes, she wants greatness.

But she wants something more. Maybe that’s why the Hat gave up its crusade to put her in Slytherin. It knew that when it came down to it, Lily would use that ambition not for herself, but for someone else. She would be brave enough to pour all her fight into protecting her little boy.

Was that to be the final act of greatness for Lily Evans Potter? To kill a person, if it means saving her son?

“Bad idea, daughter of Gryffindor.”

It’s comical how much Lily jumps at the voice. She realizes belatedly that she’s crushed the book against her chest unconsciously, as though protecting that secret is more important than drawing her wand. The book, humming in her arms, makes her feel a little queasy.

A woman is sitting on one of the gravestones in front of her. No, not just a woman. A ghost, silvery and faded, defining lines smudged and blurry, in a flowing old-fashioned dress. In her abdomen, Lily sees a gaping hole, like a blade has been driven straight through her. There’s something strangely familiar about her, like a dream you only half-remember the taste of in the morning.

“Who are you?” Lily keeps the book close to her chest, inching her fingers to her wand and lifting it in the air.

“I can feel it’s magic, radiating.” Her voice is soft, inflected in a way Lily doesn’t recognize. “Doesn’t it make you sick?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The baby kicks, and Lily moves her hand instinctively to her bump, trying to sooth him. The ghost’s eyes trail her eerily.

“Secrets, secrets.” Her head tilts, the lines of her face shifting like flowers in the wind. “Does James know what you plan to do?”

A sinister chill goes up Lily’s spine. She makes it to her feet – not easily, mind you – and keeps lots of space between them. Knees slightly bent in the way she was taught, half-duelling stance and half-running stance. “How do you know his name?”

“I know you.” The woman says. “I know you, and I know your husband, and I know that you are the finest Gryffindor House has to offer. And the book.” Her hand loosely gestures at the book, still humming against Lily’s chest. “What will it be? Protection? Resuscitation?”

Lily takes another step back. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be afraid, daughter of Gryffindor. I won’t hurt you.” She pauses, as though lost in thought. “It is not in my nature.”

“Who. Are. You.” Lily punctuates every word, that genuine, crawling fear overtaking her body. Be prepared to run, she keeps telling her limbs, but she almost feels frozen in place.

“A warning.” The woman drifts forward, almost lazily. “Do not perform that spell. You think yourself strong enough to withstand its forces, but you’re wrong.”

Lily laughs nervously. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You do. You always do.”

“No.” Lily shakes her head, resolve turning to steel in her gut. “No, I won’t let my son die. I won’t be the mother who gives up.”

“My mother felt the same way.” Is she imagining the melancholic expression on the woman’s face? “It consumed her until there was nothing left of herself. Please, Lily Potter. Blood magic always demands a sacrifice. It will cost you yourself, alongside the life you take.”

Her hands start to tingle around the book. “Stop—”

“He will resent you, for not being there.”

“No—”

“Daughter of Gryffindor—”

“NO!” Lily screams, and the fire shoots from her hands without warning, like a snap of the fingers, the book clattering to the floor. All around her, the greenery is catching, and the ghost is suddenly gone, and Lily is trying to force her fingers down, to cover her palms, but the magic inside her is too strong, caught in an outburst that she cannot stop.

When she wails, head lifted to the sky, tears streaming down her cheeks, the flames stop. Smouldering leaves greet her with resentment as she falls to her knees, head in her hands, sobbing as the burning recedes from her chest, settles back at her heels, and her mind begins to clear.

Magical outbursts are common during pregnancy in witches, or so she has read. But ever since she brought out the book, they’ve been getting worse. The clenched fist in her sternum giving way to a flood of emotions, anger and fear and sadness, all amplified beyond her ability to deal with them.

Lily is used to living in a middle ground of sorts; never too emotional, always stable. People don’t know when she’s struggling unless she wants them to, and that’s how she likes it. but this… her control is gone. She can’t hide it, and that is the most terrifying thing of all.

The book is unharmed beside her, humming contentedly. Lily stares at it, tears drying on her cheeks, and a new plan forms.

If the magic hurts her, she can use that. The book assumes she wishes to harm another person, but magic is malleable. Lily is brilliant. If she can twist it just enough… she can become the sacrifice. Her life for the baby’s.

A final act of defiance. If he comes for them, Lily will look him in the eyes and make sure he knows that she outsmarted him. That she was greater than Lord Voldemort could ever be.

And that will have to be enough.

~*~

When James gets back to the house, sweaty and golden, Lily is on the couch, filling out a sudoku book. James is the first one to apologize, and Lily will go to him and kiss his lips, and eventually they’ll tumble into bed together or go take a shower together, and the cycle will continue anew.

And Lily won’t tell him. She’ll hold that secret close to her chest, the feeling of Death looming over her, and she will revel in their little spiralling life, if that’s all she has left.

~*~

It’s just her luck that Marlene and Dorcas Meadowes end up on another mission together.

Whoever plans these pairings must have a magic ball or something, specifically tuned to Marlene’s particular brain frequency, or who understands the predicament of a weird, all-consuming crush on an older woman who wants to kill her. Or maybe God is playing a terrible joke on her, as a punishment for being queer. All of the above is possible.

Pureblood galas are fairly common, or so she hears. Marlene’s never been invited to one… obviously. Even though her dad’s pureblood, enough of their branch has been “tainted” so that they aren’t really considered part of that society anymore. Fuck them, she thinks, and their stupid antiquated balls.

They’re trying to get whatever dirt they can on the Death Eaters; the Carrows especially. Gideon and his son Alexei are both high-ranking members in the Department of International Magical Co-Operation – with Alexei also serving on the Wizengamot – and the Order is concerned they’re corrupt. If you ask Marlene, who has had a few run-ins with Alexei’s daughter Alecto, definitely corrupt. Still, they need ears on the ground, any tidbit of information to keep that train running.

With them tonight are Kingsley Sterling and Edgar Bones. Kingsley isn’t a part of the Order; he isn’t even an Auror. In fact, Marlene has no real idea what he does for a living, but she’s liked him ever since Hogwarts. He was Head Boy for Ravenclaw, Dorcas’ age; a quiet, observant man with a backbone of steel. Edgar’s older than all of them – he’s actually Marlene’s second cousin or whatever, but thanks to Mum’s influence, she has never seen much of her dad’s side of the family – with faded raspberry-coloured hair and stubble that he has a bad habit of scrubbing his knuckles along when he is thinking. He seems decent enough.

Kingsley and Edgar are their ticket into this shindig. Both purebloods, with enough respect in their actions and family names to easily navigate the gala. Dorcas and Marlene, unfortunately, aren’t so lucky, and have to rely on other methods of getting in.

“No.” Dorcas, standing with her back against the wall and arms folded, glares down at Kingsley, shorter than she is. She seems especially prickly tonight. “Shit plan.”

“It’s the only one we’ve got.” Edgar says, resignedly, doing that thing with his beard again. “I’ll guide you guys through it.”

“We’re not playing your parents, Edgar.” Dorcas growls, and Marlene feels a spark of pride at the word “we”, as though they are a team in this. Which they are, in a strictly professional sense, of course, but this close and Marlene can feel herself slipping further into that hazy memory of Dorcas’ lips—

“It’s the easiest way to get you guys in there without suspicion.”

“Is this some sort of psychosexual fantasy of yours, Bones?”

“Dorcas, we don’t have time for this—”

“Oh, bummer. Shall we try again next time, with a better plan?”

“Both of you, enough.” Kingsley’s low voice carries through the room. The liquid in the two flasks slosh slightly as he folds his arms. “Stop acting like children.”

Dorcas glares at him, but Kingsley’s smooth demeanor doesn’t so much as twitch. He glances at Edgar. “Frieda and Elias Bones are the best covers we could have.”

“My parents are, how you say, recluses.” Edgar waves a hand in the air. “I’m the one who typically handles this sort of stuff. If you’re acting out of character, they’ll just assume what they usually do about my parents.” When Dorcas still doesn’t look convinced, he adds, “You’ll barely have to say anything. I’ll take care of the small talk. You just show your faces and then go hide in a corner and eavesdrop.”

“The real question is,” Kingsley holds up the two flasks – one bubblegum pink and the other a deep burgundy – and smiles. “Who wants to be Elias?”

Dorcas and Marlene stare at each other. It doesn’t take long before Marlene sighs and motions for the burgundy one.

~*~

“I hate being a man.” Marlene announces as they walk through the path towards the Carrow manor. “Why does everything itch?”

“Sounds like something my dad really would say.” Edgar says with a grin.

Dorcas hasn’t said a word, simply downing the potion like it was a shot and emerging from the bathroom stall they were hiding in in a gorgeous purple gown. Frieda Bones, Marlene has to admit, is a strikingly beautiful woman, with silky dark hair and strong, broad shoulders. She looks like she could bench press Marlene’s entire body mass. Part of the appeal, though, is knowing who lies behind the disguise. Even the way she walks, with an upright chest and chin tilted slightly, is still full Dorcas.

Elias Bones is a wide man, with a mess of sandy hair that will not lie flat (Marlene now understands James’ habit of fidgeting with his unruly hair) and big, owlish eyes made even larger by a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses. She can sort of see her dad in the reflection and immediately averts her gaze.

“Don’t we have to worry about anybody recognizing us?” Marlene fidgets with her watch, deeply uncomfortable with its unfamiliar weight on her wrist. “Like, what if your siblings show up?”

“They won’t.” Edgar says, firmly. “Oscar’s got a baby at home, and Amelia… You know Amelia, right, King?”

“Not her scene.” Kingsley adds, definitively.

“She’s a little more… uptight, than any of us. Never liked the overt display of politics, all words and no actions.” Edgar shakes his head, half-fondness and half-frustration in his expression. “Dragging her to these things as kids was harder than pulling teeth.”

“Why go?” Dorcas is looking at him oddly. “To show off your wealth?”

Even though her tone is antagonistic, Edgar doesn’t seem to get offended. He just screws up his face for a second, deep in thought, and then says: “To keep up appearances. It gets suspicious when you don’t engage in politics for a while. The best way to stay under the radar is to show up here and there, laugh and mingle for a bit, then retreat and let the pieces fall as they may.”

“They have the privilege of having few expectations.” Kingsley muses.

Edgar nods. “Nobody expects much from the Bones. We’re a Ministry family; we clock in, work, clock out, and we stay hidden. Any involvement of ours in anything remotely rebellious is a crazy idea, or so I’ve heard. Apparently, people are totally comfortable saying these things in front of me, like I won’t do anything about it.” He shrugs. “I guess they’re not totally wrong.”

They reach the door, where two men dressed in sharp looking suits extend their hands. Edgar conjures several slips of paper and hands them over.

One of the men glances at Marlene. “Say, that you, Bones?”

Edgar had given them a little to work with as they’d changed in the stalls. Marlene intones in a gravelly voice, “In the flesh and bone, gentlemen.”

The other guard gives a small chuckle and waves them in.

“Easy as pie.” Edgar says smugly as they head in.

The place is beautiful. A ballroom, not sprawling, but nothing to scoff at either. Scattered around are very fancy people in very fancy dress, and Marlene immediately starts to shrink into herself before Edgar shoots her a look and she straightens up. Kingsley’s face morphs quickly into a plastic-perfect smile as they’re immediately ambushed by a group of fancy women, fawning over Kingsley before shifting their attention to the Bones family.

“Merlin, Frieda, it’s been too long!” One woman squeaks, hair piled on her head in a distinctly unflattering style. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you.” Dorcas’ voice is transformed, higher and softer, with a lilt to her vowels.

“We kept telling Cassandra not to invite you; we thought you didn’t bother with these parties anymore.” Another woman jokes. “Especially not after your surgery, Elias.”

“Right as rain, now.” Marlene fights to keep the quiver of anxiety out of her voice. Then, because she sees Edgar looking at her, eyebrows slightly raised, she adds: “With everything going on, we felt it important to be among our old friends, tonight.”

This is the right thing to say, as the women burst into titters of agreement. Edgar subtly nods and gives her a tiny smile.

“I can’t believe there are so many people making such a fuss!” One woman declares, and she looks vaguely familiar in a way Marlene can’t quite place. “Honestly, the attitudes of some young people today are just insane! Trying to change the world when things are already well as they are.” She catches Kingsley’s eye and laughs, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Not you, my boy. You have a bright future, just like your brothers in the Ministry.”

Dorcas’ hand twitches at her side, and Marlene does the only thing she can to calm her: she slides her palm against Dorcas’ and holds tight. She feels Dorcas stiffen at her side, but she doesn’t protest.

“Is Amelia still at the Department of Magical Enforcement?”

“She is.” Thankfully, Edgar takes this one. “She sends her regrets that she couldn’t be here tonight.”

“When is she ever?” One woman whispers to another.

“Say, have you seen the woman of the evening herself?” Edgar asks smoothly. “I’d like to speak to her, thank her for her hospitality.” As they drift away, Edgar chatting animatedly with one of the women, he shoots them a look: in the clear.

“Pureblood charm,” mutters Dorcas, a tinge of acid in her voice.

“Be glad you’re with him.” Kingsley says. “Even I haven’t mastered the art of talking with these people.” He glances at them and nods his head. “Go eat something. People won’t bother you beyond small talk. If you need anything, I’ll be around.” He melts back into the crowd.

As soon as he’s gone, Dorcas immediately drops her hand from Marlene’s and rubs it on her thigh. Marlene tries and fails not to take offence. “Oh, so we can fuck, but we can’t play pretend couple?” She huffs under her breath.

“Shut. Up.” Dorcas hisses back. “Not here.”

“Fine.” Marlene mocks her tone. “Shall we mingle, then, darling?”

Dorcas shoots her a murderous glare but says only, “Fine.”

They manage to get through the torturous small talk, laughing politely and keeping statements vague. Dorcas holds onto her hand like a lifeline as they talk, which is surprising. Already, a bubble of worry has formed in Marlene’s chest, the anticipation of reaching the end of the line and finding only Dorcas Meadowes to face. What can she really say? Hey, I liked getting super drunk with you and forgetting all about my shitty dad except it’s really weird that you stole my wand and also I can’t tell if you want to kiss or kill me. What’s the deal?

No sign of Gideon or Alexei though, which is odd. Marlene keeps craning her neck, not used to being tall, and Dorcas keeps elbowing her harder and harder to get her to stop being so conspicuous.

The banquet table area is fairly empty, on account of the waiters gliding through the crowds, producing hors-d’oevres and champagne glasses. Marlene rolls her empty glass around between her fingers, already feeling the alcohol in her system a little. Dorcas is nibbling on a shrimp, a sour expression on her face.

“You should fix your face.” Marlene offers, unhelpfully, still stung by Dorcas’ rejection of an attempt to help.

“Not how married couples talk to each other.” Dorcas replies, glaring at the shrimp.

“I wouldn’t know.” Marlene shrugs. “Would you?” It’s an obvious attempt to fish for information, but she’s desperate for some sort of grasp on Dorcas Meadowes: renowned enigma.

Dorcas just stays silent, dark eyes observing the crowds. Marlene tries a different tact: “Did you know Kingsley at school?”

