Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

PART TWO

Now, your world, it is beautiful
I'll take the subway to your suburb sometimes
I'll seek out the things that must've been magic to your little girl mind
Now, as a little girl, you must've been magic
I still get jealous of your old boyfriends in the suburbs sometimes
And when I walk down your street
Probably be tears in my eyes

AUGUST 11^th, 1976

The room is dank, stale, clogged with smoke and shadow. The record spins round and round on the beaten old turntable that used to belong to the Evans family. Severus sits on the bed, angrily shooting thin jets of light at the black flies that gather on his yellowed ceiling. Their tiny cadavers drop, snuffed out instantly, to mingle with the grime and rubbish on the floor.

So when you get out of the hospital
Let me back into your life
I can't stand what you do
But I'm in love with your eyes

At that, he simply can’t stand it anymore. He stands, carefully lifting the needle off the disc, which clicks to a halt— it's the newly released Modern Lovers, a record he and Lily had been happily looking forward to together, only half a year ago. He’d nicked the money from his dad’s trousers and slunk to the record store, the first time he’d left his house in days.

He reaches for his skins and tobacco, starts rolling a fag between his long fingers. Carefully, he slips the filter in, rolls and pulls it taut, then licks along the edge of the paper and twists it firmly closed. He sticks it in his mouth, lights it with his wand. Then he inhales, deeply.

A sour plume of smoke billows up towards the ceiling.

Suddenly, it tastes fucking disgusting.

He has to get out of here.

Severus reaches for a crumpled cardigan, yanks it over himself, pulling the hood low over his eyes.

He opens his door, cautiously peering over the banister to ascertain the situation below. The telly throws dancing coloured lights onto the wall; he can hear his mum doing the washing up in the kitchen. Then the crackle of a beer can.

Quickly, Sev darts downwards to the kitchen.

His mum looks up from the sink. “Decided to join us, have you?” she says coldly, then turns and continues scrubbing a dish.

Sev gives a moody grunt of assent, then opens the fridge. He reaches for a lager, cracks it open and leaves the kitchen without another word to his mum.

He carefully moves past the open sitting room door to the front door, snatching a set of keys from the basket. He opens the door and slips outside, slowly closing it behind him.

It’s a grey, polluted Cokeworth summer day. The sun strains behind the thick cloud cover, and yet it's boiling, for the nationwide heatwave hasn't overlooked this part of the country. Up on the hill, the mill casts a grim shadow over Spinner’s End. In the front garden— a choking tangle of weed and concrete— Sev stands, takes a long sip of lager and an equivalent drag of cigarette.

He makes his way down the winding street, following the railing that runs alongside the gurgling, sewage-filled river.

He drinks as he walks, not quite conscious of where his feet are taking him. As he approaches the town centre, he begins to see more people on the streets— most of them cross the road to avoid him. He bares his teeth in a humourless grin. They should be afraid of him, the bloody Muggles. They have no idea what he’s really capable of.

It’s not until he’s crossing the playground that he realises with a jolt that he’s almost to Lily’s. A lone mother playing with her toddler on the roundabout gathers him up into her arms as Sev passes by.

He stops before the old oak in front of her house. Takes a last swig, then crumples the can and tosses it into the shrubbery. He rolls another fag and lights it with a match this time, gazing longingly up at the shaded bedroom window. The peach-coloured curtains are drawn; the room is dark.

He wonders where she could be, as he draws the smoke into his lungs. Downstairs with her family, perhaps, or down the shops. Or— he grits his jaw, sucks in air angrily. He’s seen her, once, in town. And she was with him, that bloody Tommy Lewis boy or whatever his fucking name was. He feels his fingers grow hot. He’s reached the end of the fag. He tosses it to the ground, stamping it out. He rolls another one. Lights it.

A while passes before a snide voice behind him makes him jump.

“What are you doing here?”

Hands on her hips, sneer on her face. Petunia Evans.

“Nothing,” he says mulishly, grinding out the latest cigarette.

She takes in the small pile littering the ground around him. “If you’re looking for Lily, she’s not here. Gone off to Scotland, or somewhere.”

“Scotland?” Severus repeats, hungrily taking in this new morsel of information and turning it over in his mind with loving care. What does Lily have in Scotland? There's Hogwarts, obviously, but— oh, of course. Mystery resolved, his mood sours. One of Lily’s Gryffindor mates is Scottish, a girl named Marlene McKinnon. Of course Lily’d leap at the chance to get out of this dump; a luxury Sev doesn’t have.

“When'd she leave?” he asks.

“Just missed her,” Petunia says, then her face sours. “She's gone with her new boyfriend, of course. He’s driving her to Leicester.” She scoffs incredulously, as if the thought of driving to Leicester is an especially scandalous prospect.

This hits Sev in the stomach like a hot sack of bricks. Confirmation of what he knew, really, but it hurts all the same. He takes a drag. “What do you mean, her boyfriend?”

She sniffs. “I mean, my boyfriend, of course. Ex. Tommy Lawrence. She always wants everything that I have.”

He grimaces and doesn’t reply, but she’s on a tirade.

“Even my sloppy seconds, I suppose. She’s welcome to him. He probably only wants to shag her, anyway, and then he’ll dump her. Don’t say I didn’t warn her!” Her voice rises, then she seems to realise who she’s pouring her heart out to, and grinds to a halt. “What do you care, anyway? I’ve seen you, always leering after my sister. She might be too gullible to realise, but I’m not. I know boys like you. Believe me, she doesn’t even see you. Why would she?” Petunia gives a derisive laugh.

“At least I’m an only child,” he shoots back. “Must be miserable being the ugly sister. And a Muggle to boot.”

She lets out a snarl of outrage, clearly needled. “I’d rather be dead than be a perverted little freak like you. Go back to Spinner’s End, gutter rat. Before I call the police.”

With that she turns, flipping her thin blonde hair over her shoulder as she walks up the garden path towards the house.

He idly contemplates cursing her retreating back, and finally decides it isn’t worth it. But for a moment, he savours the image— a tree branch falling, a big one this time, from the oak. Bone cracking as the bough finally puts an end to the miserable existence of Petunia Evans. Nobody would miss her, especially not Lily, who despises her sister. He swears under his breath. What is magic good for, if not for removing pustules like Petunia, or his dad, from the face of the earth?

The small blue Vauxhall Viva speeds down Melton Road, muddy green-brown pastures stretching out either side. The windows are rolled down and the radio blares cheerily.

Lily dangles her hand out of the window, cigarette between two fingers and thumb, exhilaration gripping her chest and long red hair flying wildly around her face, sticking to her lips.

Beside her is a boy named Tommy Lawrence, freckled and beautiful as the wind whips through his blonde hair, one hand expertly on the wheel, the other drawing a cigarette of his own from his lips. A small silver hoop glimmers from one ear.

He lets out a stream of smoke, grins at her.

“I can’t wait to see Marlene and Mary,” Lily says. “But I am a bit sad we don’t get to spend the whole summer together.”

“Ah, no worries, you’ll be back soon enough and all,” he says. “I think it’s brilliant you’re going to visit your friends. Get out of this shithole, ya jammy sod.” He points a thumb back in the direction of Cokeworth.

“Too right,” Lily says, grimacing. “Although, there have been some nice things about it this summer.”

He shoots her a warm look. She leans over to plant a swift kiss on his cheek.

He balances his cigarette between his lips, moves a large, freckled hand from the gearshift to her leg, one finger scratching gently against the fabric of her trousers. Lily feels her heart skitter in excitement, as it frequently does at his touch.

“Ah, hang on a mo’,” he says, and just as quickly as it had landed on her leg his hand jumps to the dial of the radio. “I reckon John Peel’s on.”

“Brilliant,” Lily says breathlessly. A bit out of the loop on Muggle music most of the year, she's eager to share in Tommy's surprisingly eclectic musical knowledge.

