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Chapter Text

1976

May

Severus jolts to a sudden stop in front of her, and May’s vision goes black. She feels his calloused hand on her eyelids. 

“Don’t look in,” he whispers into her ear, voice cracking. 

May doesn’t need to look. She can smell coppery blood wafting through the door. She can hear Severus’s ragged breathing. She can feel his erratic heartbeat when he pulls her closer to his chest in an attempt to shield her from whatever massacre lay waiting behind the stone walls. 

“We should find a professor immediately,” she says. 

The edges of his hair tickle her neck as he shakes his head. “No. We can’t prove our innocence in such a situation, and if we’re implicated, the whole sequence of what we’ve done might be dragged out…”

May doesn’t need to look to know that there is a victim. And that the victim is human. And that the human is someone whose identity she could now pinpoint with near certainty.

His grip on her loosens slightly, and she takes the opportunity to rip his hand off her face. Through the blurry window, she glimpses a messy head of black hair surrounded by a steadily growing pool of something dark, fed by a stream of blood flowing from an abdomen. 

Severus wastes no time in sliding through the door. Rooted to the spot – throat shriveled up, head filled with a painful buzzing – May watches as he walks towards James Potter’s body, kneels down, and pulls out his wand. 

After what feels like an eternity stuck in limbo, she forces her right foot to move forward, then her left one, then right again, until she’s inside the classroom. Carefully, she closes the door behind her.

The first thing she notices is the stench of blood and how it makes her want to gag. The second is the disassembled clock lying on the edge of the table and how its bright red second hand drips crimson onto the floor beneath. 

The buzzing in her head is replaced with Severus’s song-like whisper, and she watches – half-conscious, half-trancelike – as Potter’s stab wound closes, as the color begins returning to his ghostly face. 

“What are you doing?” she forces out. 

“Healing him,” Severus responds. With another wave of his wand, the floor is once again pristine. “What are people going to think if they found his body in our classroom?” 

“Fuck. What do we do now?”

Severus rubs a hand down his face, leaving an ugly red smear in its wake. “I don’t know. We can memory-charm him as soon as he wakes up to ensure his silence.”

She swallows the bile, focusing on the feeling of acid burning her throat, letting it overpower the omnipresent coppery odor that would now permanently tint her senses. She closes her eyes, wishing for nothing more but to reverse the spinning of the clock hands – to force it to rotate backwards twelve-hour period by twelve-hour period – until she is back in a time when everything was fine.

So, she walks towards the broken clock. 

Cleans off the dried blood with a wave of her wand. 

Puts the second hand back in. 

Pulls on it desperately. 

She sees bright red droplets splattering across the white clock face but doesn’t feel the sting of the hand’s sharp edges. She hears Severus calling her somewhere in the far distance, but her consciousness is already trapped in the past. 

1968

“Mama, why are we leaving Ye Ye and Nai Nai?”

“It’s not safe to stay.”

“Where are we going?”

“A better place.”

“Will we ever come back?”

“I don’t know. Do not ask so many questions.”

Mama turned towards the window, and I saw a tear sliding down her cheek, leaving a sparkling trail in its wake. I tugged on her sleeve.

“Are you okay, Mama ?”

Slowly, she turned around, then crouched down and looked me in the eyes. Her expression was unreadable.

“We’re moving to England. Nobody there speaks Mandarin. Mama and Baba don’t have connections there like we do here. We won’t have much money - no more expensive toys, no more servants, no more playmates that you can order around. Baba and I will be out working a lot of the time.”

She took a deep breath before going on. “Will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“When you turn eleven, you will go to a magical school called Hogwarts. There are a lot of very important people there,” she said. “Promise Mama that you will work twice as hard as everyone else. You will climb to the top. You will make sure everyone there sees how talented my little girl is.”

I thought about the last few weeks - the fights with Baba, the soft sobs coming from her room in the middle of the night, the bleak atmosphere that had settled over our home like a cold, suffocating sheet.

“Will it make you and Baba happy?”

She paused for a moment. “Yes.”

“Okay, I promise.”