“Stop it.” Dorcas snaps.

Marlene loses her patience. “Look, you know what, Dorcas? I’m trying to be friendly. I’m trying to be nice, because we’re on the same side here.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I don’t give a shit. You’re acting like I’ve personally offended you, when I haven’t done anything. Alright? If anything, you’re the one leading me on—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes.” Dorcas grabs the crook of her arm and whisks her away, down a hall until they burst out into a small balcony. She locks the door behind them and whirls around, arms folded. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“With me? We’re going to talk about what’s wrong with me?” Marlene stares at her, incredulous. “You stole my wand!” Dorcas rolls her eyes, and Marlene keeps going. “You keep threatening to cut my tongue out, and then you get me drunk and fuck me, and now you’re acting like I’m the problem here? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, so it’s fine for you to toy with my emotions cause, what, you’re bored? Cause you’re an asshole? It’s fine for you to treat me like dirt?”

“I’m not your girlfriend.” Dorcas says, quietly, venomously. “Stop acting like I am.”

“Jesus!” Marlene throws her hands up in the air. “This is not me reading into things, Dorcas! You treat me like shit unless you want me for sex, that’s the problem!”

“I treat everyone like shit. That’s just who I am.” Dorcas shakes her head, frustrated. Somehow, this feels like another facet that Marlene can’t quite square with the rude, unflappable Dorcas: somebody reflective and almost vulnerable. It’s jarring. “I’m not ‘nice’, Marlene, nor am I anything worth projecting your desperate need for validation onto.” Her eyes meet Marlene’s, and for a second, it’s as though her real eyes are poking through the disguise. “Stop treating me like some sort of saint. I’m not. We are not girlfriends; we are not friends. We have been paired together on missions and that’s all there is. Got it?”

Marlene drops her hands to her sides, exhausted. “Jesus, fine, you massive asshole.” When Dorcas glowers at her, Marlene responds with an equally venomous glare. “Fine! Be a dick. Just stop treating me like I killed your dog every time we come face to face, okay? Stop threatening to kill me.”

“Stop letting your crush on me get in the way.”

Marlene puts her hand over her heart, as though to promise she isn’t lying. “Blank slate between us, I promise. I’ll leave you alone besides what’s necessary.” When Dorcas’ face doesn’t move an inch, Marlene adds, “Just… give me something to work with, at least. As colleagues.”

That’s not what she wants, but it’s a word: a middle ground between them, a definition. A colleague isn’t sinful, isn’t asking for too much. This will not be another thing that Marlene fucks up because she wants more than she can get.

“As colleagues.” Dorcas echoes, her expression flat.

“Just colleagues.” Marlene affirms.

They blink at each other, and Marlene extends her hand. Dorcas, after another moment, shakes it. her palm is sweaty and feels almost human. The evening air feels slightly warmer on the back of her neck, a welcome surprise.

After a moment of awkward but not hostile silence, Dorcas clears her throat and reaches into the side of her dress, producing a wand. Marlene’s wand. “Here.”

Marlene takes it, staring at it almost wonderously as it comes to life in her hands. “What—”

Dorcas jerks her head at the door. “C’mon. Don’t want to seem conspicuous.” Her tone, though still all-Dorcas, is a little less frosty, and she won’t quite look Marlene in the eyes. Interesting.

Dorcas Meadowes truly does contain multitudes.

Inside, they’re playing some sort of classical music. Pairs dance together all across the floor. Marlene cranes her neck to try and spot Kingsley and Edgar but can’t.

“I think we’re expected to dance.” Dorcas says quietly.

Marlene looks at her, sees Dorcas’ hand already extended. When she takes it, butterflies crawl up her stomach and collect in her throat. It takes a lot of effort not to let them out. Colleagues, that’s what they are.

They try to mimic couples around them, hands on shoulders and waists. Even like this, without the major height gap between them, Marlene still feels small in Dorcas’ presence, like she’s forever that little fourth-year looking up to the untouchable Dorcas Meadowes. It’s strange now to feel her hands, rough and callused, to feel little Marlene inside her bones quiet for a moment, unsure how to react. Their bodies aren’t supremely close together, but she’s hyper aware of the air between them.

“I did know him from school.” Dorcas’ voice jolts Marlene out of her reverie. She’s staring at a fixed point off in the distance, but her lips keep moving. “He was in my year. Didn’t talk much but I saw him around.”

It’s not a lot, but it’s something. A peace offering, though still delivered in that dry tone, as best as Dorcas can give.

“When did you start training with Mad-Eye Moody?”

Dorcas’ face twitches. “Not that.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Nope.”

“What can I ask, then?” Marlene keeps her voice low, close to Dorcas’ shoulder.

“Something not insanely personal.” Dorcas replies.

“We have very different definitions of ‘insanely personal’,” Marlene muses as they sway, footwork fairly easy. “Okay, what’s your favourite colour? That can’t be insanely personal, can it?”

Dorcas doesn’t answer for a moment. Marlene sneaks her arms further around her waist, watching other couples around them do the same. “Purple.” Dorcas’ voice is almost soft. “Deep purple. Maybe indigo. Sort of like a puddle of ink.”

“Like the strands in your hair?” Marlene reaches up, but her fingers falter inches away from Dorcas’ hair, realizing that it isn’t hers. She’s still Frieda Bones, and Marlene is still Elias Bones, and one could say that they’ve finally figured out how to play the married couple, but Marlene wants more, she wants so badly that she feels on fire. They’re so close now, the strings humming through the room, and yes, they’ve just agreed to be colleagues, to stop the seesaw of emotions, but Marlene wants to kiss her terribly and be yelled at. She’ll gladly go back on her word if it means—

“What’s your favourite colour?” Dorcas asks, and her face is so close to Marlene’s, her breath hot and eyes dark.

“Red.” Marlene swallows, but there’s no saliva in her mouth. The fire has consumed it all. “Just red.”

Dorcas grins, and it’s a wolfish grin, her teeth sharp and gleaming, but there’s something there that wasn’t there before, she knows. Marlene’s worst instincts say that she would let her throat be torn open if Dorcas wanted her blood. Anything, anything.

When Dorcas tips her face in, Marlene meets her in the middle. Everything in her body screams and begs for more, but it’s also somehow enough to be kissing her now, not angrily, not drunkenly, but still passionately. Marlene can taste Dorcas’ bitterness and resentment in her throat and gags, but their brief separation is too long. She will take it all if it means Dorcas’ tongue exploring her mouth and making her body tingle, she will take it all.

And yes, they are pretending for the crowd. Yes, they’re playing a married couple, who probably should like each other, but this exists outside of all that. This is just for them.

Dorcas pulls back, and Marlene follows, but Dorcas shakes her head and puts her finger against Marlene’s lips. Slowly, turning her head, she sees them, slipping out into the hallway.

“Malfoy.” Dorcas snarls.

“Do we follow?” Marlene asks, running all the factors through her head.

“Yes, you fucking dumbass.” Dorcas lets go of her and immediately starts navigating through the crowd.

Marlene, after a moment of hesitation, chases after her. “We really need to talk about how you speak to your colleagues!”

Lucius Malfoy and Alexei Carrow are standing close together around the corner in the hallway. Malfoy’s got something in his hand, while Alexei keeps his arms folded and back against the wall.

Dorcas and Marlene squeeze together around the corner, trying to remain as still as possible, since cloaking charms would fuck up the Polyjuice Potion and they can’t take that risk. Dorcas’ elbow rests in Marlene’s side but that doesn’t feel like a thing to get Dorcas all pissy about right now, especially since they’re trying to listen.

Lucius’ drawling voice becomes a little clearer once they’re in place: “—though I’m certain we’ll be facing some opposition from Crouch and Longbottom, of course.”

“Leave Longbottom to me.” Carrow’s controlled, level voice responds. “We go way back.”

“I know.” Some rustling. “I appreciate your help on this matter, Alexei.”

“We’re settled though, yeah? No more debt?”

“No more debt. Consider your service to my father completed.”

“Good.” Hesitatingly, as though afraid: “From here on, we’ll do what’s best for us, as Carrows, though I hope we can continue to forge a strong alliance regardless.”

“We’ll see where the chips fall,” is Lucius’ icy response.

Footsteps. Dorcas and Marlene are barely able to position themselves normally before Alexei rounds the corner and spots them, stopping in his tracks. “Ah, hello Elias. Frieda.” He nods at Dorcas. “What can I do for you?”

Dorcas jumps in, faster than Marlene takes to process what’s happening. “Elias and I are feeling a little tired, so we’re heading out. We have been trying to find Cassandra to thank her for hosting such a lovely gala but hoped you could pass along the message.”

“Oh.” Alexei’s face clears a little, unable to stop the relief from spreading over his features. “Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed it. it was good to see you both again. Safe travels home.” He sidesteps them and disappears back into the ballroom. Dorcas flashes her eyes at Marlene: Move, before Lucius spots us.

They hightail it back to the party and manage to find Kingsley in the crowd. When Dorcas nods at him, he nods back towards the doors and goes in search of Edgar.

As soon as the fresh night air hits Marlene’s face, she can’t help the tiny, giddy giggle that escapes her lips. Tilting her head up to the sky, she breathes out, “We did it.”

She doesn’t notice the way Dorcas is looking at her, complex emotions warring across her face: fear most of all. It takes a moment, but finally, shockingly, what comes to her in the end is that warm feeling in her chest.

It’s joy.

And at any other time, with almost any other person, Dorcas would bottle that emotion up, hide it deep within herself, and force the mask of indifference back over her features. But she doesn’t do that now, nor does she run, as she usually does.

Dorcas just lets herself feel happy. Only for a second, but that’s enough for a creature like Dorcas Meadowes. And looking at Marlene McKinnon, she lets the smile spread over her face.

“Yeah, we sure did.”

Chapter Text

Early June 1980

The first letter from Emmeline comes two weeks after Mary and Marlene visited her:

I asked Marlene where you were living right now. Hope you don’t mind. I’d like it if you came by sometime. Your visit made me feel normal amid everything. -E

When Mary was young, her dad told her about a boy he’d known back home in Jamaica. The boy was his age, and sick with cancer. They were classmates but never really friends, but one day, the boy came up to him in the schoolyard – because he was still in school, then – and asked to play with him.

Her dad said yes, because he felt bad, but the other boy was nice, and they had fun together. And they kept playing together, day after day, and her dad felt bad because he’d started out with pity but actually liked the other boy. And when the boy went to hospital and lost all his hair, her dad kept visiting out of some duty, some sort of pity that loomed over his sense of friendship.

And one day, when the boy was very sick, he asked her dad if they were really friends. And her dad said yes, but the other boy didn’t believe him. When he died, later that night, her dad cried into his pillow, because he didn’t really have any other friends besides him, and he was gone now.

That story goes round and round in Mary’s head, a snake eating its own tail. Ouroboros, Lily would say, but it’s better if she didn’t. Mary tries not to think about her, to keep that well of sadness shut. It’s lonely without her, but she’s used to that feeling.

Nothing about Mary should make Emmeline feel normal. It should be jarring, off-putting, knowing something but being unable to speak it aloud. It should be twisted hearts in twisted ribcages, a hint of venom hidden in a smile, because that’s what she deserves. Mary does not deserve anything kind, especially not from Emmeline Vance. The guilt has gnawed through any sort of compassion. She is rotting from the inside out.

Before, she could kind of hide behind Marlene, her awkwardness maybe being chalked up to inexperience with grief. What Emmeline is asking of her requires vulnerability, something Mary doesn’t really have access to these days, not like this. As a kid, she was an open book. Now, secrecy composes her armour. Nobody has seen her naked and vulnerable in a while.

And yet. The strange, magnetic pull she felt once tugging on her wrist yet again, the desire to… what? Know Emmeline? Kiss Emmeline? Prove that she was in fact capable of meaningful and deep relationships with people? Get back at Hestia for—

No. that’s the problem with this quandary: it opens doors Mary would much prefer to remain shut forever. She isn’t brave enough, strong enough, kind enough, not even enough of a person to confront them. She’s just some shell of a girl – not even a woman, just a girl – and all she does is hurt people.

Mary thinks sometimes about death. Everyone around her has been touched by it, but it remains vague and elusive to her. She doesn’t want to die in battle, not for this war she resents, not for the magic she doesn’t want to have. No, somewhere quiet, peaceful, so she can drift away without a sound and go somewhere better. Sleep won’t do it, not when she’s haunted by her consciousness and memory and soul, probably. No, she hasn’t been sleeping much at all, and Remus and Sirius aren’t either, but nobody wants to reach out in the dark of night to the other. They stay separate and miserable in their loneliness.

Maybe it’s some sort of self-imposed punishment that Mary goes back to Emmeline’s house a few days after she gets the first letter. Maybe, deep down, she’s hoping that Emmeline will remember and kill her or something for the betrayal. No, she wouldn’t do that. Emmeline is a good person. Mary is not.

Emmeline smiles when she opens the door, but it seems maybe a little more real than last time, somehow? Mary’s heart squeezes in her chest so violently she almost tips over. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Mary echoes, throat tight.

They’re just staring at each other, so long that Mary feels like she might choke on the silence. Her eyes linger on Emmeline’s arm, raised red lines snaking out from under the gauze, and even though that’s not her fault – the brother, the pain, the grief – she still feels guilty. Always guilty.

Emmeline swings the door wider. “Come in? My parents are out with my brothers—” Her lips purse and thin back out. “Brother. Casey. They’re with Casey.”

That confusion again. Mary feels the chill on her spine, but she goes in anyway, following Emmeline to the kitchen, sitting awkwardly at the table while Emmeline fetches glasses. “Is water okay?”

“Sure.” Mary says, and then, because the silence could kill her, “How are you doing, Emmeline?”

Even with her back to Mary, at the sink, Emmeline still noticeably freezes. “Oh. Uh…”

“You don’t have to answer that.” Mary jumps in. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t really know what to say.”

Emmeline laughs, an unsteady and forced sound. Her hands are shaking as she sets the glass down before Mary and pulls up the chair across from her. “It’s okay. I’m getting sort of sick of all the usual grief platitudes anyway.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘oh, he’s in a better place’ or ‘oh, you poor thing,’ but those at least have some sort of sympathy to them. The worst is ‘I know how you feel.’” Emmeline shudders. “Not what I really want to hear from you, neighbour Carol, thanks.” Her eyes are dark and serious when they land on Mary’s again. “Don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. I know you mean it.”

Mary feels that twisty sensation in the pit of her stomach. When she says, “I do mean it,” that isn’t a lie. It’s just more complicated than she can or will ever explain to Emmeline.

“Let’s just not talk about it.” Emmeline clicks her nails on her glass, eyes darting away. “I want an afternoon where everything’s just normal again, okay?”

“What do you want to do?”

There’s that smile: soft, vulnerable, and a little enchanting. “How do you feel about flying?”

~*~

“I hate this.” Mary says flatly, mostly for comedic effect, and it works: Emmeline snorts as she marches back to her from across the field near her house, a second broom in hand. “This is a bad idea.”