He fiddles with the dial, finding BBC Radio 1, and strange yodelling vocals with a backdrop of guitar sound as the station reaches the end of a song.

“Roxy Music?” Lily says with a frown, trying to place it.

“I reckon it’s Eno.”

The crackly voice of John Peel confirms this:

"…And that is the excellent Eno with his first solo single from 1974 … one of my favourite records from the year. And I’d like to play you a lot more of Eno’s stuff actually from his three LPs, but we don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll just play you something from the third.”

Discordant, layered instrumentals emanate from the radio— odd reverberating viola, hissing drums.

They listen to it for a while. Lily thinks idly that Petunia would absolutely loathe this, but she likes it. ‘Just noise,’ her sister would say. Experimental is more like it. Avant-garde.

“He’s brilliant, is Eno,” Tommy says, bobbing his head along slowly to the music. “Best out of Roxy Music, I reckon.”

“I like Brian Ferry,” Lily ventures.

“Yeah, he’s alright. But Eno’s onto summat. He’s groundbreaking.” Tommy says, cranking up the volume as the vocals start. “He’ll be massive someday, mark my words.”

All the clouds turn to words
All the words float in sequence
No one knows what they mean
Everyone just ignores them     

Lily takes this in solemnly. Tommy just knows about music.

“So, seen that Snape bloke about at all?” he says casually, puncturing the contemplative mood.

“I’ve seen him once,” she says shortly. “We’ve fallen out.”

He gives a wry, apologetic smile. “Can’t say I’m desperately torn up about that. Wasn’t too keen on him.”

She flicks her cigarette butt out of the window moodily. “You’re not the only one.”

“Right,” Tommy says, staring out at the road ahead. “He just gave me a bad feeling, s’all. There’s summat up with him. Around you, I mean. Bit possessive, like.”

“I s’pose,” Lily says dispassionately. Add that to the list, she thinks. Possessive. Clearly, he didn’t want me enough, says a small angry voice in her head. Not enough to not think of her as a Mudblood, even while he pretended to be her friend.

Tommy seems to perceive her stormy mood and pats her thigh apologetically. “Sorry Lily, didn’t mean to upset ya.” He glances at her sympathetically. “He’s not worth it. Give us a smile, then.”

She blows air through her lips, but is unable to stop them curling upwards at his manner. She hadn’t even had to tell him she was down, but he’d noticed anyway. It's a new feeling for Lily.

“And that’s Eno from his third solo LP… and I hope we don’t have to wait too long for a fourth.”

The first strains of a song she finally recognises— All I Want is You, from Roxy Music’s record Country Life.

“Must be a retrospective,” Tommy comments wisely.

They drive for a while, bobbing in tune to the radio, chatting merrily about music, Tommy’s plans for University, about Lily’s other school friendships. Her only regret with Tommy is having to constantly skirt around so many topics— for how can she begin to explain what goes on at Hogwarts without mentioning magic? As far as he knows, Marlene’s family breeds exotic horses, and she’s just done her O-Levels rather than her OWLs.

It’s been a lovely summer, Lily reflects, but she doesn’t quite know what will become of them once she returns to Hogwarts, and he goes to Birmingham for university. She can hardly write him— what’ll he do when an owl shows up at his window? She almost laughs at the thought.

Yes, it’s been lovely, spending her summer with Tommy. Not least the look on Petunia’s face when she’d found out about it, the day Tommy had come to pick her up in his car and they’d gone driving down to the nice part of the river for a picnic. Her parents had, at first, been mildly disapproving about it all— but in the end they like Tommy well enough, and she suspects they're glad to see her with a nice, normal Cokeworth lad, someone they can understand.  

They enter Leicester, and Lily stares out of the window hungrily at all the people milling about. To someone from a small, rubbish town like Cokeworth, absolutely everything exciting seems to happen in Leicester. Concerts, shops, galleries— everything Cokeworth lacks. Oh how she’s longed to live here, to be one of the fashionable gaggles of girls who hurry past either side of the Vauxhall, laden with shopping bags.

“Here we are then,” Tommy says, twisting the steering wheel to the left— they enter the Leicester Station car park. He pulls the car into a vacant spot and kills the engine, cranking back the parking brake.

“This is it,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Best get going, then, or you’ll miss your train.”

She unbuckles her own seatbelt, and he goes around the car to open the boot. He heaves out her suitcase— a normal Muggle one of her mum’s, smaller than her school trunk.

“That all then?” He hands it to her, and she clutches the leather strap, a little reluctant to leave.

He moves forward, places a hand on the small of her back, and kisses her deeply. He tastes like cigarettes, which she doesn’t mind, and his lips are soft and warm, which she likes very much indeed. It makes her feel a little dizzy, and the day suddenly seems warmer.

They pull apart. Her cheeks feel hot and flushed.

“I’ll miss ya, ducky,” he says, then waves, getting back into his car as she climbs the steps up to the station, unable to suppress a silly grin.

She buys her ticket at the booth, then hurries to her platform as the train pulls in— she finds her seat, extracting her copy of The Bell Jar before heaving her suitcase onto the rack and settling in for the first leg of her long journey, leaning against the window in order to watch the changing scenery go by.

There’s a flurry of activity at the Potter household that morning— which mostly entails Taffy the house-elf zipping around madly, dusting and redusting, baking, setting the table, scrubbing the floor, checking the oven, pressing and laying out robes for Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

James, the Potters’ only son, and his best friend Sirius seem to constantly be tripping over her, and are finally shooed out of the house by Euphemia. The boys instead decide to run down to a small copse north-east of the house and spend the morning as animals, tearing merrily through the trees and along the country trails to the wide, lush meadows beyond.

As they come to a brook on the edge of a meadow, with nobody in sight, Sirius transforms back into a human.

“So who exactly are we expecting today?” he says, reaching for a mangled pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

Prongs blinks liquid black eyes at him, then transforms back into James.

“Give us one, then.”

Sirius hands him one, then lights his own. “Well?”

“Friends of my parents,” James says, taking a drag. The smoke spirals hazily up into the cloudless day. “Other funny old people like them, I suppose.”

“Well, they’re bound to be a sight more pleasant than my parents’ friends,” Sirius says with a shudder, remembering all the horrible functions and social events he’d long since stopped being invited to.

“Well, Dedalus Diggle is alright,” James says with a grin. “Bit mad, but good for a laugh. And Elphias Doge is ancient, but he and my dad have been mates for ages.”

Sirius nods pensively. Walburga had squirted him into the world at the age of twenty-nine— and that was old as far as the Blacks were concerned. She'd hastily married her cousin as soon as Bellatrix had been born to her younger brother, and they'd set about producing a male heir in order to snatch any inheritance away from Cygnus and his daughters. The whole unpleasant process (which rumour had it involved Fertility Magics from a warlock in Peru) had taken roughly eight years, but at long last her efforts were rewarded in the form of Sirius, the erstwhile apple of her eye— quickly followed by the contingency plan that was Regulus.

James’s parents, however, are much older— and though he hasn’t wanted to bring it up to his best mate, he has noticed this summer that they are looking definitely worse for wear. The idea of watching one’s loved ones grow old and wither away is terrifyingly alien to Sirius, who is personally looking forward to the eventual demise of his parents with nothing short of glee.

But Euphemia and Fleamont have taken him in as another son, and he regards them as parents, much more than he ever has his own progenitors at any rate. And the thought of them being gone causes a profound ache of uncertainty in his chest which is almost too cavernous and maddening to bear. And so he’s followed James’s unspoken example of simply not dwelling on the matter, and romping happily around the grounds as if it is just another summer in which time seems to stand still.

After a few hours of lounging placidly under the sunlit trees, smoking and occasionally getting stung by the nettles that grow along the bank, they decide to head back up to the manor.

Inside they are greeted by a harried-looking Taffy, who ushers them hurriedly into the foyer so they can take off their muddy shoes.

Taffy, who is mute, blinks earnestly up at James, plucking at his trousers, which are covered in burrs and a fair bit of mud as well.

“Oh, alright, we’ll go up and change then,” James says.

They hurry towards the stairs, and pause as they hear voices from the parlour.

“Honestly, Dedalus, look at the pair of us,” Fleamont is saying. “We’re much too old and weary for that sort of thing.”  

“Well, I don’t see that age is any obstacle, Monty, old chap,” says a wheezy voice that Sirius doesn’t recognise. “Why, you're both younger than Dumbledore and myself!”

“Yes, but we've got James to think about,” Euphemia says. “We’d be risking a great deal.”

“Well, there’s a great many ways one can contribute,” another voice, squeaky and also unknown to Sirius. “No need to be in the thick of things, of course.”

“Of course, financially we would be happy to provide, although I expect the Order, as you call it, will—”

The rest of Fleamont’s sentence is drowned out as Euphemia opens the door and sees them standing in the hall. She fixes them with a beady gaze behind her horn-rimmed glasses, wispy steel-coloured hair tied back in a loose bun.

“What are you two layabouts up to?” she demands, but somehow it’s still affectionate. So unlike Walburga, thinks Sirius. “Not eavesdropping, I hope. I was just about to check on the roast.”

“What’s the Order?” James says quickly.

The Order. Sirius has heard that before. The memory comes to him, Mary MacDonald, a girl in their year, had asked them about it on the train. Do you know anything about the Order of the Phoenix?

Euphemia glares at her son. “Never you mind. Now you’d best get upstairs and changed for dinner, the pair of you.”

“But—”

“Now, James.”

“Fine, fine,” James says sulkily, and slouches towards the stairs, Sirius in tow, as Euphemia watches them go.

“D’you reckon they were talking about that Order of the Phoenix?” says Sirius as they climb the stairs. “That’s the thing MacDonald mentioned, isn’t it? Maybe your dad knows what it is.”

“That was my thought too,” James says grimly. “But I s’pose it could be any Order, couldn’t it? Order of Merlin, Order of Air Voyagers for Intrepid Wizards, and so forth.”

They change in thoughtful silence into clean shirts and trousers. Downstairs, they enter the parlour to find the three men engaged in cheerful conversation over whiskey and cigars.

“Ah, James!” the wheezy wizard says. He has a green beret perched jauntily over a shock of white hair, and he blinks warmly at James as he moves forward to shake his hand vigorously.

The other wizard, a tiny little man with a violet top hat— Sirius feels he ought to have purchased a funny hat himself in order to fit in— also hurries up to greet them.

“I say, James, you’ve certainly grown since the last time I saw you!” squeaks the man in the top hat, shaking James’s hand enthusiastically. “A fine lad you’ve raised, Monty, a fine lad indeed. I hear you’re Gryffindor’s Quidditch Captain, is that right?”

“Er, yes it is, Mr Diggle,” James says politely.

“Ah, marvelous, marvelous. I hope you’re giving those Slytherins what-for, eh?”

“We’ve beat them three years running,” says James, grinning.

“I never doubted, my boy! A star player in the making. Tremendous,” Diggle says, beaming. His eyes fall on Sirius. “And who might this fellow be?”

“Elphias, Dedalus, this is Sirius Black, our latest addition to the family,” Fleamont says, getting creakily to his feet from the lush armchair which belongs unquestionably to the Potter patriarch.

“Black, eh?” Elphias Doge leans forward curiously. “How intriguing.”

“I don’t take much after my family if that’s what you’re wondering, sir,” Sirius says with a wry grin. “I’m in Gryffindor, for starters. They sort of gave up on me after that.”

Dedalus chortles. “I don’t wish to speak ill, of course, but you’ll pardon me for feeling somewhat relieved.”

Sirius shrugs; he’s used to it, and he can hardly blame them. Fleamont and Euphemia had been a bit wary themselves upon learning the surname of their son’s new school mate, but had quickly warmed to him.

“With any luck you’ll take after old Alphard,” Elphias says. “Decent enough fellow, and a devil on the old black-and-white. Gave my knights a run for their money back in the Tourney of ’53.”

Sirius has vague recollections of his Uncle Alphard, the eccentric of the family. He had indeed always been more interested in chess than politics and pureblood society, to the chagrin of his siblings— indeed, Sirius suspects that the only reason Walburga hasn’t blasted him off the tapestry yet is her determination to be written into his will.

“Sirius is a fine young lad,” Fleamont says approvingly. “And a fine friend for our James. The trouble they get up to, the pair of them… reminds me of our school days, Dedalus.” He gives a fond chuckle, eyes twinkling merrily as he looks at Sirius.

Sirius feels a sudden rush of warmth as he regards him. Fleamont is a thin, tall man, a little stooped these days, with his grey hair slicked back— with his very own Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, Sirius knows. In the mornings when he comes downstairs clad in a dressing gown and diminutive reading glasses, ready to read the Prophet over a plate of kippers, his hair is every bit as messy as his son’s.

Dedalus beams, shakes Sirius’ hand too.

“So, Monty tells us you’ve just finished your OWLs this year, haven’t you?” Elphias says interestedly. “Have you had your results yet?”

“No, they’re s’posed to arrive soon,” Sirius says.

“Any thoughts about the future? It’s never too early to start planning, of course. I imagine James here has an interest in playing Quidditch,” Elphias chuckles fondly.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about possibly going into Transfiguration,” James says.

Sirius looks at him, surprised. This is the first time he’s heard James mention interest in any career besides Quidditch. He supposes it’s always been his best subject, and James’s interest seems to go beyond the merely academic— he’d poured his heart and soul into becoming Animagi, after all, no mean feat for a wizard his age. While Sirius himself has no trouble with the subject, he can’t entirely relate to the way James’s eyes light up at all the complicated algorithms.

“Ah, a respectable path indeed. And yourself, Sirius?”

Sirius shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ve thought about becoming an Auror. Seems fun.”

He sees their eyes widen in surprise and respect.

“A bally dangerous line of work, particularly in these troubled times,” Dedalus says. “But of course, a necessary one entirely. My hat off to you, young Master Black.” He does indeed sweep his top hat theatrically from his head.

Euphemia returns at that moment, announcing that lunch is served.

They make their way slowly into the dining room, where Taffy waits with a silver tureen bigger than her entire head, ready to serve creamy split pea soup.

After the first course— during which the conversation mostly centres around falling goblin stock prices (“ghastly business, the little blighters are running up the walls!”), favoured winged horses to win the Aerial Derby ("money's on Magical Catastrophe— promising young Granian filly"), and old japes from Fleamont’s schoolboy days— they tuck into a magnificent Sunday roast, complete with fluffy Yorkshire pudding and redcurrant sauce.

Sirius scarfs down as much as he possibly can. While he’s not unaccustomed to extravagant gastronomic affairs, there’s something about a real home-cooked meal that makes everything particularly delicious. At Grimmauld Place, while his parents certainly spared no expense when it came to the little luxuries, Kreacher had always mysteriously managed to serve him his portions unpleasantly cold, or else under- or over-salted. And then there was the silence, but for the sound of fine silver scraping across plates, and the chewing of his father at the head of the table wishing not to be disturbed by his family during mealtimes. Meals at the Potters’ are another story entirely.

Laughter, constant conversation, and of course the wonderful fare borne of a loving collaboration between Euphemia and Taffy— a fact that would outrage his parents no end, especially Walburga who would rather slit her wrists than step foot in the kitchen or, Merlin forbid, help the House-elf.

By the time they’re diving into an excellent rhubarb pie bathed in custard, the conversation has turned to altogether more serious topics.