“It’ll cheer me up, remember?” Emmeline pokes her tongue out from between her teeth, though she hesitates a little when Mary doesn’t move. “If you really don’t want to, we don’t have to. Promise, we won’t if you’re uncomfortable.”

Mary imagines a fist slamming down all the emotion that bubbles up in her sternum about the sadness on Emmeline’s face, that terrible shame in the pit of her stomach, about everything. Isn’t it the least she can do, to be there for Emmeline in the face of everything she’s been through—everything Mary has done to her?

With that, she musters up a smile. “I’m just a terrible flier, is all.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a great teacher.” Emmeline beams, and there’s light in her eyes again, if only for a second, and Mary’s heart shatters into tiny pieces and reforms together in an instant. “Who do you think taught Benjy Fenwick to fly in three months?”

Mary hesitantly moves to straddle the broom, the hilt freshly polished beneath her palm. “Have you guys been friends since you got to Hogwarts?”

“Pretty much.” Emmeline pulls her hair back from her face loosely, but a few dark strands cling to her temples messily. “He walked into my compartment on the train – this second-year kid talking a mile a minute at me – and totally broke me out of my nervous spiral about an hour into the train ride. That sort of bonded us together for life, I think.”

“He doesn’t like me much.” Mary says softly.

Emmeline exhales. “He’s… protective. Always has been. Don’t take it personally. I keep telling him sometimes friendships don’t last, or they only reignite after a while, but he’s a bit like a German Shepherd: ridiculously loyal.” She sees Mary sort of lingering on the ground, staring frustratedly at the broom. “Having trouble?”

“I don’t really know what to do.” Mary admits, grimacing. “In all honesty, first year flying classes were just a little too much for me.”

“Right, no, I get that.” Emmeline strides over to her. “I’m glad my dad taught me when I was a kid, but some people don’t have that opportunity. You need to fix your stance. Here…” Her hands are suddenly on Mary’s hips, moving them back so that her back is straighter, hands still near the top of the broom. “You want to make sure you’re not sitting straight – you probably won’t have the balance to sit up – and you’ll have more control if you lean into the broom, it’ll be more sensitive to your steering.” Her fingers are slim and long, spiderwebbing across the inches of bare skin on Mary’s lower back from her top riding up slightly. She doesn’t breathe, terrified to move lest Emmeline realize what she’s doing, how close they are—

“You’ll press down off the ground to give yourself momentum. I promise you won’t fall, okay? And if you do,” Emmeline’s breath is warm on Mary’s neck as she leans in to adjust Mary’s shoulders, “I’ll catch you. I’ve done it before.”

She is going to be sick. That complicated mass of swirling emotions in her chest, but all Mary says is “Promise?”

“Promise.” She can hear Emmeline’s grin. “Now, give it a try. I’ll come up and join you when I know you’re safe.”

And so she does, pushing off the ground and feeling the air lift the curls from her neck, feeling the breath punch out of her at the feeling, but that’s nothing compared to the feeling in her chest when she hears Emmeline laughing with glee from the ground: a simple, joyful sound that fills Mary’s heart to the brim despite herself. And when she glances back down, and sees Emmeline waving at her, it’s hard to admit it, but it makes her happy. It really does.

~*~

The fourth time Mary goes to her, they just spend hours in Emmeline’s living room; Emmeline laying on the couch and Mary laying on the ground.

“You would not believe the kind of music the boys listened to before we got our hands on them.” Mary exclaims, hands resting on her stomach, smiling fondly at the memory. “Like… some wizard pop shit. Sirius only knew pureblood classical music. The day Remus and Marlene introduced him to Bowie and T. Rex; I think his brain exploded.”

Emmeline laughs. “Merlin, yeah, I remember one of them turning on that stuff at a Gryffindor party once. They must have been really hammered.”

“One time, James thought he could fly because he’d drank so much Firewhisky that ‘his body felt like air’. Naturally, he decided to jump off the boys’ staircase to prove it.”

“Did anyone stop him?”

“Well, Marlene had already passed out on the couch and Peter was trying to find his camera to take pictures of him doing it, so it was basically mine and Remus’ jobs to wrestle him away.”

“Does he have any survival instincts? Like, at all?”

“Literally none.” Mary turns her head to widen her eyes at Emmeline in exaggeration. “I’m surprised he hasn’t broken a bone or anything. He doesn’t even get hungover.”

“Ugh, seriously?” Emmeline rolls her head back on the couch. “I can’t believe that. He’s so annoying.”

No, that’s not right. She should know, because James and Emmeline were friends in seventh year, weren’t they? She would have seen James drunk, because they were at parties together, and she would have seen him all chipper and cheery in the mornings while the rest of them groaned and poked at their eggs.

Carefully, Mary prods. “Don’t you remember the party after we won the Quidditch cup? James drank like twenty bottles and the next morning he was still right as rain.”

That strange, absent look again. The first time she’s seen it since she’s been here. Emmeline covers it up by waving a hand in the air, resuming her normal face. “Vaguely, though you forget that I was also drunk as hell, dear Mary.”

Mary blushes a teeny tiny little bit, but the burning she feels in her lungs is stronger. Seventh year, Emmeline doesn’t remember. All those little things, all the moments of blankness…

No. Emmeline is grieving, remember? And Mary was also drunk off her ass at that party, trying to drown her sorrows at the end of the bottle and trying not to look Emmeline’s way, because they’d already—

“I remember he drove Emma nuts.” Emmeline is smiling, but there’s something still tense to her face, as though she wants to move on from the thought as quickly as possible but needs to say it. “His gift with the nosedive feint? She couldn’t get the hang of that for years, no matter how good she was at flying or how hard she tried.”

And Mary, because she’s weak or avoidant or whatever you want to call it, takes the bait. “James used to say she would be one of the greats. Peter too, he knows stats and everything, they both agreed she’d be recruited straight out of Hogwarts.”

“Hm.” Emmeline hums, but it’s clear from the heaviness in the air that the shift didn’t work. Mary turns her head to look at her, at the way Emmeline gnaws on the bitten skin on her lower lip, lost in thought.

She doesn’t really know what to do. How do you comfort a girl you used to kiss, but now you’re just barely friends, and she’s grieving her brother, and her friend and Mary just so happens to be the root of her issues?

But slowly, Mary shifts across the carpet to sit next to the couch, leaning her head on the armrest, thinking. What would help her? In the moments where her mind detaches from her body, and the world goes strange and fuzzy and all she can think about is his hands on her wrists—

Wrists. The bracelets, their weight and texture so familiar to her now after years of wearing them. She selects the prettiest one – a gold one inlaid with pretty blue stones – and slides it off her wrist, offering it up to Emmeline in the air. “Here.”

Emmeline takes it without a word, eyes not moving from their spot on the ceiling. Her fingers fiddle with the bracelet absently, her touch gentle but thorough, moving across every inch and familiarizing it under the pads of her fingers. Mary just stays silent and watches, watches the strands of inky dark hair slip from behind Emmeline’s ear and fan out on the armrest, soft and tempting. Watches the curve of her cheekbone swoop and clench with Emmeline’s teeth. Watches the way her eyebrows furrow and smooth out repeatedly, tiny movements like she’s working hard to figure something out, her expression vulnerable without the smile that seems to accompany her face every time Mary does or says something. She seems almost more real like this, in a way, and Mary feels awful for thinking it, but it’s true. Emmeline: smart, funny, responsible Emmeline, but this is something different, rawer, stripped of any mask and left unprotected.

Mary’s only seen that expression once before, and it scared her.

It scares her now too, the vulnerability of it, but she can’t leave. No, not while Emmeline is away from herself like this. That would be a level of unkindness Mary cannot bring herself to entertain. Even though her body protests, she stays put. Even when her hands begin to tingle warningly, she stays put.

Somewhere, quiet and gentle, a small voice comes to her from a memory: It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Valkyrie.

And so, Mary stays, doesn’t move her eyes away from Emmeline’s face, and tries to let that sweet voice calm her down as well, as she knows it can.

But also, a little part of her just wants to see the light come back to Emmeline’s eyes and know that she’s okay. That exists too, amid the mess of feelings and guilt.

It takes a while, but eventually, her hands start to still on the bracelet, and Emmeline blinks once, twice, coming back to herself. When she turns her head and sees Mary staring, it’s as though her face goes through a multitude of emotions all at once: fear, sadness, frustration, exhaustion. “Oh,” is all she can say, eyebrows furrowed and eyes starting to water.

Mary doesn’t say “it’s okay,” because it isn’t. none of this is okay, and neither of them are okay. All of the apologies catch in her throat and choke her with the weight of them. I’m sorry your brother died. I’m sorry your friend died. I’m sorry I’m the one you wanted here with you. I’m sorry I couldn’t comfort you without having a panic attack. I’m sorry.

What she says instead of all that is, “Keep it,” gesturing lamely at the bracelet, because everything else that she’s tasting on her tongue shrivels up and dies when it touches the air. A flower curling up and turning to ash under the weight of the sun. not enough to help, not enough to love.

Emmeline curls the bracelet into her chest, just blinking at Mary like she wants to say something but can’t. two broken girls, scared and unsure. To reach out now could build a bridge, and Emmeline really, really wants Mary to extend her hand, but Mary doesn’t.

Mary can’t.

~*~

“Hold still, silly!”

Emmeline makes a face but laughs when Mary swats at her with her free hand. “Hey, no fair!”

“Do you even want me to do your makeup?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Then hold still.” Mary clamps her hand on Emmeline’s shoulder, skin on skin, and leans back in to apply blue glitter to Emmeline’s eyelids. “Seriously, if you move, I might stab you with the brush.”

“I like it when you’re so bossy.” Emmeline teases, a smile creeping across her lips even though Mary told her not to.

“God, you’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re sexy.”

Mary fixes her with a mock glare, even though Emmeline’s eyes are still closed. “We are not having sex before the party.”

“Oh, come on, why not?”

“Because we’re already going to be late by the time we get changed and I don’t need your two bodyguards up my ass because your hair is a little out of place and them giving me shit.”

“And who are my bodyguards, exactly?”

“James and Marlene, obviously.”

“Ugh, they won’t even know! They’ll probably think we were, I dunno, wrestling?”

Mary pulls back and stares at her.

“Girls can wrestle without it being sexual!” Emmeline protests!

“Emmy.” Mary says softly, but firmly. Emmeline’s mouth opens again, and then shuts, letting it hang in the air. Mary leans in to start on the other eye, and it’s quiet for a while.

Eventually, Emmeline opens her finished eye to squint at Mary. “Can I do your makeup?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I have never seen you be able to colour in the lines, Em.”

“Oh, that’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, darling.” Mary pulls back to admire her handiwork. “Hm, a little more. Close your eyes.” When Emmeline doesn’t, just staring at her with that soft smile on her face, Mary waves a hand over her eyes. “Close, close.”

“Do you do a lot of makeup on others?”

“Oh, I’ve been doing Marlene and Lily’s makeup since we were in third year. Marlene doesn’t know eyeliner from foundation. Disaster. Lily could name the products, at least, but her attempts at eyeshadow were a mess.” Lily’s eyelashes, so close, her breath on Mary’s lips as she leaned in—

“Wow. Where’d you learn all this stuff, anyway?”

Mary tilts her head to shake away the thought, sticking her tongue out a little to get the glitter just right. “A girl back home, a few years older than us, she used to show us younger girls how to apply it. I think she was using her mum’s makeup anyway; it looked really old. Like, crusty.”

“Ew.” Emmeline screws up her face briefly, relaxing when Mary smacks her shoulder lightly. “Man, older girls were so cool when we were little.”

“And now we are those older girls. Time is crazy.” Mary finishes, pulling back once more and nodding to herself. “Okay, that’s good.”

“What’s left to do?”

“Blusher.” Mary reaches for the peachy shade that she knows will suit Emmeline perfectly.

“Ooh, is this the one with the fluffy brush?”

Mary smiles to herself, quickly grabbing the brush and dusting it quickly across Emmeline’s nose, making her giggle and pull back. “That tickles!”

“You are ridiculously ticklish, actually.”

“Um, excuse me, I’m just… sensitive in some areas.”

“You can say that again. Those noises you made—”

“Shut up!” Emmeline tackles Mary, knocking both of them down onto Emmeline’s dorm bed. “Somebody could be listening!”

“Oh, I hope they are.” Mary teases, knowing full well she’s already quietly cast Muffliato around them, but just to get a rise out of her, says in a louder voice, “Emmeline moans when I touch her—”

“You are the worst, Mary Macdonald!” Emmeline grabs her pillow and whacks Mary with it over and over again as Mary alternates between snort laughs and trying to keep yelling. “What is your problem?”

“I have to finish your makeup!” Mary squeaks when the pillow hits her in the face, leaving a stain on the pillow. “Look what you’ve done!”

“I forgive you.” Emmeline sighs dramatically, flinging the pillow away onto another girl’s bed and sitting back down. “Blusher?”

“Blusher.” Mary applies it quickly. “Now, lips. I’ve got the perfect shade for you. Pucker up.”

Emmeline does, perhaps a little too exaggeratedly, but Mary rolls her eyes and carefully traces the curve of Emmeline’s lips with the burgundy shade, adjusting her head a little to get a better look.

“What’s the verdict, doctor?”

“Perfect.” Mary reaches for a tissue to hand to Emmeline. “Now, blot your lips on this so it doesn’t rub off.”

“Can I do this instead?” Emmeline leans in to kiss Mary in that easy, confident way she has, her tongue exploring Mary’s mouth and her hand sliding up to cradle Mary’s neck, and for a moment, Mary just closes her eyes and lives in it, lets herself kiss a beautiful girl—

Marisol?

For a moment, when they pull apart, Mary sees a flash of amber eyes, of brown skin, of sweetness and goodness. But no, that’s not right anymore. This is Emmeline, with her dark, narrow eyes and bright smile, glowing beautiful like the moonlight. Different time, different place.

There is a strange, conflicted feeling deep in the pit of Mary’s stomach, but she shoves it way, way down, enough so that she can smile and say, “Yes, that will work.”

Emmeline beams, and it’s like she’s lit up from within, divine in her own right, like Artemis, goddess of the hunt. Hestia taught her about that… but it’s apt. Emmeline is the girl right in front of her now, staring at her in the same way she stares at the stars: with wonderment and excitement and love.

That tugging feeling around Mary’s heart. She gathers up her things, trying to avoid eye contact while her mind surfs across the tide of emotions. “We should get ready quickly. They’re probably all pissed with us downstairs.”

“Fuck them.” Emmeline says, but she acquiesces, shimmying into the glittery strapless dress Mary loves so much, becoming even more dazzling before her eyes. Mary just stares at her, and she feels that giddiness that she did before, but complicated, not quite right anymore.

By the time they get into the Gryffindor common room, James is mockingly glaring daggers at them (Mary flips him off good-naturedly) and Peter cheers when he sees them, lifting his cup higher and sloshing alcohol over a group of fifth years. Emmeline is laughing and reaching to hug James, and Mary spots her among the crowd, like she’d been hoping, because even though Hestia doesn’t really do parties anymore, Mary wanted her to be here, needed her to be here, if only just to see her now, with Emmeline’s lipstick staining her own, to have Hestia know that she’s doing just fine, thanks.