“Of course, the Ministry has its hands tied,” Elphias is saying knowledgably. “Most of the old families are at the very least sympathetic to You-Know-Who’s cause, and of course its those very same families who have their fingers in the most important pies.”

“Not to mention the blasted Prophet and its constant fearmongering,” Dedalus agrees. “Spreading misinformation willy-nilly, it does nothing to help the situation.”

“Like about Professor Richter,” says James thoughtfully. “Saying he was in league with You-Know-Who.”

Their previous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Gerhard Richter, had gone missing last term under mysterious circumstances, although James and Sirius have reason to suspect a certain group of Slytherins were involved.

“Ah, yes,” Elphias says sadly. “Of course, dear Gerhard was your professor, albeit briefly. An old friend of Albus’s. I knew him well. And never was a man so firmly set against the Dark Arts as he— why, he was sacked from Durmstrang for objecting to the practice! And, of course, if that ghastly Skeeter woman had done her research properly, she would have known perfectly well that his parents were in fact murdered by Grindelwald for turning against him. A noble sacrifice, utterly slandered by tabloid journalism. Terrible, simply terrible.” He dabs at his eyes with his serviette. Dedalus pats his shoulder sympathetically.

“Yes, we are all terribly worried for Gerhard,” Dedalus says. “I must say it is a frightening prospect, that such a thing could occur, particularly as he was—” He catches Fleamont’s eye, and stops. “—close to us.”

“What does Dumbledore have to say about it all?” James says to Elphias. “You’re one of his closest friends, after all.”

Clever, thinks Sirius. He knows a game of careful flattery when he sees one.

Elphias dries his eyes, sits up a little straighter. “Ah, yes... I am at that. Of course, dear Albus is heartbroken, and he does intend to take measures to protect the school. I hear Barty Crouch wants to put Dementors outside the entrances, but Albus won’t hear of it. He detests the things, and I must say I don’t blame him.”

A collective shudder runs through all of them at the mention of the dreaded Azkaban guards.

“But surely Dumbledore's got plans,” Sirius says. “If the Ministry won’t help, take the fight to the Death Eaters himself. It’s what I’d do.”

Dedalus and Elphias exchange a look.

“Ah, yes, well—”

But Euphemia interrupts. “I don’t think that’s a topic we need to discuss— James, Sirius, there are—” She pauses. “—very dangerous things happening, and I want you both focusing on N.E.W.T.s. Things are awful enough as it is.” She throws an uneasy glance toward Fleamont.

James frowns. “But Mum, the Death Eaters have proven that even Hogwarts isn’t entirely safe. Richter’s gone missing, and Muggles are being murdered around the country. Surely, we can’t just stand by—”

“Yes you can, James,” Fleamont says sternly. “Your mother’s right. Underage boys have no business fighting a war. You have your futures to think about.”

“If You-Know-Who isn’t defeated, we might not have a future,” James says flatly.

“James,” Dedalus Diggle says. “You really ought to listen to your parents. I assure you, there are— certain parties, er, that is to say, interests, that are of course—” Again, he is silenced by a look from Fleamont. “What I mean to say, of course, is that war is no place for children.”

“Well, I’ll be of age this year,” Sirius says. “Am I allowed to fight then?”

Elphias and Dedalus look deeply uncomfortable.

“Sirius, if you truly want to help, the best thing you can do is keep your nose clean, and study hard to become an Auror,” Fleamont says firmly. “Neither of you are any use to anyone if you get yourselves killed.”

Euphemia gives a little gasp of horror, hand flying to her mouth.

Fleamont softens. “Sorry, Effy. But they’ve got to hear this, haven’t they? I was just as reckless at their age, I know how it is. But it’s common sense, boys. Common sense keeps you alive to fight another day.”

James nods as if he sees reason to this. “So what exactly are these parties you mentioned, Elphias?”

“JAMES!”

“Just asking,” James says cheekily, stabbing a chunk of rhubarb.

Lily alights from on the windy railway station of Thurso, the northernmost town on the British mainland. People chatter around her in thick Scottish burrs, and the air is filled with the tang of seawater. She breathes in deeply. Definitely an improvement from Cokeworth.

She climbs down the steps and immediately spots the slight figure of her friend, Mary MacDonald, who is leaning against a pillar and smoking.

“Mary!” She calls excitedly, floating towards her.

Mary, a small Black girl from South London, looks up and grins radiantly. “Alright, Li-lehh?” she says in an imitation of Lily’s accent, which admittedly has grown a bit stronger from being around Tommy so much. 

“Oh, leave it out,” Lily says with fond consternation, embracing her. “I can’t wait to tell you all about this summer.”

Mary narrows her eyes. “There’s something different about you.”

“Is there?” Lily says, utterly casual.

“Yes, you’re… glowy,” Mary says suspiciously. “You haven’t met a bloke, have you?”

Lily flushes. “Well,” she says breathlessly. “I have, as a matter of fact.”

“Lily Evans, have you been shagging?”

Lily draws herself up mysteriously. “Tell you all about it later. C’mon.”

Arm in arm, they head into the village. Mary hails a cab, which takes them along a coastal road to Scrabster Harbour. Mary pays the cabby while Lily peers around.

“Marlene said to look for the dancing Hippogriff,” Lily says uncertainly, peering around. “But I’m not exactly sure what that means.”

They pass rows of sailboats, fishermen pulling up their nets and rigging. A few seagulls caw and bicker over a discarded bag of chips, while others hover opportunistically around the piles of writhing fish being unloaded into crates.

“Maybe we should ask someone.”

“Are you joking?” Mary says. “They’re Muggles, they’ve probably never heard of Hippogriffs.”

Lily approaches a group of ruddy faced longshoremen on a smoke break.

“Excuse me,” she says politely. “Do you know where the dancing Hippogriff is?”

“Aye, lass, she’s over there,” says one of them, pointing at a row of boats, seemingly devoid of people and magical creatures.

Lily frowns. “Sorry, I don’t—” And it hits her. “Ah, ta very much.”

“Nae problem, lassie.”

She drags Mary away.

“What was that all about?”

“It’s the name of a boat,” Lily says. “The boat that’s supposed to take us to Eynhallow, I expect.”

“Cripes, Marlene ought to’ve just said that then,” grumbles Mary. “She’s so cryptic sometimes, isn’t she?”

The Dancing Hippogriff turns to be a handsome sailboat with a deep crimson finish— the name is emblazoned on the side in golden lettering.

“Er, hello?” calls Mary. “Anyone in?”

There’s a clattering from inside the boat, and then the hatch opens to reveal a handsome young man with almost white-blonde hair and tanned, heavily freckled skin.

“Alright there?” he says, flashing a wide grin. “You must be Lily and Mary.”

“Er, yeah, that’s us,” Lily says faintly, a little dazzled. She glances at Mary and sees that her friend wears a similar expression of awe.

“Well, dinno be shy, jump on in,” says the beautiful man. “We’re just waiting for one more, then we’ll be on our way.”

“The McKinnons are expecting someone else?” Mary says, as they step carefully towards the edge of the dock. He takes their suitcases and hauls them aboard, stowing them neatly away.

He laughs. “Aye, we are at that.” He holds out a large, callused hand to help them over. “I’m Matthew. Marlene’s not told you about me, I see.”

“Oh. Right,” Lily says, feeling the blush rise to her cheeks. Of course, this is Marlene’s older brother— once you get past the blinding handsomeness, there is definitely a resemblance.

“Ah, here he comes now. Go on and settle in then,” Matthew says. He jumps nimbly off the sailboat back onto the dock, hailing a man on the far end of the row.

Lily and Mary exchange a wide-eyed glance.

“How come Marlene’s never told us her brother was so fit?” Mary hisses indignantly.

“Oh come off it, Mary, you do have a boyfriend, remember?” Lily says amusedly, prodding her in the side.

“So do you, apparently, so don’t go all high and mighty on me.”

They giggle as Matthew returns with the other man— a sharply dressed, somewhat grim fellow with salt-and-pepper hair.

“Caradoc, these are Lily and Mary, school friends of my sister's,” Matthew says. “Girls, this is Caradoc Dearborn.”

Dearborn. Lily feels a jolt of recognition— last Christmas, an Auror named Dorian Dearborn had been killed by Death Eaters.

“Hello,” Lily says uncertainly.

“Hello, all,” Caradoc replies. “I must admit I’m a bit nervous around these things. Much prefer a broomstick.”

“Dinno worry, I won’t let you drown,” Matthew says with a broad smile. He helps Caradoc onto the boat and starts unwinding the rope. He pushes off with one foot, and uses the momentum to leap lightly back onto the deck. He unfurls the sail, eases it out, and the wind catches in it, ballooning majestically outwards.

They glide gently out of the harbour, and soon are underway across the bay at a speed that seems not entirely natural. The wind and the rushing water roar around them, and Lily— glad to have brought a warm coat and scarf— wraps her arms around herself to block out the biting gale.

“There’s blankets down there if you get chilly!” Matthew bellows over the din.

Lily reaches under the bench, extracts three rather humid, scratchy woolly blankets and hands them out. Despite the moisture that clings to them, they are grateful for the extra warmth.

Before long, they can see a stunning archipelago of jagged towering cliff faces frosted with green, swarmed by circling seabirds. The wind and the waves are wilder than ever, and Caradoc Dearborn in front of her is looking faintly green. Lily herself is feeling a little queasy, and she rummages through her pockets, finally drawing out a few sticky, long-forgotten peppermints.

“Here!” she yells, holding one out to Caradoc. “Helps with nausea!”

“Cheers,” he says, taking it and looking at the red-and-white striped circle curiously.

He unwraps it gingerly and pops it in his mouth. Lily hands one to Mary, then offers one out to Matthew.

“What is it?” he shouts, holding out his palm to receive it.

“It’s peppermint!” Lily shouts back. “It’s a Muggle sweet! I mean, you probably don’t get seasick, but—”

He smiles, takes his other hand off the tiller to unwrap it and place it on his tongue. “That’s canny,” he says approvingly. “Thanks!”

She smiles back, hoping her blush isn’t too noticeable, and ignores Mary elbowing her pointedly.

They sail smoothly through a fog bank, and Lily gasps— the sky is full of Hippogriffs, ducking and wheeling through the air. Before them, the island of Eynhallow stretches out— a landscape of rolling green, dotted by meandering Hippogriffs. On the top of the island stands a white farmhouse, with an adjacent stable and a large paddock to one side.

“Any Muggles get through, all they see is an empty island with some old ruins on it,” comments Matthew. “The roost around Eynhallow's not safe for any Muggle boat.”

Matthew guides them gently to a small dock at the bottom of the island, stepping off the boat to moor it securely to a post.

“Alright, here we are then,” Matthew says, hopping back in to heave their suitcases over the side. “Before you head up to the house, you girls ever met a Hippogriff before?”

“Er… no,” Lily says nervously. From afar they look majestic, obviously, but she has a feeling up close they’re a bit more frightening.

“Alright, well first of all, they’re proud animals, ye ken. If one comes up to you, you bow, and you wait for him to bow back.”

“What if he doesn’t bow back?”

He grins. “Then you’d better get outta there, and fast.”

“Right,” Mary says.

“Oh, and never insult a Hippogriff. It’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

Caradoc reaches forward to shake his hand. “Thank you for a very pleasant journey, Matthew, all things considered.”

“Nae bother,” Matthew replies. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

Caradoc accompanies them up the winding stone path to the top of the hill. The surrounding Hippogriffs regard them curiously but— to their relief— do not approach. They can now see, apart from the paddock, a Quidditch pitch has been set up, along with a sizeable vegetable patch. The house itself is rectangular, made of thick, weathered white walls.

As they near the house, a feral mass of blonde tangled hair streaks across their path, shrieking with wild laughter.

“Come back here, Maggie!” yells a familiar voice.

They turn to see Marlene jogging towards them— her face lights up at the sight of them.

“You’ve made it!” she says, pulling them both into a hug. “Hullo, Caradoc. Sorry, I’ll be with you all in just a minute. I’ve got to stop Maggie from jumping into mud again.”

She tears off after what they now recognise to be a human child, namely Marlene’s younger sister, grabbing her by the back of her smock and dragging her back onto the path.

“Sorry about that,” she says, a little breathless. “She’s just had a wash and I couldn’t bear going through it all again.”

Maggie McKinnon grins up at them. “Hullo,” she says impishly, pushing her blonde hair out of her face to get a better look at them. Her face, despite Marlene’s claims, is noticeably streaked with grime.

“Oh, Merlin’s pants, Maggie,” groans Marlene. “Come on, off with you. Back to the house.”

Maggie shrieks with laughter again and tears towards the house, slamming open the red door and disappearing inside.

Marlene heaves a sigh. “Can you believe she’s meant to be going to Hogwarts this year?”

Caradoc laughs. “You were all just as wild and unruly once, as I recall,” he says fondly.

Lily and Mary exchange an amused glance. They vividly recall meeting Marlene in their first year— a grubby, excitable little girl jabbering away so fast nobody could understand her through her thick accent.

“Is your dad inside? I’d best make my presence known.”

“Yes, he’s in the kitchen,” Marlene says.

“Alright, then I suppose I will see you all later.” Caradoc nods to them, then makes his way up to the house after Maggie.

Marlene flings her arms around her friends and steers them towards the side of the stable. “C’mon, we can talk a bit in here before lunch,” she says. “How was the journey? Long?”

“A bit, but I’ve always loved travelling by train,” Lily says wistfully. “Gives me a chance to read.”

“Marlene,” Mary says seriously. “Why didn’t you ever tell us your brother was gorgeous?”

Marlene wrinkles her nose. “Oh, really, Mary, it’s just Matty.”

“I think he fancies Lily,” Mary says with a conspiratorial grin.

Lily turns red, splutters. “What? No, he doesn’t.”

“Well it’d be hardly surprising, wouldn’t it?” Marlene says, pulling Lily in for a one-armed side hug. “Look at you! What’s happened? Who is this beautiful goddess?”

Lily thinks on this, then smiles. “I suppose… I’m happy.”

Mary snickers. “She’s got a boyfriend, she means. Who you still haven’t told me about.”

“C’mon, let’s sit over here.” Marlene motions them to sit on a dry, rocky patch on one side of the stable.

Mary pulls her cigarettes from her pocket, takes one and offers the packet out to the other girls. As they both take one and light up, she leans forward.

“So, Lily, has it happened yet?”

Lily feels her face grow warm. “Well, no, as it happens, not yet. But—” She pauses. “I reckon it might. By the end of the summer.”

“Ooer,” Mary says happily, clutching at her. Lily bats her away. “Our little Lily, all grown up. Becoming a woman.”

“Oh, stop it,” she says, unable to resist a smile. “Have you lot ever— you know—”

Marlene shrugs and says “no”, but Mary nods mystically.

“What?” Lily says indignantly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Besides, it was, you know, sort of—” She makes a face. “Intimate.”

Lily sighs dramatically. “With Dirk… I bet he’s all rugged and strong, but secretly soft and gentle.”

“Not as rugged as Marlene’s brother. I mean, whoof!”

“Oi!” Marlene complains, but her friends have dissolved into a fit of giggles. “I don’t see why everyone’s so bothered about sex, anyway. I mean, boys are sort of— disgusting, don’t you think?”

“What? Of course not!” Mary says. She sighs. “Boys are wonderful.”

“Yes,” Lily agrees wistfully. Marlene looks bemused.