And Hestia just watches her, a static point among the throng of dancing students, hair pulled back into two braids, looking like shit but still so, so beautiful. Beautiful and so, so sad.

That pit of fire in Mary’s stomach swallows up any emotion she could feel. Before she realizes it, she’s reaching for a bottle to salute towards Hestia, letting her gaze linger for no other reason but to make her point before turning back to Emmeline and inviting her to dance.

And yes, she has moonlight in her arms as they twirl and move and step on each other’s toes accidentally, but Mary has always felt the warmest in sunlight, personally. Except, right now, it’s hard to remember that the sun will rise again. Tonight, there exists only the moon, and the flower reaches for it anyway, in the absence of all else.

~*~

For some reason, Emmeline sends another letter a week later.

Normal, easy, casual. As though last time didn’t even happen.

Mary just stares at the piece of parchment until her eyes blur. What jolts her out of her stupor is the front door slamming shut, and Sirius storming in. He looks like a thunderstorm; all lightning in his gray eyes and tenseness in his face as he slams his motorbike keys down on the counter. He doesn’t even glance her way, just striding past into the bedroom, the door shutting noisily behind him.

That sort of thing is happening more and more these days, to the point where she can guess when—

Remus slips in through the front door, freezing when he meets Mary’s eyes. Slowly, he shuts it softly behind him, but his fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white. He looks terrible, in the same way he does every time he and Sirius fight, like it drains his lifeforce and leaves him bloodless and wilted. He’s like a corpse, a shell of a living, breathing human.

They sort of just stare at each other for a few moments. Remus tries for a wry smile, but it wavers and dies on his lips. “Guess we aren’t being so subtle.”

“Not really,” Mary says, quietly.

Remus sighs, looks straight ahead of him. There’s a strange look in his eyes, not the wolf, but something much darker. In a voice that’s barely a whisper, as though he’s someone else entirely, he murmurs, “Dad was right.”

“What was he right about?”

If he minds her asking, he doesn’t let on. Remus and Mary have grown – somewhat begrudgingly, admittedly – used to the other’s presence. “I’m not meant for,” he waves a hand in the air, eyes still fixed on a point ahead, “shit like this.”

She’s twisting the letter between her fingers, the ink bleeding onto her sweaty palms. “Me neither.”

“Well.” Remus gives her a grim half-smile. “I guess we’re both shit out of luck, aren’t we?”

~*~

Again, Emmeline answers the door like she always does. This time, she’s wearing a white tank top and a pretty sky-blue skirt. Mary’s bracelet is on her wrist, accompanying the healing scars that run across her forearm. She’s smiling, but it’s never quite in the same way she used to: without hesitation and without fear. This Emmeline is restrained, carefully constructed but the cracks in the façade are growing, and it feels like Mary is the only one who notices. Her lips are quavering in a weird sort of way, like she’s seconds away from bursting into tears.

“Hey.” Mary says first, and for a moment she expects Emmeline to crumble but she doesn’t. She just draws herself up taller and eyes Mary expectantly.

“Did you bring your swimsuit like I asked?”

Mary pulls down the collar of her shirt to reveal the bikini strap patterned with palm trees. Emmeline’s smile grows brighter. “Awesome. I’ve got a secret spot for us to explore. Do you trust me?”

Trust. Do you trust me, Marisol? Yes, you more than anyone else. That wasn’t enough. It didn’t solve anything. “Yes.”

Emmeline beams. “Good.” Without hesitating, she grabs Mary’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and whisks her away from the house.

~*~

The secret spot is a lake, far away from any houses or trace of humans, down the way from the valley into a thicket of trees. Great oaks providing shelter from the glaring sun above, bird calls bouncing from branch to branch, a hollow of pure, clean water surrounded by soft green grass. It feels like a dream, unreal in its serenity. Mary just stands there, staring at it all as Emmeline saunters past to drop her bag down on a sun-warmed patch near the water. When she glances back, the sunlight filtering through the leaves gives Emmeline’s face a gentle glow, her hair becoming almost blue like a divine being.

Mary has never considered herself religious, but encountering three ethereal angels in her life feels like a sign that she should be thanking God for his kindness. But how could she turn her head to the sky, when she is standing right before her, looking at Mary with those kind, intelligent eyes that carry such warmth every time they fall upon her face? How can she look away from the beauty of the moon when it reveals itself to her?

“Isn’t it beautiful here?” Emmeline whispers, radiant.

“Yes.” Mary responds, not looking anywhere but Emmeline’s eyes. “How did you even find this place?”

Emmeline shrugs and turns back to lay out a watermelon-coloured beach towel. “I loved exploring when I was a kid. We moved to this area when I was… eight, maybe? I’ve never shown anyone this hollow, though.” Her eyes twinkle as she glances back. “Saving it for a special person.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“Why couldn’t it be?” Mary comes to sit down on the towel next to Emmeline, who rests her chin on her knees pensively but doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, her face turned towards the water, she says softly, “I’m sorry about last time.”

“Don’t be.”

Emmeline nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe it. “Usually, I’m… better at that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Spacing out.” She waves a hand in the air. “Going all weird. I can usually hide it better. It’s just been…” She trails off, fingers playing with Mary’s bracelet, twisting it one way and the other so the light hits it at different angles. Then, abruptly, she blurts, “I really like you, Mary.”

“Oh.” The breath punches out of her lungs.

Emmeline smiles weakly at her hands. “I always have crushes on my friends. I love them so, so much. It makes my body and brain, and heart have a purpose, you know? It’s my job to take care of them. I don’t want them to worry about me. But, you make me feel good, in a different way. I mean, you’re the person I’ve seen the most over this last month or so. Even when I’ve felt like shit, or like I can’t get up, I do. I do so I can see you.”

“Your friends love you so much too, Emmeline.” Mary says gently. “I can see it. If they worry, it’s just because of how much they care about you.”

“I know.” Emmeline wipes her nose hastily. “It’s just… I’ve been lying to everyone lately. All the time, really. I pretend like I’m okay but…” She glances up at the sky, craning her head to stare at the sun. “I haven’t been okay in a long, long time.”

Mary stays quiet, her eyes darting up and down Emmeline’s face, the curve of her face and the freckle by her earlobe.

“And my friends, they know that I’m not okay, but they don’t really know how much I hurt, all the time. And I can’t tell them; I can’t burden them with that. It would break them, I know it. I just…” Emmeline turns and stares deep into Mary’s eyes, her pupils wide and dark. “I can’t hide it from you. I don’t understand why, but it’s like you can see right through me, and it freaks me out, but at the same time I haven’t felt as normal as I do with you in a long time. Like, I’m not some freak who spaces out and forgets things when I’m with you, I’m just…”

“Emmeline.” Mary completes. “Just Emmeline.”

“Right.” Emmeline’s gaze falters for a moment. Her fingers twist and knot together, complicated patterns over and over again. “I have really bad episodes – that’s what Benjy calls them – and I tend to lose track of time or details or things that happened, like my memory sucks and I sort of get stuck in thought loops that I can’t find my way out of, and it’s sort of like I’m not real sometimes. It’s been getting worse since—since Jude died, since Emma died, and I can’t really control it anymore. Not control but conceal. Hide. If people know how bad I’ve gotten—"

“Hey.” Mary puts her hand on Emmeline’s shoulder in a way that she hopes is comforting, and Emmeline immediately deflates into the touch, the muscles in her neck loosening visibly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

As soon as it slips from her mouth, she knows it’s true. Despite herself, despite all the distance she yearns to maintain between them, she just can’t. Mary is lonely, lonelier than she has ever been. Even this version of her, the broken, cruel, fractured self she calls Mary, is desperate for someone to hold close. It won’t end well – it never does – but even just for a short time, Mary wants to be loved.

And Emmeline is beautiful, and sweet, charming but not obtrusively so, a liar but Mary is too, intelligent almost to a fault, eye-catching in the same sort of way as when they were seventeen, when Mary saw her at the New Year’s party and she was there, dancing with—

Hestia is the ghost haunting her. Maybe she’ll always haunt her. But Lily is gone, locked in a home with her husband and unborn child, and Mary has been so alone since she was a little girl, making terrible decisions as to not sleep alone at night and maybe Mari would be kinder, would take Emmeline’s hands and explain that everything she suffers with was inflicted by Mary, a spell that backfired when she got too scared, would cut this off now because Emmeline deserves better, but Mary is a selfish piece of shit who wants to be held again. Maybe that sick desire for love is the problem, like the soft part of Mary’s heart deserves to be carved away with a scalpel so that she can stop hurting people with it. broken creatures who aren’t made for love should just stop chasing after it, a futile endeavour.

Emmeline’s so warm and soft, and fuck it, Mary likes her a whole lot, has liked her since seventh year, and that liking is complicated and knotted up in all the strings that make her up, but she just wants to stay close to Emmeline for a while, until her time is up and she has to go it alone again.

They’re just looking at each other now, for who knows how long, and that glossy look in Emmeline’s eyes has gone away, revealing something vulnerable and honest, something Mary hasn’t seen in years now, because time keeps passing but they’ve found each other here again, and the beating in Mary’s chest is growing louder and louder and that soft voice in her head whispering kiss, kiss, kiss, and it’s not Hestia’s voice, she’s quiet and she can feel it missing in her head but the beating of her heart is drowning out that sorrow at realizing she’s gone—

“Can I kiss you?” Emmeline whispers.

“Yes.” Mary whispers back.

It’s quick, and simple, and Emmeline tastes like peaches, a sweetness to her bitten lips that Mary remembers, and it thaws the cold, dead thing she calls her heart, if just a little bit. When they pull away, the H is forming on Mary’s lips when she remembers no, this is Emmeline, beautiful shining Emmeline, her eyes twinkling with newfound life, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she pulls off her tank top to reveal a blue and white striped bikini. “Care for a swim?”

I am going to forget everything but the taste of Emmeline’s lips, Mary decides right there and then. Nobody else exists but them in this moment. The small moment of relief that floods her brain justifies it. If she has to pretend to forget to be happy, then so be it.

“You’re on, Vance.”

The water is cool and refreshing, and Emmeline’s laugh is warm and raspy, and the sun warms Mary’s shoulders as they swim back and forth like little kids, with so few cares in the world. there is no war, no death, no abandonment, no loneliness. Here, they forget anything that isn’t just the two of them, letting themselves live in the pure and simple moment of two still-barely teenagers crushing on each other.

Simple, sweet, and not truthful in the least.

But isn’t it nice to pretend for a little while that that’s all they are?

Chapter Text

Late June 1980

The wolves are trailing her scent.

Keep moving. Drag your uncooperative limbs behind you as you limp, bloody and weak, away from the crevice in the earth where you spent the last several hours. Hold on tight to your mind, claw with your fingernails until you rip away the skin, tasting the iron that you know so well. Find them, and do not look back.

Like a mantra, a vulture circling overhead, ready to feast on her innards when she succumbs to the weight, allows the struggling maggots to crawl from the gashes in her flesh, block out her eyes so she can no longer see.

The buzzing has become too much to bear. Clutching at her ears, screaming like the rat Auntie dragged in and let bleed out on the kitchen counter. Blood like tar, pouring from the gaping holes in her chest and stomach, ragged and burning with infection. Staining the grass, the slow drainage of whatever made her valuable, except she was worth pennies in a home full of royals, and the air is so thick with regret that she drowns in breathing, trying to go home.

They aren’t so much voices as they are wasps, digging their stingers into her hands and poisoning her bit by bit. Overhead, they’re blotting out the sun, the way the light used to go out when Auntie’s fingers began creeping through the dark, a pair of spindly spiders entering the folds in her flesh and settling close to her breasts, whispering incomprehensibly but trying to soothe.

Please don’t scream, Olivia.

You don’t want to wake Papa, do you Olivia?

Do you love me, Olivia?

Vomiting shards of glass onto the road, the blood gushing like a fountain, like a clock going tick, tick, tick, the rule of threes but the earth is tipping on its axis, sand in an hourglass, shoving the mirror back down her throat to avoid self reflection.

Death, preferable? Promised or chosen, slaughter or salvation? Does the snake in the corner sing because it wants to or because it has to? The blood from the mother’s womb, does it lend any protection or is it cursed, cursed, cursed, suffocated by the weight of the world with no one to slit its throat, is that a happy life? Does anyone really want another or is it just putting one more person between you and the all-consuming darkness?

Isn’t it all polluted the moment it begins?

~*~

The boy is ripping her forearm to shreds with his serrated teeth.

No, tell it right this time.

The boy is reaching in to peel the mangled lips from her face.

No, you aren’t doing it right.

The boy is holding her mutilated heart over her head and laughing, a snake’s tongue poking from his mouth as the heart beats pathetically in his blood-stained hand.

No, you useless shit. She was right, you’re no good for anything. Disgusting waste of space, worthy of everything horrific coming to you.

The boy looks like an ink stain on a blank page. Start there. A swan dipped in oil, starlight woven into nightmares, needlepoint sharp and brittle like branches. When everything shines and glitters around her, he is flat, dull, unavoidably real.

She hates him.

The rope around her wrists chafes and binds, breaks and suffocates, raw chunks of flesh being worn away and melting into dead worms, pulpy and decaying. Infection bubbling and searing in her veins, trying to kick away from the hand that reaches but the body won’t respond, nor is it much of a body at all, but a festering mound of wasps and twitching spiders with pincers that skitter independently, grabbing hold of all that is soft and malleable to tear and devour—

He’s just sitting there, staring at her. Uncle used to stare at her like that, twitching eyelids and misplaced concentration, like a bug sizing up a smaller, dead bug on the ground. Death in the eyes, murder on the brain. Face hovering above hers in the bed, muttering and groaning clumsy words, chained together with a length of twine, a non-existent snake in the grass. Grass, green like the seal on the wall, green like sick, teeth knocked onto the floor and roots growing like fine oak into the floorboards, blood but rain, I’ve never seen rain, poison stripping to bone, bone teeth in your mouth that taste like Auntie’s lips, bits of dead skin swallowed and blooming in stomachs, you can never be rid of her. She lives inside you.

Salazar Slytherin, saviour and mortal, dead and haunted. Papa becomes a creature when he is mentioned, infantile and drooling, feeding chunks of red meat to the flames while they eat the entrails. Where does it come from? No light, no exhale, a hole in her thigh where the other markings go. Pure, pure, pure, pure from self and pure from guilt and pure from impure, redemption exists only in the past, no one is good that’s just a lie told to keep living without guilt. Guilt, leaking fluid into the spine, poison that feeds, venom that persists.

Spit, maim, crusted eyes shut, jawbone cracking with the effort of whispering, except curses aren’t so easily shed and remain for protection, safety in saying nothing, in being nothing, in being taken advantage of.

“Are you trying to speak?”