“Alright, perverts,” she says. “Who wants to see the wee Hippogriff bairns? Just hatched.”

They scramble eagerly to their feet and follow her into the stables, which are dark and smell horsey, reminding Lily of farms she’d visited as a child. At the far end, they find a woman with two blonde plaits hanging down from beneath a woollen cap, clad in dungarees and a pair of mud-splattered galoshes. She straightens up at their approach— her cheerful face cracks into a familiar grin.

“Oh, hullo!” she says. “You must be Lily and Mary. Glad to meet you. I’m Moira, I’m Marlene’s ma.”

They shake hands.

“Thanks so much for having us,” Lily says.

“Oh, nae problem, Marlene’s always going on about you, it was about time we had you ‘round.” She smiles. “Now, you’re just in time to see me feed the bairns. C’mon.”

She beckons and they follow her to a closed-off section of the stable. “Now, we keep the mares separate so you’ve nothing to worry about. Hand me that bucket, will you Mar?”

Marlene does, and Lily and Mary get a glimpse inside to see it is filled to the brim with dead rats.

She opens the upper section of the wooden door to a frenzy of chirping, and they crane around her to three Hippogriff young- one brown, one shiny black, and the third and smallest a stormy grey— which stagger around on ungainly, coltish back legs and stick-like talons. They flap their wings awkwardly, unable to fully open them, and eagerly crowd the door, hoping to be the first to be fed.

“These are Fleetfoot, Coalfeather, and the peedie one’s Buckbeak.”

“Aww, they’re so little!” coos Lily, just as the first rat is thrown.

A vicious struggle for survival ensues, with all three babies violently ripping apart the rat between them. Spatters of blood and guts dampen the downy feathers around their beaks. They press up against the door, calling for more.

“Ugh,” Mary says.

“Settle down there, there’s plenty for everyone,” Moira says, chucking more rats into the fray. The Hippogriff babies gobble them up for all the world as if they’ve been starving.

“Maggie walks them around the paddock couple times a day,” explains Moira. “Stretch their wings. Then we bring them back to their mothers, who are usually flying about all day.”

From the front pocket of her dungarees Moira draws a pocketwatch and looks at it. It occurs to Lily that she’s never seen an adult witch or wizard in Muggle attire before.

“I like your dungarees,” she says.

“Oh!” Moira says, pleased. “Aye, they are practical, are they not? Sometimes I think the Muggles have better ideas about things than witches and wizards do. Anyway, Iain should be done with lunch by now, we should head in. Marlene, any sign of Caradoc yet?”

“Yes, we came in on the boat with him,” Mary says.

“Oh, good. Why don’t you girls run back up to the house, and I’ll be along in a minute.”

“They all sound much more Scottish than you,” Mary remarks to Marlene as they make their way out of the stables towards the path that leads to the house.

“Well, I've learnt to turn it down a bit so you lot can understand me,” Marlene replies. “Remember in first year, when everyone thought I was saying ‘chicken', and really I was saying ‘d'ye ken'?”

“Oh,” Lily says. “I thought you just really liked chicken.”

James stares down at the empty parchment, trying to decide how to proceed.

His first instinct had been to write Lily, to tell her he'd found a possible connection to the Order of the Phoenix, and to ask whether or not there had been any luck on her end. But, of course, writing to Lily in particular is an absolutely nonsensical proposition.

The truth is, he longs to have something, anything, in common with her. A shared goal, or perhaps a project, or a hobby— that's a thought, what does Evans even like to do? He screws up his face, trying to picture her doing any sort of leisure activity. Nothing comes to mind. As far as he knows, Evans doesn't much enjoy having fun.

Sirius coughs and rustles in his armchair. A book, one from Fleamont and Euphemia's beloved collection, is splayed open in his lap.

“Merlin, I'm bored of reading,” Sirius says. “It's s'posed to be the holidays.”

That's it! A spark seems to jump in James's brain. He's seen Lily, in the common room a time or two, reading books. And not the heavy, dusty old tomes from the school library, either, but small, flimsy publications. Muggle books, he supposes, and therefore apparently read for the sheer pleasure of it.

Still, he can’t possibly write to Lily, newfound interest in Muggle literature notwithstanding. It would practically be a declaration of love, one that would be poorly received, if prior experience is anything to go by. Besides he, James, does not write love letters. He feels his face heat at the thought of exposing himself so rawly, and is fervently glad that Sirius can’t read minds.

Dear Mary, he begins, then crumples up the sheaf and reaches for a fresh one. Too intimate for a girl he's not really friends with.

He surveys it for a minute, then adds:

Satisfied, he pops it into an envelope, licking it closed, and walks over to the gilded wooden perch where two owls sit huddled together in sleep. The magnificent great horned owl is Pliny, the family owl; while the female eagle owl is his own, Nimue, a sleek bird capable of extraordinary speed. James likes to think she takes after him.

He wakes her by softly stroking the spotted feathers of her breast, and she blinks fierce orange eyes at him.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

She hoots affectionately and flutters onto his shoulder, nipping at his fingers expectantly.

“Oh, have it your way,” James grumbles. “Taffy?”

Instantly the diminutive house-elf appears by his side.

“Got any Owl Treats anywhere?”

She nods enthusiastically, Disapparating and promptly reappearing with a mouse-shaped biscuit in her grip.

“Cheers, Taff,” James says, taking it from her and feeding it to Nimue.

The house-elf bows low, and vanishes once again.

James offers the rolled-up parchment to Nimue, who clutches it tightly in one talon, and brings her over to the open window.

“Take this to Mary MacDonald, in Croydon.”

Nimue hoots sardonically and takes off, flying northwards towards the town of Chipping Sodbury.

“I think London's to the south!” he calls after her, then shrugs. Nimue has never failed to deliver a letter yet.

Sirius looks up from his reading. “What are you sending a letter to MacDonald for?” he says curiously.

“I'm just telling her we're looking into this Order of the Phoenix business.”

“Fat lot of good it's doing,” Sirius grumbles. “I've found plenty of references to phoenixes in general, of course, in Fantastic Beasts and Caldwell's Bestiary. We all know what a Phoenix does, bursts into flame, reborn from the ashes, et cetera. It might not have anything to do with this Order.”

“Maybe it's metaphorical,” muses James.

“Something to do with eternal life, you reckon?”

“Or the cycle of life. Life, death, birth, rebirth, fire, healing. Could be a lot of things, really. Or none. It's—" He stops suddenly, having spotted something outside. “Hang on, what’s that?”

He squints into the sky— a dark shape seems to be flying straight for the window. As it approaches, he recognises it as an owl— Nimue?

But it turns out to be a handsome barn owl, instantly recognisable to both of them as one of the Hogwarts school owls. It alights on the windowsill— held in its talon are two thick, parchment envelopes bearing the distinctive, spidery green writing.

“Bloody hell,” says Sirius. “You reckon that’s—”

James nods grimly as he reads the two envelopes.

James Potter
The Red House, Dodington Hill
Chipping Sodbury, South Gloucestershire

Sirius Black
The Red House, Dodington Hill
Chipping Sodbury, South Gloucestershire

He throws Sirius's letter at him, and tears his own open eagerly.

They sit in silence for a while as they each digest their own results. Overall, James thinks he’s done alright. He’s certainly proud of his O in Transfiguration, and he’s pleased to see he’s achieved one in Defence and Charms as well. Muggle Studies, of course, is a laughably easy class in general, so no surprises there. And Exceeds Expectations in all the rest!

Finally, Sirius speaks.

“How'd you do?”

“Not too bad, as it goes,” James replies offhandedly. “You?”

Wordlessly, Sirius tosses him his letter.

James feels a brief twinge of annoyance that this best mate has achieved overall better marks, but he’s also relieved to see that at least Sirius hasn’t outperformed him in Transfiguration, which he considers to be his subject.

“Nice one, mate!” Sirius says enthusiastically. “O in Transfiguration, that written was the hardest by a mile.”

James grins, feeling a bit guilty for comparing, and claps his friend on the shoulder. “Says the prat with five Outstandings. Congratulations, you swot.”

Above the island of Eynhallow, three owls, bearing six letters between them, narrowly avoid being eaten by Hippogriffs and soar towards the white house on the top of the hill, through an open window and into a long attic room.

Inside, there are five beds, dirty clothes and piles of books strewn about. In one corner is a pile of cushions and patchwork blankets arranged on the floor, currently occupied by three teenage girls.

The owls land on the headboard closest to them, jostling one another other for attention. Two of them, Hogwarts barn owls who feel they are on official business and therefore deserve priority, attempt to edge out the third— a female eagle owl with fierce orange eyes. Not to be outdone, the female screeches indignantly. Her letter, she believes, is just as important.

The girls look up at the commotion.

“Oh, bugger,” Lily says. 

Marlene takes a deep breath and yells at the top of her lungs: “MAX, MAGGIE, HOGWARTS LETTERS!”

There’s a thundering sound not unlike a small herd of buffalo as Maggie charges up the ladder, propelling herself into the room. She’s closely followed by Maxwell McKinnon, Marlene’s younger brother. He’s a serious boy currently going into his fourth year, with thick spectacles and the characteristic McKinnon puff of blonde hair.

“Gizz it!” squeals Maggie.

Lily takes the letters, looking curiously at the eagle owl, who hoots softly and gently nuzzles her hand.

“Poor dears, you must be exhausted,” Lily says sympathetically.

“Mum and Dad’ll find you something to eat,” Marlene says. “They normally like to leave after dark, not as many Hippogriffs flying around.”

Lily looks at the topmost letter, which she notes is a bit thicker than usual.

Lily Evans
The House on the Hill, Eynhallow Island
Orkney, Scotland

There are two more addressed to Marlene and Mary, and two thinner envelopes for Max and Maggie. The letter from the eagle owl, written in black, spiky lettering, is addressed to Mary.

Lily hands them out— Maggie snatches hers up and tears into it ferociously.

With an amused grin, remembering the day she’d received her Hogwarts letter all those years ago, Lily turns her attention to her own letter. Anxiously, she draws out the first sheaf of parchment.

Lily sags with relief; then she looks at the parchment again, staring at the three little black circles in surprise. Three Outstandings. She knows she's decent at potions of course, but she’d never thought of herself as good like Sev is good. As for Herbology and Charms, they'd always her top subjects, but it's still a welcome surprise.

She looks up at her friends— Mary is inscrutable, but Marlene wears a clear expression of relief.

“I did alright!” she says. “Only bungled Transfiguration and History of Magic, and who needs them! Besides, I got an O in Charms and in Care of Magical Creatures. My parents’ll be pleased about that one.”

“Well done, Marlene!” Lily comes over to hug her.

“Let’s have a look at yours, then.”

Marlene scans it quickly and beams. “See, told you you were making a fuss over nothing.” Marlene ruffles her hair affectionately. “How about you, Mare?”

Mary wordlessly shows them.

Lily looks down at the page— it’s an impressive array, with O’s in Defence, Herbology, and Charms, and E in all the rest with the exception of History of Magic (P) and Ancient Runes (A).

“What are you looking so bloody sulky about then?” Marlene demands. “This is brilliant, Mary!” She squeezes her into the group hug. “Auror Mary, eh? Proud of you.”

“Dirk’ll be miffed I flunked History of Magic,” Mary says weakly into Lily’s shoulder.

“Is the other letter from him?” Lily asks curiously.

“Oh, I forgot.” Mary extricates herself and pulls it out. “I s’pose it must be, we’re meeting in London next week.”

She opens it, and her expression changes to surprise.

“Actually, it’s from James Potter.”

“What?” Lily feels an odd jolt of dissatisfaction. Why would Potter be writing to Mary? “What’s he want then?” she says.

Mary frowns. “Says his parents might have some idea about the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Da says we’re not allowed to talk about that,” Maggie pipes up suddenly.

They stare at her.

Max swats at her. “Shut up, stupid, that counts as talking about it.”

Marlene puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t make me smack you. What've you heard?”

Max quails— Marlene is about a foot taller than he is. “Well, we heard Caradoc tellin’ Da about it, but when they saw we were listening they shut up quick. Made us swear not to talk about it. I know it’s something really dangerous though.” He adjusts his glasses nervously. “Don’t tell Da we said anything, Marlene, please.”

“What did they say about it exactly?” Mary presses.

“It’s a pack o’ scary Death Eaters,” Maggie says, eyes wide.

“Shut up, Maggie, they didno say that. All we heard was the Order’s willing to do what no one else is.”

The three girls exchange a look.

“Oh, and Caradoc wanted some Hippogriffs, but Da said they’re not war birds. He said no.”

“War birds?” Lily repeats.

“Aye, I reckon they could be,” Maggie says. “Imagine, swoopin’ down on a pack of Death Eaters, carryin’ a big sword.” She holds an imaginary one aloft. “Ca-caw! Hyaaaah! And then slash them to bits.” She hacks and slashes wildly through the empty air, startling the owls from their roost. They perch on the wooden beams above, hooting indignantly.

“Maggie, Death Eaters don’t have packs. You shouldn’t be talking about them, anyway,” Marlene says, exasperated. “Why don’t you go downstairs and show Ma and Da your letter, they’ve not seen it.”

She hops across the room, still battling invisible Death Eaters, and hurtles down the ladder, bare feet pounding on the wooden floor below.

Mary looks at James’s letter again. “He’s asking if I know any good Muggle books. Bit odd, isn’t it?”

“Ooh, tell him to read The Bell Jar,” Lily says enthusiastically.

“So first Potter’s parents, now mine?” Marlene says. “It’s too weird, isn’t it. We’ll have to ask them.”

“No, don’t!” Maxwell implores.

“Don’t worry, Max, I’ll tell them Professor Richter told me about it,” Mary says, then frowns. “It’s true, sort of.”

But Marlene’s parents yield no luck whatsoever when they bring it up at dinner.

“I’ll not have you girls talking about that,” Iain, Marlene’s father, says. He’s as tall and lanky as Marlene, with a tuft of greying hair that grows straight upwards.

“And I’ll be having a word with the school and all,” Moira adds. “If Professors are going ‘round talking about these things. Puts the lot of you at risk.”

“Fat lot of good it’ll do, since Richter’s gone missing,” Marlene grumbles.

“Well, all the more reason to keep out of it,” Iain says. “Listen, girls, Professor Richter was clearly involved in some dangerous business. Small wonder he was targeted. You three’d best stay out of it, or it’ll be the same for you.”

“Promise me you won’t go running your mouth about it in public,” Moira says seriously.

They all swear effusively to never mention the subject again, and in fact to forget about it entirely, and then hurry outside to have a smoke and discuss the matter further.

“We should've asked Caradoc before he left,” Mary says regretfully.

Marlene bites her lip. “Looks like this Order thing really is something serious.”

“Maybe we ought to write Potter back,” Lily says.

They look at her, amused.

“What is it?”

Marlene grins. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you express a desire to contact Potter.”

“Well, this is important!”

They stub out their cigarettes in a nearby empty flowerpot, then head inside. Marlene digs out a few sheaves of parchment from a drawer which is crammed higgedly-piggedly with general arts and crafts supplies. She also retrieves a quill (snapped in half, the end still dangling) and a pot of lurid purple ink, and they all sit down at the sitting room table, in front of the hearth.

“OK, what should I write then?”

They unfurl James’s letter for comparison.