Boy drawls, flickering flame, burning like gasoline. A matchbox, bare feet, the brittle leaves out the window, choking on reality. Speak, dicare, vocare, loqui, latin says nothing without a voice, but nothing but bile rises on the tongue. Speak, spake, spoke. Verbum, verbi, tell nobody, not even Papa. It won’t change a thing, just dust on the wind, breath into lungs.

Red river, salt and terror spilling into the air, lingering like clouds, ghost and flower from the yard outside, plucked and tucked behind her ear from Auntie but Papa calls it a weed, intrusive, unwanted, weed like her, weed like little Olivia burrowed in the sheets, fanged wicked things nipping at her toes to draw salty impure blood.

Forked tongue between her lips, saliva pooling in the hollow bone of her collarbones, she tries to form a thought in her mind, but it comes out a strange, stilted hiss: No.

Marble statue, why do you hesitate? Dog on the scent, dog drowned in oil, mottled fur oozing pus from gaping wounds, bones showing but rotted through. “Say that again.” Demand, no choice, don’t wake Papa, don’t say no.

Willing her lips shut, trying to focus on the dark eye, purple circles, bruised and unhappy. Say nothing, say nothing.

A poor imitation echoing back to her, hissing that is barely recognizable to her ear, Uncle’s muttered and slurred speech even still more discernable. Boy, trying to position his lips and tongue to say it, but he is ungifted. Impure. Broken boy, trying to speak words in a voice that is not his.

The burning in her side grows deeper, Auntie holding her head under the sink and screaming, hurts hurts hurts, and something slips from her lips, a groan from deep in the depths of her body, and boy just watches her cruelly, pensive spider observing twitching bug, threshold between alive and dead growing thinner and thinner, little girls pleading for help that won’t ever come.

Then, throbbing pain, blinding, Papa said the world seemed so foggy and it does, arching her back up to scream, throaty and breathless. Boy, fingers-stained crimson, impure blood, fuck shit she is drowning on land, trying to scoop her life’s essence back in with trembling hands but it won’t work, yelping like a dead animal, infection reaching the bone and rotting away at her limbs.

“Fascinating.” Hand on her shoulder, ice cold, she is thrashing and trying to rid herself of the pain but cannot escape it, cannot escape the blood, Papa help me, and the barriers in her mind are still there but growing weak, fluid leaking from her ears and the cracks in the glass, trying to remain upright but unable to stay conscious long enough to hiss again, though what emerges is as clear to her as the murkiest pool of blood.

~*~

Collapsed in a bathtub, fingertips burning as life returns, the boy is rifling through a cabinet. Pills rattling, clattering to the floor like salt falling from the sky. Trying to crawl up and away, limbs floaty and detached, watching his dark eyes come closer, trying not to shatter from the merest breath.

“Open.”

Olivia, stay still. You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?

“Open.” Snarling, cruel, might as well be hissing like Uncle, backing away against the moulding porcelain and sobbing, trying not to open her lips but breath escaping in terrible gasps, feeling it slip onto her tongue and gagging, trying to revoke the impurity but a hand over her hand forces it down, pill after pill, a bubbling concoction that rips at her throat and sends her into hysterical screams, slowly feeling the sensation bleeding from her head, draining her and loosing control.

Grabbing at his chest, digging ragged claws into his skin, trying to break through the walls he keeps up. Oh, clever boy, knows how to protect his secrets, but the acid has leaked into her bloodstream and burns her lungs, pushing her to keep smashing, smashing, smashing—

The woman on the armchair. Stuffing spilling from the armrest, dark hair dangling from a tilted and unmoving head. From this angle, there’s no telling if she’s alive or dead. Through his eyes, though… he loves her, as much as he can anyone, the limp figure draped across the chair as though she is just resting her eyes, as though she will awaken and come to his aid—

“No.” wrestling with her, Auntie shoving her underwater, he’s trying to get at her defenses too but the walls aren’t iron like his, hers are coiled snakes that hiss and strike at his face, drawing red hot blood as he staggers, trying to keep hold of her instability but they are on her turf now, deep inside her head, where the air is toxic and nobody survives. Nobody survives inside her. Not Little Olivia, not Uncle, not Auntie, not Toby—

The girl with the red hair, happy girl, smile like the sun. it is blinding in his memory, heart pounding in his chest, trying to get closer but unable to reach a celestial body like her. She is him, trying to follow, but there is something in his head, a rhythm, love love love? No, there aren’t such words to bring sweetness to the surface, the memory is much too cold for a boy like him to stand tall, and it cannot be pure, not with the darkness lingering around the edges, not yet fully formed but shaping, that monster of rage and disgust and hatred, hatred for himself and all others, the envy for her, girl made of sunlight, wanting what she has but more importantly wanting her most of all.

That sound again, the droning, the emptiness calling but not responding, he is yanking her back but she is stronger, strength is irrelevant, the pills are working but in what way, trying to reorder her head and tear down her walls, trying to scrub the blood but you can’t remove what was never there, you can’t erase the murder when it is already in your palms, you cannot change the past but instead it becomes the future, over and over, split knuckles and lily flowers, get up you foolish boy, don’t be such a pansy, Olivia don’t wake Papa, don’t let him hear—

Heir of Slytherin, heed my call, and it all becomes nothingness.

~*~

“We are the true heirs of Slytherin.” The wooden rocking chair creaking with his slow movements, the wood replaced with mottled yellow bone but if she trains her eyes hard enough on it, the wood begins to peek through again. Not real, not real, not real. Perhaps too young to know the difference. “We are the only descendants from his eldest son, that is why we are the purest. Our blood is valuable, my dear.” Unseeing eyes, warm comfort, knowing he cannot tell the proof of her heritage but knowing it anyway. Easier to pretend with him that she is part of the ‘us’, that her ability to wear the crown is still intact, that her collarbones will not cave into the earth from the weight of the power.

“Why?” That voice of hers, lost to time. Its cadence, the sound of her vowels on her tongue, dissolved like dust in an hourglass, a little girl tucked against the knobs of her ribcage never to see the light of day again. “Where are the others?”

“Gone.” Gaunt, haunted, dead. “We are the only ones who matter. The rest are tainted or dead in the mud.”

“Is that why they want to hurt us?”

“I believe so. They know we are superior. They have always known, deep in their bones. The daughter’s blood is not enough to purify the children, in the end.” Sighing, in that way he does, when he grows weary and wishes to
stop. “Olivia, go wake your uncle for nightly watch.”

Trembling in her thin nightgown, the hole growing at the shoulder from where it drapes, “But I don’t—”

“Olivia, go.”

~*~

The sole daughter of Slytherin, does she know she has condemned her bloodline, burdened them with the greatest cruelty of all? Oh, nameless one, when the forgotten daughters kneel by their bed and move their lips in a semblance of words to wherever you may lie, do you understand the curse you hath wrought upon the world? your loins brought forth an army, ready to slaughter the worthy in favour of the dishonorable. When women call upon you, do you answer in shame? Do you regret ever having entered this world with breath and hope?

She, too, understands what that is like. The nameless daughter of Slytherin and the unwanted Gaunt, tainted children, never truly worthy of the honour they wish to bear. Purity, for them, is an unreachable goal. They must die trying to achieve it.

~*~

“Muggles say the first sin was committed by a woman.”

Dark eyes, snake eyes, falling backwards, the rush in the stomach, stomach, stomach oh it hurts but not like fire, like purple, bruising in the shape of Auntie’s fist, leaving a permanent mark as to never be forgotten.

The fog is clearing, pain in the wrists is good, clarifying, trying to blink or move her face, the walls are clean but the boy is dirty, he is the filth in the home, good, simpler that way to dispose of a child than the wallpaper, except he isn’t a child, he’s a man, like Papa was a man.

“Her name was Eve.”

The woman in the chair, like the body in the corner, voices leaking from her bloody ear, the snake coiled around her sternum.

“But I think they’re wrong.”

Trying to flex her fingers, trying to feel the carpet beneath her knees, trying to see beyond the sheen of everything around her, the glow makes it real, but he is like her in this sick demented world, little viper with no fangs, son of our ancestor, infected to the bone, all this is clear.

“I think it’s God’s fault.”

Leaning in, nose to nose, face feverish and sweaty, and she can’t quite tell where he ends and she begins. He’s pressing into her mind again, like him, and she can feel her grip on the carpet waning, the world tilting with his thumbprints on her eyes, trying to close her so he may gain access, trying to find the one part of her he can speak too—

“Do you think you’re better than me?” His voice echoes around her head, in the murky pool of hatred that runs in her bloodstream, what keeps her contained and free.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Here, only here, she speaks, except it isn’t her. She’s trying to spin around, to find the voice that resonates in whatever can be called her bones in this place, except there’s no direction in darkness, only nothingness, only nothing where this version of her should be. “I don’t even know who you are.” Oh, hear how clearly she speaks, like language is accessible to her again, not the broken syllables of Latin she forces together on her tongue only to wither like it was always meant to, somewhere this version of herself is the barrier, she is the walls, keeping him out while this one cowers in the dark like a fearful child.

“Ah, I figured you could respond to me here.” Drawling, fluid, the scratch of ink on the shoulder blades, deep enough to unfold the paper selves crammed against her spine. “Parselmouths are a rare breed, you know. Even you, warped and distorted, you’re useful to him somehow, which makes you useful to me.”

“So, you know who I am. What good does that bring you?” oh, you speak so confidently, no twinge of fear or self-loathing. Is that true? She never sounded like that, not in the twisted memories that fall like birds from the sky, plummeting. Liar, liar, liar, he is making her like this, the wicked boy with the sharp teeth, does she understand she is giving up the game?

“He’s looking for you. Probably to kill you, we’ll all end up that way anyway. You’re nothing but a pawn in this situation, but handy regardless.”

“And you think you can keep me weak and compliant to hand me off to him. For what? What do you get from this?”

“You know, you’re much easier to speak to here than that thing outside.” Thing, non-human, impure, other other other, unreal figment, illusion of choice, selfhood does not exist.

“She takes the brunt of it so I can survive, but I’m the only reason the worms haven’t crawled into her eyesockets by now. The only survival instinct she has.” Survival? No, this is murder, desecration of the corpse, digging fingernails into her ribcage to draw out this lie, the voice that sounds like Auntie, and it is foreign to her senses but so utterly familiar.

“The infection makes you weak enough to be seen clearly.” Circling like a vulture, sizing up the meaty part of her body to sink its talons into. “That’s the fascinating thing, how the brink of death makes you much sharper in the light.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it gives your ego a trip that I’m finally worthy of being presented to your master.” Oh, Salazar Slytherin, is she the heir you dreamt of? Pure of blood and of mind, more like Papa or Auntie in appearance than her traitor mother and mystery of a father. She has never bled to prove she is worthy; anyone can tell from the way her shoulders tilt that she is made for such an honour. She is what this thing, this nameless creature, could never be. “How’s this for an offer, then: you get what you want for bringing me to him. But you drag me out of this hellhole, patch me up a little. I can feel the infection clouding shit up in here already. A little quid pro quo, right? I want what you’re providing me and I’m giving you what you want.”

Slicing, a knife skidding down the knobs of her spine, rain collecting speed on a window. “You understand he wants to kill you.”

“Not like this life is exactly worth living. It doesn’t matter. I have what he wants.”

Papa. She wants Papa, she wants Toby, feels their absence among her voices so acutely, trying to recreate their presence in her mind to live with her forever, join in this cursed existence. Papa, friend, guide, grandfather, enemy, traitor, fugitive, protector, enabler, bystander, tangled like roots in her sternum, hers hers hers, more his than any of his children, because he hated them all in his own way and he could have hated her too, but he loved her, loved her despite being impure and clearly wrong and yet he loved her, for no other reason than that she was her, right?

Toby, best of them, little boy, she has to get to him, has to kill him before they do, because he’ll recognize her voice, he’ll toddle to her with that big gummy smile, and she can work up the courage to do everything she meant to do back then, pure in the truest sense of the world, not yet bloodied from the house, not yet broken beyond repair.

“Why can’t you get out yourself?”

A grin, like a friend enemy, and she can feel that grin start to spread on her own face, infection as the blood begins to seep from her ears, breeched breeched breeched. “She doesn’t like it when I come out to play.” Rust stained baseball bat, glinting in the candlelight, spinning around and around as though considering where to strike. The vulnerable parts first, it must be decided. “She’s no use to you like this, though. She’s never been anything else. Damaged.”

Bruising like an explosion, setting off a fire in the bottom fireplace, dancing as the wood ignites and roars, inhaling oxygen and exhaling smoke, ticking time bomb in her chest, the high pitched whistling growing stronger.

“I’m useful for him and for you. It’ll be much better for us both. Let me out.”

She wants to crawl back, knees shaking against the floor, back to Papa and Auntie and the old house she used to hate because it did little but bleed, little to protect her from the horrors and yet it was home, the bed was hers, and Auntie’s hands were cold on her bare skin but at least she cared, at least there was love there, but everything now just inverts her insides and leaves her raw to be picked at, a crow with a tooth in its beak. She wants to stroke Toby’s dark hair from his forehead again, for Papa to tell her a joke in clumsy Latin so nobody else could understand. She wants to go home, because she was rotten and impure there but at least she knew, at least there could be some joy in her sorrow, fireflies in the night sky. Here, in the outside world, there is nothing or no one to make her smile again. Not with this woman taking control, as she knows she will, reaching for the strings and trampling her beneath it. her, all her, but not, an army of whatever Olivia Gleaves was meant to be, fractured into pieces and wielded like weapons, except they’re barely butter knives on their own. Only capable of drawing blood inside the body, until all that's left is torn sinew and broken bone

“Let me out,” the voice is saying, and she presses her hands to her ears but a body isn’t so corporeal here, and instead she’s sinking into blades of grass, a sweetness on her tongue as she makes eye contact with the sun for just a second, released from the prison. A memory that isn’t hers, because she never left those four walls. She isn’t herself anymore.

She has never really been herself, has she?

~*~

He’s watching me as I come back to life. Oh, it has been so long. I don’t recognize these limbs under my control, scarred and bitten like a feral animal. I am weak, the body – my body – aches, burns, incinerates.

I try to find something that is mine. Not the ragged nails, ripped to shreds and filthy, not the tits, those are a new development since my time, but the circular scar on my kneecap, from when I planned to break out of the home and sliced my leg on the glass. That was before he installed the new windows, I suppose. Time runs differently in there than it does out here.

Her stench is everywhere on this body. Keeping me out, keeping me away, poor little girl, ready to die for the cause, for the simple reason of being born, haunted by corpses I don’t see.

Were there corpses at all?

The two of them, conspiring to keep me out, to keep me away. He knew I wouldn’t comply if I had a choice, not like her, the Nameless One. The outlier among us all.

I’m not her. I hate her, in my own way. But I know how to protect her, in a way she never could.

He’s just staring, dark eyes pools of black, and I can tell he wants to kill me, or at least try to, to show me he could if he really wanted. He wants me to believe he’s powerful, that he can hurt me. he wants to believe he is brilliant, clever Son of Slytherin, and he won the battle because I don’t know how to fight.

He doesn’t understand I’ve been fighting for all of us all this time.

“Take me to Lord Voldemort.”