“‘Dear Potter’,” Lily begins to dictate. Mary dutifully writes it down. “‘So pleased to have received your correspondence. Have tried the same with Marlene’s parents, ditto on keeping shtum. Will also continue investigation—‘”

“I’m not writing that,” Mary interjects. “That doesn’t sound anything like me. How about—”

She bends over to write and they read over her shoulder.

“Don’t forget about the Bell Jar!”

“Oh, Mary, really.”

“What? It’s funny.”

“Why d’you reckon Potter’s so keen on Muggle books, anyway?” Marlene asks.

“Wizards ought to read a bit more Muggle literature if you ask me,” Lily says. “They could learn a thing or two.”

Severus taps his quill approvingly against his chin. Yes, that's good. Possibly good enough to send to Lily. But it needs more, more visceral emotion.

Satisfied for the moment by his outpouring of creativity, he tucks the slip of parchment into his copy of Advanced Potion Making, then closes the book.

His stomach grumbles.

Reluctantly, he decides to head downstairs. His dad’s working a late shift at the mill, so he finds his mum alone in the kitchen, having a smoke and reading Tess of D’Urbevilles at the kitchen table.

“Ey up,” he says by way of greeting.

She looks up from her book, briefly. “Your dad’ll be back in a bit.”

He ignores this and opens the fridge. Amongst the beer and the stale food is a new item, a greasy paper package of fish and chips. He takes it out and opens it, picks unenthusiastically at a soggy chip.

“Don’t touch that, it’s your dad’s,” Eileen snaps.

The fact that he’s nicking his dad’s food only makes it more appealing, and he sits down across from her to eat it.

“He’s not going to eat it, is he?” he says, fielding her glare.

She scoffs and returns to her book.

As he’s swiping the last chip through his mushy peas, they hear the keys jangle in the lock and the front door slam open noisily.

“You’re in for it now,” Eileen says nastily. She leaps to her feet, putting out her fag and stowing her book safely away in a cupboard. She starts desperately trying to light the stove, but it won’t catch. Sev curses her for forgetting about her wand, then waves his own, sending a jet of bluebell flame streaking around the burner. Relieved at her sudden success, Eileen places a copper pot on the flame.

Tobias Snape hunkers into the room. He fills the whole doorframe, and Sev can smell his hot breath from where he’s seated.

“Rubbish day at the mill,” Tobias grunts. “Johnno says there’ll be cuts next week. I’m famished is what I am.” He sits heavily at the table, slamming his meaty hands down on the wooden surface. “There owt to eat?”

“Beef stew,” says Eileen. The pot she’s reheating burbles slowly.

“Not again,” Tobias complains. He eyes Sev across the table, crumpling up the now-empty fish and chips wrapper. “You’re here then are ya? Got tired of writing poems and making fairy potions up in your room then have ya?” He chuckles. “Bloody poof.”

Eileen sets a plate and a glass of water down in front of him, while Severus seethes, trying not to rise to the bait.

“Ta,” Tobias says, licking his lips. Sev watches in distaste as his father noisily slurps down his food, shoveling soggy brown chunks of potato and beef into his mouth with abandon and chewing noisily. Finally, it gets the better of him.

“Chew with your mouth closed, will you?" he says angrily. "Fuck’s sake.”

Tobias freezes with a bite halfway to his lips. The spoon falls from his throttling grip onto the platter with a clang.

“You what?” he says, dangerously quiet.

Eileen has turned her back on the scene, busily piling dirty pots and pans into the sink. Sev doesn’t reply.

“I said, you fucking what?”

As the last syllable rings through the room, Tobias gets to his feet, the brusque motion propelling his chair backwards.

Automatically, Sev scrambles backwards off his chair.

“Think it’s funny to cheek me do ya?”

Sev has backed all the way up against the wall. Trembling, he shakes his head.

“I’ve put food on this bloody table since you was born and a roof over your head. I en’t putting up with ANY BLOODY CHEEK FROM YOU!”

At this Tobias snatches up the glass of water. He wheels his arm back and hurls it with all his might towards his son— it shatters against the wall above Sev’s head, raining shards of glass and droplets of water all down around him. His mother gasps. He feels one slice into the side of his face.

Sev wills himself to reach for his wand, to get the words out. Sectumsempra. It had been so easy to do it to Potter. But that thing is happening, that thing that always happens in 56 Spinner’s End, where his arms are bound above his head and his lips clamped shut by some invisible, oppressive force.

Tobias is righting his chair now, and he throws himself down into it, taking up his spoon once again.

Eileen sets another glass of water down beside him. Her hand is shaking.

“Get on and clear that up then,” he says, nodding towards the broken glass on the floor and their shivering son. “Someone might step on it.”

Sev, slowly unfreezing his limbs, slinks over to the sink and begins to pick bits of glass out of his hair. He winces as the cut on his cheek stings. Eileen hurries past him with a dustpan, broom, and reproachful expression.

For a while, there is silence except for the raking of glass against the floor, and the clatter of the spoon against the plate. Finally, Tobias finishes his meal, and he pushes the plate away from him in satisfaction.

“I’m off down the pub,” he informs them, cheered by the prospect of a good evening with his mates. “City are playing so I’ll be back late.” He wipes his mouth, stands.  “Turrah then.”

He leaves, slamming the front door behind him. Severus and his mother look at each other.

“You know you shouldn’t provoke him like that,” she says as she empties the dustpan into the bin.

“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Sev spits. “Someday. Just wait.”

She heaves a sigh. “C’mere then.”

He goes to her, and watches as she takes her wand from the drawer of kitchen implements. She runs it softly along his cheekbone, humming a melody that weaves in and out of his childhood memories. He feels his skin knit together, growing hot as the cut seals itself.

“All better,” she murmurs, then fetches her book. “You ought to be more careful, Severus. I’m off to bed.”

Sev stands alone for a minute, and then notices a picture frame on the wall has been knocked askew— as he goes to straighten it, a stray bit of glass crunches under his trainer.

Once again, anger bubbles up inside him— he runs upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and bursts into his room. His potions kit is in one corner, and he sits in front of it, breathing hard.

With a pair of tweezers, he carefully plucks a single flake of Erumpent horn out of a jar and deposits it into an empty flask. Then he drops in a Fire Seed and binds it all up with Antimony as a destabilizing agent. He grins. An improvised, magical Molotov cocktail if he ever saw one. Pocketing it, he thunders back down the stairs and out of the front door.

It doesn’t take Sev long to catch up to his father— he knows perfectly well Tobias is headed to the Fox and Goose, where him and his disgusting Muggle mates meet regularly to down pints and watch football.

Loud yelling is audible as he nears the pub, and Sev leans against the exterior wall, peering inside through grimy windows. It's absolutely packed, but he immediately spots his dad, red-faced and roaring with raucous laughter. Sev pulls his hood low over his eyes and goes round the back.

He darts behind a bin as a triangle of light spills into the alley and a spotty youth comes out of the back door, clutching a bag of rubbish. The youth heaves it without looking towards the bin— narrowly missing Sev— and goes around the corner to light a cigarette.

Sev moves carefully past the bins to peek through the open door— the kitchen is lit with achingly bright fluorescents, and seems to be empty, closed for the night. He looks around and sees boxes and boxes of liquor, lining the shelves above the pantry.

Severus takes the flask from his pocket, wheels his arm back and hurls it with all his might.

It shatters against the wall.

He doesn’t stick around to see the results— slipping back through the alley, heedless of the alarmed cries of the youth, he runs back across the street and vaults over a low fence into the shadowy safety between two buildings. There, heart racing, he finally turns to watch his handiwork unfold.

An orange sheet of flame snakes up into the night and screams fill the air, smoke billowing through the windows as the occupants of the pub pour out in a panic.

Severus sees his dad amongst the throng, bewildered and red-faced in outrage, still clutching his half-drunk pint.

He smiles to himself, and goes home.