Chapter Text

July 1980

For most of the year, the little cottage Minerva McGonagall calls home in Upper Hogsfield remains empty.

Truth be told, she tries not to spend much time there anyway. It was a gift from Alphard, this house, back when they were young and generous. Perhaps an apology present, after the wedding? Alphard Black never could really apologize for anything, though. It wasn’t in his nature, nor in the way he was raised. All of them, those Black children, broken down into clay figures to play a game. Alphard never really broke the mold, in the end. He was simply dropped behind the couch and forgotten about.

No, the cottage echoes in the absence of anyone else. That’s partly why she doesn’t like being here. At least at Hogwarts, she knows somebody else is down the hall, in the other room. Even if it’s somebody she dislikes, there’s still solace in their presence. Here, she is alone.

Elphinstone proposed to her again. The big elephant in the room that she tries to ignore. When they met back up at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop last month (an inside joke between the two of them, given just how many times he’d tried to propose to her there), they’d just sort of sat in silence for a while. Truth be told, she’d wanted to see him, to brave this place with him: she hadn’t stepped foot in Hogsmeade since… well, since March.

Minerva just wanted somebody there who didn’t have that grief weighing on their shoulders. Albus, Alastor, Poppy, the thread of mourning that tied them together was too much. Elphinstone was dependable, gentle, perceptive enough to take her lead on things but persistent enough to keep trying to break through her walls.

He loves her, she knows. In a way, she loves him too. He’s the only person in her inner circle these days who didn’t know her as a teenager, when she was especially a fuck-up. He’s much older than her, certainly, but he’s never treated her as such. He’s a good man.

When he asked, she didn’t even really need to respond. He knew what she was going to say. “Is it Dougal?” Dougal, Dougal, the boy she loved when she was eighteen, whom she said yes to back home because he was kind and smart, and because she was desperate to run far away from Poppy and Alphard, to avoid that reality that kept creeping its way into her mind at every turn. Dougal, a good distraction. Maybe she loved him too, but not in the way he deserved. That tends to be a pattern with her.

“Yes, it’s Dougal,” she’d said, but really it wasn’t. she could have saved him; she knows deep in the pit of her stomach. Had she made a different choice, he would still be alive today. But, every time she says Dougal, it becomes code for another word, a name that sits on Minerva’s tongue but cannot be spoken aloud.

In the garden of the cottage she hates, Minerva plants one type of flower more than any other: poppies.

Maybe it’s her anger at them both; bringing the two of them together again. Maybe it’s a reminder as to why she doesn’t like to come back here. Maybe it’s that frustration at the universe, for wrenching them apart every time they get close enough to liking each other again.

Remus Lupin. Olivia Gleaves. Jude Vance. Children that they couldn’t protect, that’s what hangs between her and Poppy these days. It hurts too much to stay close beyond the initial shock of grief. They’re both too damaged to really see one another in that soft way anymore, clearly. The smallest thing can shatter them, cleave them apart.

On days like these, she sits and she aches. Maria-Gabrielle has never come home. Minerva has lost all of her friends to weddings and hidden loves. Everything around her is covered in the stain of death. She is tired.

It doesn’t get better.

~*~

Minerva is sitting awake in bed when the thwump in the hallway reaches her ears. That’s pretty normal; her sleep schedule gets all fucked up during the summer, when there’s no external routine to tell her when to wake up and when to sleep. For a brief second, she thinks she may have imagined the sound. But then, she remembers the time she’s living in.

By then, though, she’s springing out of bed, grabbing her housecoat from where it lays crumpled on the floor, keeping her wand close to her chest as she pulls open the door and ventures out—

“Bobby?” Minerva squints through the darkness.

Robert, her nephew, standing in the hallway. She can tell by the figure’s height, the slumped shoulders and long, lanky limbs. Both her brothers were like that too, suddenly too long for their own good seemingly overnight. Minerva was the tall one when they were little, still is decently tall, but Bobby and Malcolm towered over her by the time they were fourteen and they never let her live it down.

“Auntie…” Bobby says, and his voice sounds disconnected from his body. Minerva rushes to flick on the ceiling light, flooding the hallway with a warm, buttery glow.

Bobby’s just standing there, hands at his sides like he’s frozen in place. He’s wearing one of his dad’s worn Beatles shirts, that hangs loosely off of one shoulder, and blue plaid shorts. He’s breathing heavily, eyes wide, dark hair messy and sticking up on one side.

Minerva takes a tentative step forward, holding her wand aloft. “What did I get you for Christmas when you were eleven?”

“A toy train set that moved on its own.” His voice sounds so hollow, devoid of emotion or soul. Without a second thought, Minerva rushes over to him, reaching to touch his jaw even though he tenses slightly under her touch, scanning his face for wounds.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“He said he’d follow right behind me.” Bobby says, his chest rising and falling quickly, shaking his head slightly.

A cold feeling spreads through her bones. “Your dad?”

Bobby nods.

“Fuck.” Minerva’s breath punches out of her. “At your home?”

“Yeah.” Bobby’s hand is shaking, she realizes, and without thinking, she folds his hand into her own, trying to steady him. “We heard them downstairs, he told me to go to you and he’d follow…”

Minerva’s already rushing to grab her shoes. Turning back halfway out the door, she points at Bobby. “Stay here. I’ll ward the house. Go upstairs.”

“No.” Bobby draws himself up, but he still looks like a little boy, wide-eyed and trembling. He’s only seventeen, that’s the thought that lingers in Minerva’s head as she looks at him. “I’m staying with you.”

How is she going to tell him no? she knows what this means, deep in her body. Robert works at the Ministry, in the Office of Misinformation. Hadn’t he told her, just a few months ago, that there had been threats made against his office? The Death Eaters didn’t want coverups, they wanted all Muggles to die. Robert was just concealing all their efforts.

Fuck, Bobby. Her Bobby, they called him that to differentiate him from Dad, but now his grandson bears that same name. Robert, her brother, with his gap-toothed smile and low, commanding voice, Robert, who wouldn’t hurt a soul, Robert, who knew this had to be coming.

There is no doubt in her mind what has happened. They wouldn’t come to his house and leave him alive, not someone as inconsequential as Robert. As long as they stand here, he is both alive and dead. Schrodinger’s cat, except the cat is her baby brother.

Bobby is standing there now, and there’s no question in his gaze. She wants to shield him from what he might see, but she cannot leave him here alone, not like this, not if there’s any chance they’ll come for him next, once they figure out there’s a loose end to tie.

So, she holds out her arm for him to grab. “Come, quickly.” Feeling his cold hands snake around her skin, she can’t remember the last time he came to her so willingly, so trustingly. Oh, he must have only been a boy, before he realized Auntie Minerva was not so dependable for love. Maybe she wishes it could have happened sooner, that he never was attached to her to begin with, so the loss wouldn’t hurt as much, but she means that only because it would be easier for her to deal with, not for him.

In a wave of dizziness, Robert’s townhouse materializes into view. The front door has been thrown open, as has the front gate. She pulls Bobby into place behind her, because he seems almost incapable of moving. “Stay behind me.” She murmurs and scans his hands. “Your wand?”

“I didn’t have time.” Bobby responds mechanically.

Minerva sighs to herself, gives him a quick look to make sure he’ll follow, and then slowly makes her way into the house.

The place is a wreck. Furniture overturned, dishes shattered carelessly on the floor. It almost looks as though they were looking for something, some sort of order to the mess before them.

“The cat’s gone.” Bobby mutters behind her, empty.

Minerva keeps her wand steady, treading lightly on the shards of glass from the shattered back windows. “You were upstairs?” She whispers to Bobby, who nods.

Fuck. She does not want to go upstairs. But that does not, cannot matter. Her nephew at her back, she approaches the staircase, taking one step at a time.

That’s when she sees the hand.

“Dad!” Bobby bursts past her, sprinting up the stairs, and Minerva breaks into a run to chase him, trying to yank him back so he doesn’t see—

Robert, laying dead on the stairs, just around the corner. His hand, outstretched, fingers poking out, as though calling for help. His eyes, those McGonagall eyes that they all share, fixed on a point ahead, unseeing. A trickle of blood has barely dried on his upper lip.

“Dad!” Bobby screams, trying to grab at his father, shaking his shoulders, screaming in his face as though it will bring him back, “Dad!” All of the emotion in his voice, like a little boy, welling up in his body, torso wracked with sobs, something primal and desperate in his pleas. “Dad, come on!”

Minerva is trying to pull him away and Bobby is kicking and clawing, still just screaming at his father and trying to hold on to him, and it feels like her heart is shattering over and over again, trying to avoid looking at her baby brother and failing. All she needs to focus on is getting Bobby away, but he’s strong and devastated, and at some point her own tears become too overwhelming to keep pulling him, so she lets go of her grip, watches through the welling of her eyes as he crawls back to his father, curling into his side like a little boy, and Minerva’s incapable of doing anything but collapsing back and staring.

~*~

Bobby insisted on going to St. Mungo’s with his father’s body. He wouldn’t let go of his arm, so the Auror in charge apparated them all over together. Truth be told, though, there was no saving Robert McGonagall Jr. He was already gone by the time they’d arrived. They just needed to get him there to figure out how to manage the body.

Minerva is sitting in the waiting room, in a corner beside a lush green plant, with big floppy leaves that brush her hands, folded neatly in her lap. She’s staring at the door, but not really processing anything besides the feeling of her robe on her palms, the ache in her temples. Time doesn’t seem to pass here, under the fluorescent lights, watching an orderly pass by here and there, barely flashing her a look. All that exists is Minerva, alone in this part of the waiting room, in a stasis where all she feels is a numbness, an inability to think clearly.

“Minerva.” Albus is there, suddenly, when he wasn’t before. She tries to blink the glaze from her eyes, but it only partially works. He’s standing there, dressed normally, and for a moment she wonders if it’s already daytime, if she has spent hours here.

Albus sits down diagonally from her, leaning in and offering his hands, which she takes gratefully. His blue eyes are sorrowful. He doesn’t offer her any platitudes, any bullshit sentiments. He knows she’ll have none of that. Instead, in a low, gentle voice, he says, “They had to knock Robert out to calm him down,” – it takes Minerva a moment to realize that now Bobby is the only Robert left, no longer do they need nicknames to distinguish between them – “he should be up in a few hours.”

“What was it?” The thought comes out unfinished, incomplete. Her words feel jumbled in her brain, out of order and confused. When Albus’ eyebrows furrow slightly, she manages out, “Killed him.”

He licks his lips, eyes darting away. It hurts him, she can see it, hurts him to tell her, but she’s glad it’s him, even if that feeling feels dull and so far away right now. “The Killing Curse.”

She has to look away, the emotion welling up inside her overwhelming but unidentifiable, just simply a rush of bile in her throat and pain in her chest. “Right,” is all she can say, trying to smooth out her robe, trying to force the tears back down.

“The Healers are asking if he has somewhere to go, any other guardians.” Albus is watching her carefully. “His mother, perhaps?”

“No.” Minerva shakes her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “No, it has to be me. She’s not in the picture. And Malcolm can’t take him. Tell them it’s me.”

Albus absorbs this, mulling it over. “It’ll only be for a year or so, your guardianship, until he’s of age. I can make an emergency appeal to the Registry, get the paperwork cleared quickly so you can handle the affairs on his behalf.” When she doesn’t say anything, just staring at her hands, he adds, softly. “I’m so sorry, Minerva.”

She sits up straighter, wipes her running nose on her sleeve. “He knew this was coming, he told me as much. Are other ministry officials being targeted?”

Albus is careful when he says, “There is a pattern forming,” shooting a cursory look around the room. Yes, he means. Yes, they absolutely are.

Minerva goes back to looking at her palms, tears welling up again. “I can’t help him, Albus.”

“If necessary, we can find other arrangements—”

“No. I have to take him.” Minerva squeezes her eyes shut tightly. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Albus is quiet. Minerva looks up at him. “I mean, I barely saw him when he was a kid. I didn’t really see any of them, not that they’d really remember. They don’t know me, Albus. I’m just their professor.” She tries to smile, but it wavers on her lips. “I can’t do anything for them, not in the way they need me to.”

She doesn’t need Albus to say anything. They just sit there together for a while, kept company by misery, until Albus has to go and Minerva is alone again, waiting for the orderly to tell her Bobby is ready to go home, back to the cottage she hates, with the nephew she doesn’t really know, and missing a brother.

~*~

When they go back together, the sun already overhead, neither of them speak. Bobby looks haunted, lips locked tightly together, his body stiff as he follows her in. He hasn’t spoken a word since he woke up, just laying there on the bed motionless when she came into his room. He has nothing to say, and she can’t for the life of her find any words.

None of his things are here. There’s no extra room, no extra bed for him. Suddenly, the house feels too small for them both, too small for the grief they’re being crushed under.

As soon as they get inside, Bobby takes off for the bathroom, the lock clicking behind him. Minerva just stands there, despondent, staring at the couch where her nephew will be sleeping until September, when they both go back to Hogwarts.

Her head aches terribly. She should call Malcolm, write him a letter, but that makes it even more real. He’s already lost his daughter, and now his brother as well? What could she even say to him about any of that?

No, the one person she wants is probably the person she shouldn’t see, but that doesn’t stop her from drafting a letter in shorthand, the way they used to so long ago, and just as she’s tying the scroll to the gray owl, there’s a knock at the door and her whole body tenses. In the bathroom, the running sink turns off immediately. Wand in hand, Minerva slowly ventures over and peeks out the window.

It’s her. It’s Poppy, standing there in a simple blue dress, holding a pot. There’s a rush in Minerva’s chest, as she opens the door. They don’t need to say anything. Minerva steps back to let Poppy in, bolting the door behind her, watching as Poppy bustles around the tiny kitchen to grab bowls and spoons for them, and Minerva knocks twice on the bathroom door for Bobby to know it’s safe. They eat spoonful after spoonful of stew together at the table, the three of them, Bobby’s eyes distant but still he’s eating, and Poppy makes sure to rest her hand near Minerva’s as though to say, “you didn’t need to call, I’m here.”

And she’s here.

~*~

Neville Longbottom emerges quiet on the evening of July 30th, perhaps too quiet. It is Hestia who manages to bring him back to life, the little boy tinged with blue, and when he finally cries out into the night, it is the most beautiful sound Alice has ever heard in her life.

Now, he’s nestled in the crook of her arm, Frank slowly and very gently tracing patterns on his forehead while Hestia cleans up around them. It happened too soon for them to get to St. Mungo’s, as was the plan. It was all she could do, gritting her teeth around the pain, to scream at Frank to call the one person she could think of to help.

They decided not to give him a middle name, Neville. It was a strong enough name on its own, Neville Longbottom. Frank joked he didn’t want to burden their son with any names from his family, certainly.

Their son. It’s as though her brain has not quite caught up to that fact yet: she is a mother. Little Buddy is here, on the outside now, breathing the same air as she does. She cannot protect him with her own body, he is susceptible to all that she is and more, the sweet, beautiful boy.

“He looks like you.” Frank murmurs, close to her face, his hair brushing her cheek as he leans in closer to their son in her arms.

“He does not.” She chides, but lightly, too overwhelmed with hormones and love to have even the slightest edge in her voice, not like before, during the birth, when it felt like her lower half had split in two and the only power she had was to scream in pain and curse the gentle man who had caused all of this. “He’s too little to look like anything yet.”

“No, I’m certain I can see you right here.” Frank hovers his fingertip over Neville’s nose. “And here.” Pointing to his ears. “And here.” Smoothing his hand, feather light, across Neville’s head, making the boy stir slightly and Frank’s face splits into a beautiful, pure smile.

Alice just lets her gaze settle on her husband, the softness in his eyes as he stares at their son, and she loves him so, so much. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, love.” Frank reaches up to press a gentle kiss to her temple. “You gave us our boy. You did that, Alice. I can never thank you enough.”

Alice reaches a hand to gently brush away a loose strand of hair from Frank’s eyes. “We are going to be good at this.” It’s not a question, but her voice wavers anyway.

Frank doesn’t waver though, not even a little bit. “We will be great at it. he will be the most loved kid in the world.”

And Alice believes him.

~*~

Of course, it isn’t quite so picturesque for Lily Evans Potter.

They can hear her screaming through the two-way mirror, even through the apartment bedroom’s door, behind which Sirius paces back and forth and mutters to James so quietly none of them pressing their ears against the door can hear.

The two-way mirror. Mary sort of hates him for hiding it all this time, only getting caught by her and Marlene talking to James through it a week ago. A gateway to the forbidden world, and he hid it from them. He didn’t even seem guilty, either, somehow almost frustrated that they knew now, that he couldn’t have this piece of James all to himself.

They’ve all become less whole of a person in James and Lily’s absence, but sometimes Mary thinks that Sirius has lost a whole half of himself, cleaved apart from his real brother. It’s then that she feels less angry about the mirror thing but today is not one of those days.

Instead, she’s seething quietly on the couch, arms folded, while Marlene takes her turn listening at the door, trying to pick out mere words from James and Sirius’ hushed conversation, all while Lily screams and curses in the background. Pete is flicking a lighter (Remus’ or Sirius’, someone’s in the apartment) on and off repeatedly, staring into nothingness; a sign that he is working very hard to eavesdrop as well. Even Remus, the most gossip-averse of them all, has begun pacing, wearing into the already scuffed and sagging floorboards, head tilted in the direction of the door. Mary wonders absently if he’s pacing because Sirius is pacing, if their steps are falling into sync, if they’re that in tune with each other that even in different rooms, they’re mirroring one another.

“I don’t get it.” Marlene huffs exasperatingly, hopping off the chair she was standing on ‘for better leverage’ and turning to face them all. “Why does he get to be the only one involved? If Lily’s in labour, why does he have any right to hide anything from us?”

“It is technically his job.” Peter says quietly, his eyes not shifting from the flickering flame appearing and disappearing in his hands. When he notices the other three staring at him, he gives a small shrug and caps the lighter. “It is true, though. None of us get a say in their lives anymore, not when they’re in hiding.”

Mary narrows her eyes at him. He’s been acting weird all day, uncharacteristically quiet, though not unhappy, just blank. She wonders if he and Sybill are having trouble; it’s been a while since they’ve seen her around, though admittedly Mary hasn’t actually been paying much attention.

“I think the power’s gone to his head.” Marlene grouses, flopping over onto the couch, her head banging against Mary’s thigh unceremoniously. “Acting like he’s the only one who cares about them, like he’s the only one who can get information, like he can read our letters and boss us around like some sort of fucking dictator—”

“Jesus, Marlene, leave off it!” Remus snaps, and Marlene sits up immediately, her jaw hanging open for a few seconds, just blinking at him. There’s that glow in his eyes again, but this isn’t the full moon, it’s just Remus, with that fury bubbling up in his body, so much that his shoulders are tense and square, drawing himself up to his full height in a way he never usually does.

For a moment, Mary is afraid of him.

Remus just stares at them for a minute, two, and then shakes his head at the ground, storming away and out the front door, closing it with a shudder. In the other room, even Lily’s screaming has gone silent.

A metallic sound: Pete uncapping the lighter and flicking it on and off again, that bored expression settling on his face once more. Marlene’s eyes shift to Mary, as though asking for answers, a reason.

She doesn’t have one. She doesn’t have an answer for anything these days. It’s like all her emotions have been tossed into a giant melting pot, blending to make some inconceivable mixture that she can’t describe. All she knows is the burning in the pit of her stomach, the dizziness in her head, the ache between her ribs.

Instead, Mary just gestures for Marlene to lay down on her lap again, fanning her hair out. Marlene hesitates, just slightly, but she does, with Mary threading her fingers through Marlene’s fine, soft hair. She doesn’t take it personally when Marlene startles a little when Mary’s nails get too close to her scalp or the nape of her neck. Some things just aren’t about her.

Sirius continues to pace on the worn floorboards in the bedroom. In the kitchen, the phone rings. Once, twice.

“Pete, get the phone.” Marlene waves a hand in the air lazily.

Mary’s blood runs cold, but she keeps her voice steady. “Just leave it, Pete.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Avoiding somebody?”

“No. just assholes on the phone. They call all the time.”

“It could be important, though.” Marlene hauls herself up, and before Mary can get to the phone first, Marlene is already in the kitchen, unhooking the receiver and pressing it to her ear. “Hello?” Her eyebrows furrow, and she turns to stare at Mary. “Emmeline’s asking for you.”

Mary’s cheeks are hotter than the fucking sun.

They’re both just looking at her, and she can’t tear her eyes away from the phone in Marlene’s hand. They can’t know. Mary and Emmeline can just be friends, right? Friends who hang out secretly, friends who call each other when their other friends can’t hear them, friends who are keeping each other a secret for no discernable reason besides their own internalized fear.

Nobody will know. They’re just friends.

Friends who know exactly how the other’s lips taste.

Fuck.

Slowly, as though moving through molasses, Mary gets up, makes her way to the kitchen, and takes the phone laying in Marlene’s hand. “Hi.”

“Hey. Sorry for calling first.”

Her stomach does a flip, the way it usually does when she hears Emmeline. She turns halfway so Marlene can’t see her face, lowers her voice as though it’ll hide anything. “It’s fine.”

The rule, one of many Mary has implemented. Certainly, she’d thought she was being subtle about it: always being the one to call first, once she knew Remus and Sirius were out of the apartment or otherwise busy bickering like feral cats or trying to suck one another’s faces off. Always shutting down the conversation if anyone walks in. Only going to see Emmeline as long as she has an alibi, so nobody asks questions. Never talking about it with anyone. A big, messy, complicated secret.

Mary’s lungs burn with shame, all the time. Two months, two months of sneaking around and lying. At least she has practice. At least she has heavier secrets to carry around day in and day out. At least she’s used to it.

“Can I see you today?” Emmeline asks, sweetly. She won’t pick up the thread of Mary’s rules, and Mary won’t go back to that either. They just move forward, like nothing else exists. “I was thinking of going to see a movie with you.”

A movie. Dark room, legs brushing, the taste of cola on Emmeline’s lips. “I don’t really know yet.” Mary responds, staring down at her scuffed shoes. Marlene is still standing there, a weird expression on her face, and so Mary adds, for no reason, “I think Lily’s in labour.”

“Oh, shit!” Emmeline exclaims. “Are you guys able to go be with her?”

“Dunno.” Mary shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

“I mean, it sort of turns into a waiting game at some point. I mean, I remember being in the St. Mungo’s waiting room for hours—"

“Yeah,” Mary’s eyes flit to the bedroom doorway, where Sirius is suddenly standing, sighing and running his hand through his long, dark hair. “Sorry, Emmeline, I think I have to go.”

“Oh, yeah, no worries.” She can hear rustling on the other end. “Call me later, yeah?”

“Bye.” Mary says and hangs up. Next to her, she can feel all the questions brimming inside Marlene’s body, but she doesn’t want to answer any of them, not now, ideally not ever.

Thank God for Sirius Black, the selfish bastard, who finally gets over his ego and says, almost like an actual adult, “Here’s the situation so far.”

Once Mary and Marlene have settled on the couch again, Mary studiously avoiding Marlene’s gaze, Sirius’ nostrils flare as he scans the room. “Where’s Remus?”

“Stormed off like a petulant teenager.” Peter responds helpfully.

Sirius hums, eyeing the front door like it’s a cat he’s looking to pounce on. Finally, though, his attention returns to them. “Lily is in labour.” Peter closes the lighter finally, all three of them hanging on Sirius’ every word, their trusted messenger. “The town’s medi-witch is away. They can’t get a hold of her.” Sirius inhales deeply, a weird, pained look in his eyes. “James can’t get Dumbledore, either. And—” He goes still, like a statue, staring somewhere in the distance. “She’s started bleeding. They don’t know why. James has asked me to come and help them.”

Before she realizes what she’s really doing, Mary is standing, fists clenched at her side, squeezing tight. “We’re coming with you.”

Sirius’ eyes flare, sparks in the flint. “No.”

Marlene is there, next to her, singularly focused once again on Lily. “Yes, Sirius. They need us, too. Lily needs us.”

“We also have more medical knowledge combined than you do on your own.” Peter adds, though he remains seated against the wall.

Sirius opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again. He seems utterly flummoxed. “I—I can’t,” is what he manages out, not delivered with that usual Sirius gusto. That means one thing: he’s scared. Truly, undeniably scared, in a way Mary has never seen him be. An emotion reserved only for one person.

Well, Mary has that emotion too, in spades. She marches up to Sirius, gets in his face, so close she can feel his breath on her skin. “We’re not playing this game,” she hisses, making sure he hears every word. “You are not the only one who cares about them, Sirius. Lily needs us right now. She is probably scared out of her mind. Wherever you go, we are going with you.”

For a moment, she sees that look in his eyes, that Black anger at being told what to do, at being confronted, at being challenged. She has seen it many times before, but this time is different: this is about James, and Mary isn’t backing down.

Slowly, not peeling his gaze from Mary, Sirius says flatly, “Marlene, go check outside for Remus. I’ll apparate these two there first and come back for you.”

“What if I can’t find him?” Marlene asks, a hint of worry creeping into her expression, her eyes flicking to Mary as though praying for help, to not be the one to go chase down Remus, but Mary doesn’t do anything, can’t do anything, nothing to jeopardize getting to see Lily again.

“Well,” Sirius’ shoulders tighten slightly, though he tries to shrug loosely. “Fuck him, then.”

~*~

Sirius lands them on the outskirts of the town, his jaw tight as he releases his firm grip on their arms and apparates away again, leaving Mary and Peter alone for a few minutes.

She eyes him, the way he scuffs his shoe in the dirt, as though lost in thought. “You okay, Pete?”

“Hm?” He glances up at her and straightens up a little. “Yeah, fine.”

Mary gives him an I’m-not-stupid kind of look, and his eyes trail off to a point in the distance, lips settling into a frown. Quietly, he says, “Sybill and I are taking a break.”

“Oh.” Sadness, that’s what it is, written all over his face. “God, I’m sorry, Peter.”

Peter just shakes his head, still not meeting her eyes. “’s fine. It’s just… too complicated right now.” He squints up at the sun, which makes his blonde hair and ruddy cheeks glow a little. “I really liked her.”

That hangs in the air between them. What else is there to say? Sometimes it’s the people you really like who cause the most damage when they’re gone.

A pop, and Sirius is there, Marlene and Remus in tow. Remus breaks away from Sirius immediately, holding himself apart from the rest of them, his left arm stiff at his side. Marlene meets Mary’s eye and grimaces behind Sirius’ back as he turns to look at them all. “Put your wands away, and keep your voices down.” That look in his eye… like a dog with a bone, clenched in its jaw, unwilling to let it go. Standing here, he almost seems unrecognizable, and that’s the scariest thing for Sirius Black.

The town is quaint, quiet. Mary, scanning the houses, can see people in the windows pause to look at them, gazes ranging from curious to suspicious. She doesn’t blame them; this place doesn’t seem like it gets much traction on a regular basis, if at all.

The sloping cottage near the heart of the village is so perfectly ordinary that Mary’s eyes almost gloss past it. How could it be that Lily Evans, greatest witch of their group, and James Potter, rich pureblood royalty, are living here? This is a place where Mari would like to be: quiet, ordinary, normal. It almost seems too small to encompass those two.

But Sirius goes right up to the door, knocks a few times in a peculiar pattern as the rest of them gather behind him. Mary’s palm grazes Marlene’s.

The door flings open, and James Potter is standing there, and he looks so odd now, somehow so much older in the six months since they’ve seen him. Stubble collecting along his jawline, messy hair a little longish and tickling at the tips of his ears, his round glasses replaced by more rectangular ones, like an adult.

Shit, the impossible finally happened: James Potter finally grew up.

Rather comically, the panic slips off his face momentarily as he takes in the group before him, composed of four more people he wasn’t expecting. He doesn’t seem excited though, not in the way James before would be. He just turns slightly to address Sirius and Sirius alone: “I don’t really know what to do. It’s getting sooner and sooner between the contractions.”

Sirius nods curtly and slips past James into the house. The four of them just stand there, staring back at James, as the seconds tick by.

“Fuck.” James scrubs a hand over his eye, under his glasses, and that word feels weightier than anything else he could say.

“James,” Peter says softly, needling in the way only he can. “You need to let us in so we can help Lily.”

This seems to break through James’ fog, because he nods sort of robotically and steps back, letting them all file in, though Mary notices how he lingers in the doorway for a moment, scanning the outdoors before shutting the door behind him.

The cottage is small, plush, mismatched furniture and walls haphazardly decorated with Gryffindor banners and photographs. Just there, in the kitchen, Lily Evans Potter is leaning against the counter, clutching her belly with one hand, as Sirius busies around her, pressing a cool cloth to the back of her neck. And then, Lily looks up and meets Mary’s eyes.

And oh, Mary has missed her terribly. When the clouds clear, all the complications and conflicts, it’s just Lily, and Mary loves Lily.

There’s a light in Lily’s eyes now, around the pain. “You came.” She says softly, as though in awe, and Mary wants to say, “of course we did, there was no universe where we didn’t come,” but just then, Lily’s face contorts in pain, and she doubles over, forehead pressing against the counter as she hisses. In an instant, James is there, pulling her hair back from her face, adjusting the cool cloth, and Sirius turns to look at them all with that seriousness again.

“Peter, go draw a bath. Second door on the right. Warm, not hot. There should be some salts on the side, to help with muscle pains. Mary, there are towels in the closet next to the bathroom, get as many as you can. Make some space on the floor and lay them down. Doesn’t matter which is on top, we can clean them later. Keep some out so we can keep Lily and the baby clean. Marlene, you’re on ice chip duty. Remus…” Sirius’ voice falters, trailing off absently.

Remus picks up the thread, though, jaw still clenched. “I’ll be the floater. Whatever you need.”

Sirius nods, slow at first, and then quicker as the mask of responsibility slides over his face once more. “Right. Good.” His attention goes to Lily. “Lilyflower, I need to check you for bleeding once Mary’s put the towels down. What’s your pain level right now?”

“My insides,” Lily says through gritted teeth, “are on fucking fire.”

“I’ll need to check your dilation, too.” Sirius turns to shoot Mary a look that clearly means ‘go do your work,’ and Mary obliges, spinning on her heel over to the closet, grabbing as many towels as she can. All around her, people set out to accomplish their tasks in a flurry of motion, busying themselves in any way possible, laying down towels, drawing baths, dimming the lights, grabbing ice chips.

It hits her a moment later: they’re just a bunch of twenty-year-olds, living through a war, trying to bring a life into this world. what do any of them know about life?

Except, there’s no time to dwell. No time to feed the gnawing pit in Mary’s stomach. What matters right now is Lily, is helping Lily, is taking care of Lily.

Sirius is leading her to the towels, James holding her other arm as they ease her down, back against the couch. Mary reaches a shaking hand to wipe away sweat from Lily’s brow, and those green eyes lock onto her face desperately, hungrily. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she manages out.

Mary looks at her now, and for the first time in years, that pang in her chest never comes. That lovesick feeling doesn’t surface. It’s just Lily, and that love is suddenly so simple that she can’t even remember how complicated it used to be. “We’d never let you go it alone,” she responds, finding Lily’s hand at her side and squeezing it.

Then, Sirius is nudging her away, kneeling in front of Lily and lifting her skirt, his moments precise and controlled. James hasn’t said another word, his face pale and eyes wide and framed by deep circles, and he’s only just recognizable, in the strangest way. Mary has to tear her eyes away from him when Sirius finally speaks: “The bleeding’s stopped for now. You’re really fucking close, Lilyflower. What do you want right now? Pete’s got the bath, ice chips—”

“Ice chips.” Lily says, almost breathlessly, her face gone sheet white as another contraction hits, the movement rippling across her belly. Sirius turns to nod at Marlene who rushes in with the cup.

“Sirius,” Mary says, softly. “How the hell do you know all this stuff?”

The tops of Sirius’ cheeks go slightly pink, and he doesn’t meet Mary’s eye. “We Blacks are taught how to navigate this sort of stuff, cause we don’t go to St. Mungo’s. Toujours Pur and all that.”

“So, you got labour training?” Mary asks, incredulously.

“It’s pretty common with purebloods, actually.” Peter chimes in from behind them. When Mary stares at him, he shrugs. “I mean, we didn’t, but I know it’s a thing. Didn’t you, James?”

James shakes his head. “Not with my mum’s health issues, no.”

“You were born at home, then?” Mary says to Sirius, who nods grimly.

“Right in the foyer of Grimmauld Place.” He makes a disgusted expression. “Could never walk past there without shuddering.”

“Merlin, Remus.” James says suddenly, an edge in his voice. “The fuck did you to do your hand?”

All six of them turn to stare at Remus, hovering near the back, and his bloody knuckles at his side, red and angry looking. He tries to tuck his hand behind his back, but they’ve all already seen it.

Sirius makes a weird hissing sound, like a tea kettle, standing up and going to Remus, grabbing his hand with little gentleness to examine his knuckles. Remus just lets him, his eyes scanning Sirius’ face over and over again. Finally, Sirius says over his shoulder, “I’ll get him fixed up. Be back in a minute.” The two of them disappear into the kitchen together, Sirius still holding Remus’ hand in his own.

“Well,” Peter says, after a moment of silence. “He certainly wouldn’t hold my hand like that if I were hurt, I’ll tell you that.”

“Mary?” Marlene is suddenly there, next to her, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell us you and Emmeline were friends again?”

Shit. Mary tries to look anywhere but at Marlene’s face. “I don’t know that now’s really the time—”

“Please.” Lily says almost breathlessly, hand knotted into the couch cushion behind her. “Please, just talk. Anything, I just need—” Another contraction, this one harder than the last. James reaches to clasp her other hand in his own, and from the wince on his face, she’s already begun to squeeze. When Mary looks at James, almost for approval, James nods slightly. It’s what she wants.

“I…” Mary stares at the ground, choosing her words carefully. “We’ve been hanging out here and there for a little bit, yeah.”

“And you kept it a secret from us?”

“That wasn’t the intention…” Mary’s throat goes dry. “It’s just—”

“You wanted something all for yourself.” Peter’s voice is low, that glazed look in his eye again. It’s not accusing, the way he says it, but more pensive, as though he understands.

“…yeah.” Mary nods slowly, unable to tear her eyes away from Pete. “Yeah, that was part of it.”

“Mary?” Lily’s voice is strained, a trickle of sweat rolling down her temple, but there’s still that softness in her face, a softness only she could muster even in intense pain. “Do you like her?”

The lie dies on her tongue. It’s a mistake, certainly it is, Mary slipping a little from her grasp, but she says, “Yes.”

Yes, I like Emmeline. Yes, I’m not really who you thought I was. Yes, there is more to me than the self I present to you and have presented to you for the last nine years. Yes, I am afraid.

Yes, I’m sorry.

Lily’s eyes crinkle, like she’s genuinely happy for her, and yeah, maybe she is. Maybe it isn’t so bad. Mary starts to smile back, just a little.

“So, are you a—” Marlene’s voice chokes off at the word, like it burns in her throat to place it on her tongue, her expression sort of strange as she stares at Mary.

“Uh—”

“Oh god.” Lily leans forward, face squeezed tight, and she screams louder than they’ve ever hear her. James is kneeling down; Marlene runs into the kitchen to wet another cloth. Sirius bolts in, Remus on his tail, and they jump into action, no words needed to know instinctively that it’s time.

It all sort of happens in a haze. Lily’s hand in Mary’s, probably dislocating her fingers and joints but that’s alright, a commotion of voices and encouragements, doing all they can, until eventually there’s a small, singular cry, and Lily’s face goes from being white as a sheet to the colour flooding back into her cheeks, the joy lighting up her entire being as Sirius gently manoeuvres the baby, red and tiny, into Lily’s arms. James is there, right by her side, sobbing openly, his finger tracing the baby’s arm with a sense of disbelief, and there’s a moment of silence then, as though it hits them all at the same time that everything will be different now. Everything is different now.

But the baby cries again, and Lily is smiling so hard her face might split in two, and they’re all leaning forward a little to see him, and he is so beautiful, and Lily is so beautiful, and it is all so beautiful, all of them here, it feels so right, and Mary can see Remus reaching for Sirius’ hand and holding on tight, and Marlene and Peter have their arms wrapped around one another, and Mary cannot tear her eyes away from Lily, somehow more radiant than she has ever been.

Right now, it is all okay.

~*~

After Sirius and James gently clean the baby and Lily has delivered the afterbirth, after Peter makes them all some food, they end up all curled together on the couch, legs and arms pressed together, wanting nothing more than extreme closeness after so long apart. Mary is resting her head on Lily’s shoulder, watching as the baby sleeps, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine from Lily’s neck, and this is enough, she knows now, to be close like this. It will never be more, and Mary doesn’t need that anymore. Just Lily, that’s all she needs these days.

“Have you settled on a name?” Marlene asks, her voice drowsy.

Lily looks at James, who sits up a little and adjusts his glasses. “Well, we had a few we were thinking about, but—”

“Harry.” Lily says softly, eyes drifting back down to her son, the center of her world. “Harry James Potter.”

“My granddad used to go by Harry.” James shrugs a little. “It felt like a suitable tribute.”

“I remember Grandpa Harry,” Peter says to Mary’s left. “He was a good guy.”

“I think so, too.” James reaches to stroke Harry’s forehead, at the unblemished skin. “Our boy will be better, though.”

“He’s gonna be so loved.” Sirius’ voice is quiet but firm. “So loved.”

Lily turns her head to look at Mary, who lifts her head as well to meet eyes. Lily smiles, and Mary smiles back. There’s nothing else they have to say. It’s enough.

When the knock comes at the door, however, the spell breaks instantly. James springs up, like a cat on the prowl, and, shooting Lily a quick, panicked look, he makes his way to the door, hands clenched into fists at his side.

Sirius is sitting up now, too, extricating himself from Remus’ side. There’s no Black mask here, they can all tell what he’s thinking.

“It’s probably one of our neighbours—” Lily tries to reassure him, but even she doesn’t seem to be buying it, her grip on baby Harry growing tighter. Sirius doesn’t listen to her, standing up and following James, rolling his wand across his knuckles.

They can hear voices from outside, muffled. Remus moves closer to Lily, presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Mary notices Peter looking at Harry, a complicated look on his face. She wonders if he really saw a future with Sybill, if he’s mourning what was lost. It feels almost too private to bear witness to, and so she turns her attention away again.

James comes back inside, hair sticking up, followed by Sirius and Albus Dumbledore. Mary’s skin prickles. His blue eyes latch on her first, and she does not trust him, not one bit, doesn’t like that she cannot tell what he’s thinking. After a moment, though, he speaks, directing his gentle voice towards Lily, “Congratulations, Mrs. Potter.”

“Thank you.” Lily’s voice is tight, choked, Harry bundled close to her chest.

Dumbledore surveys them all over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “I’m afraid you all being here constitutes a major safety hazard for Mr. and Mrs. Potter.” There’s something in his tone, an almost barely restrained frustration, that makes Mary’s blood boil. “Whose idea was this?”

Nobody says a word. Sirius meets Mary’s eyes for a brief second before flitting away. That is what gets her. Mary stands up. “Did you expect Lily to give birth on her own?”

Dumbledore looks at her, and then at James. “Your first point of call should have been Mrs. Wallace.”

“She wasn’t answering.” James responds, almost meekly.

Mary clicks her tongue, drawing Dumbledore’s gaze back to her. “It sounds like you were unavailable also. What happens if Lily had bled to death? If the only one here was James and he couldn’t get to anyone fast enough—”

“Mary—” Sirius tries to cut in, but Mary holds up her palm to silence him.

“She is twenty years old. No family, no professional, expected to deliver a baby with her husband with nobody around to support her. Does that sound fair to you?”

“It sounds safe.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes are piercing. “Lily and James are here for their safety, to ensure no one can get to them.”

“And you’re going to destroy them in the process.” Mary’s hands fall to her sides. “Is that the goal? Keep them alive but not really living? Cut them off from everybody but each other?”

“The solution here is I wipe your memories of this location, of this moment.” Dumbledore arches an eyebrow, the look in his eyes suddenly shifting into something that makes Mary’s cheeks bloom red. “I know you know what I’m talking about, Miss Macdonald. If you truly love your friends, as I suspect you do, you’ll understand that this is not an easy decision, but the safest option to protect Mr. and Mrs. Potter.”

“Mary.” Lily’s voice behind her finally gives her pause. When she looks back, Lily’s face shatters her heart: she’s pleading. She’s pleading for Mary to just let this go and accept it.

Mary will not accept it.

Turning back to Dumbledore, Mary keeps her voice level and low. “If you do that to us, we will come back. We will figure it out again, over and over again. The mind may not remember, but the body does. The body always does. You are not wiping our memories. No fucking way.”

Dumbledore stares. Mary refuses to waver, not even a little bit. She is not giving up the chance to watch her best friend’s baby grow up, not for the world.

It’s Dumbledore who breaks first, his eyes shifting to Sirius beside him. “Do you stand with Miss Macdonald?”

Sirius opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I do.”

Remus is standing up, but unsteadily. He’s not looking at anyone but Sirius, who evades his gaze, and there’s an unhappy look flickering across his face, deep worry. Mary notices the bandages dancing across his flexed knuckles, and she feels a rush of warmth towards him suddenly, for betraying his nature and taking a stand. Thank you, she tries to tell him silently. Thank you for not leaving me alone in this.

“Mr. Lupin.” Dumbledore nods slowly. His eyes flick around the room again. “Anyone else?”

Marlene stands up, and after a moment of hesitation, Peter does too. James seems almost blank-faced, Sirius’ eyebrows slightly furrowed, like he’s trying to work something out.

“James. Lily.” Dumbledore’s voice is even. “Do you trust this group of people?”

“Yes.” Lily says, without hesitation. A second later, James echoes her, face still strangely blank.

“Okay.” Dumbledore’s eyes shift back to Mary. “What I can propose to you is a compromise. I can install a set of wards on this house to erase the location from your memories.” When Mary’s eyes narrow, he holds up a hand. “Standard procedure. I am well versed in this charm, Miss Macdonald, I can assure you that it will not tamper with your other memories. It will simply ensure that you are unable to return to this location on your own.” Here, he looks at Sirius. “It will be dependent on Mr. Black’s judgement and willingness to bring you here and return you safely at home should you wish to visit. Does that sound fair?”

Mary doesn’t miss how Sirius’ eyes flick to Remus in a split second before returning to Dumbledore. He nods, swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and says in a hoarse voice, “Yes.”

“Miss Macdonald?” Dumbledore’s eyebrow is arched, expectantly. She hates that he looks at her like he can see right through her, like he knows everything she’s trying to hide. But…

Mary looks back at Lily again, at Harry sleeping peacefully. When she turns back, she says, “Yes. Okay. I accept.”

She hates the way he smiles, like it is a success to have won her over. You haven’t, she wants to say, but he probably already knows that. He probably already knows it all.

Mary does not like to be seen so clearly.

~*~

As they’re preparing to leave, Lily’s hand snakes around Mary’s arm, pulling her aside. It’s clear that she’s exhausted, Lily is, the joy still there but also a weariness that Mary remembers on her own mother’s face, a constant worry now for her little boy.

“Thank you.” Lily says softly, her eyes scanning Mary’s face. “For coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Mary responds simply.

Lily tilts her chin forward a little, as though weighing something, her eyes shifting up and down. “We’ve already decided Sirius will be Harry’s godfather.” She chews on her bottom lip, a shyness now coming to her that seems so strange on beautiful, confident Lily. “But I spoke to James, and we both agree we’d like you to be Harry’s godmother, if you’re willing.”

Mary’s eyes almost immediately fill with tears, staring at Lily’s nervous face. “You mean it?”

“I would have no one else.” Lily confirms quietly, tears running down her face as well.

Before she can say anything, Mary is reaching forward, holding Lily close to her chest, dissolving into a bizarre mix of sobbing and laughing, and Lily is too, their faces warm and wet, the two little girls out of place in a big castle, locking eyes after the sorting and seeing somebody with the same wonder and loneliness, knowing that they understood it.

“Yes, Jesus, Lily, yes, of course.” Mary is laughing and hiccupping, and Lily is laughing close to her ear, and Mary is so deliriously happy that she cannot remember what it is like to not be happy, cannot remember the depths of her loneliness here.

Eventually, Lily pulls away but holds Mary’s face in her hands, her touch gentle and sweet. “I love you, you know that, right? I’m so, so proud of you.”

“I know, Lily.” Mary nods, finally able to accept it. “I love you too.”

And when they leave, Mary looks back just before the cottage fades into the distance, and she sees Lily’s hand outstretched and she holds up her own, leaving it in the air until she can’t be seen again.

Mary goes back to the flat a godmother, and happier than she has ever been in her life.