She cupped my face in her hands and then kissed me softly on the cheek. When she pulled away, her eyes were dry and she was smiling softly.

“Mama loves you the most.”

At eight, I just wanted to hear those words from her again. But at eight, I didn’t understand what my promise meant. I didn’t understand that climbing wasn’t only about grit. I didn’t understand that I had to beat a system that was built against me, or that beating the system meant dragging someone else down to be ridiculed in my stead.

I didn’t understand that my promise entailed a sacrifice – a sacrifice of my happiness, my integrity, my general sanity – all so that I could reach some ill-defined, imaginary summit.

I didn't even understand what "climbing to the top" meant.

By the time I wanted to stop – by the time my mother's words had lost their meaning – it was already too late.

Chapter Text

September 1973

Severus

“Welcome back, Snivelly!” 

Severus sprints up the last set of staircases, lungs burning. Two sets of heavy footsteps ricochet close behind him. He reaches the seventh floor with a sharp gasp of air, feeling a familiar metallic taste spread through his mouth. 

“Where are you running off to, Snivelly?” Black teases menacingly. “A special Dark Arts class for you disgusting snakes?”

Suddenly, the clack of expensive shoes against marble floors cease. He doesn’t stop running, doesn’t stop to wonder what suddenly deterred his bullies from their chase. Just as the bell rings, he pushes open the door to Room 7A: third-year Arithmancy. 

An aged wizard sits at a desk in the left corner of the classroom. A quick glance at the blackboard tells him that there is, unfortunately, assigned seating. His eyes roam over the chart, searching for Evans, Lily . He finds, with a small sigh of disappointment, that Huang, Cindy is written next to it. 

“Your name, Mister?” the Professor says, suddenly appearing right behind him. 

Severus jolts upwards. “Snape, sir. Severus Snape.”

“Fourth row, next to the window,” he instructs. “Do endeavor to arrive more than three seconds before the bell.”

The class snickers. 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles.

He makes his way to the back of the classroom and slumps down in his chair, still trying to tame his ragged breathing. The Professor introduces himself. His name is Septimus Vector, he has such-and-such experience in the subject, he is glad the young minds of Wizarding Britain are still interested in the revolutionary study that is Arithmancy…

Severus stops listening. He chose Arithmancy because it had certain applications in advanced potions. And because Lily thought it would be interesting. 

He finds the latter reason rather embarrassing.

“Let’s begin,” Professor Vector finally announces. “I would advise all of you to pull out something to take notes with.”

Severus forces himself to refocus. Before Vector vanishes the seating chart with a wave of his wand, he glimpses the name next to his: Shen, May . It sounds familiar, but he can’t pinpoint why.

Vector briefly goes over the basic mathematical operations, though based on the scrunched eyebrows and head-rubbing sprinkled throughout the room, at least half of his moronic classmates do not remember grade-school math. 

Oblivious, Vector writes a practice problem on the board. “Work with your seat partners to solve this problem. In the meantime, introduce yourselves – you will be partners for the rest of the year.”

A mixture of excited squeals and suppressed groans echo across the room. To her credit, Shen stays silent, as does he. 

She turns towards him, hand outstretched. “May Shen. Nice to meet you.”

He barely contains a scoff. No one thought it was nice to meet him : not at Cokeworth, where he was the witch-boy; not at Hogwarts, where he was Golden Boy James Potter’s favorite boxing dummy. However, if there was one thing Lucious Malfoy had taught him, it was that he did himself no good “antagonizing every wizard who had the misfortune of attempting to make his acquaintance”.

So, he shakes her hand with an impassive stare. “Severus Snape.”

She gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve heard you’re a potions prodigy.”

He arches his eyebrow sardonically. “From whom?”

“Professor Slughorn, of course,” she responds, ignoring his tone.

Of course. Slughorn and Lily are the only two people who would have something nice to say about him. He supposes he should appreciate her attempts at cordiality, but he rather wishes she would shed the facade. Being a fellow third-year, she must know all about his crude humiliation and the widespread mockery his presence generally incurs. 

“Have you finished the problem?” she asks politely after a moment of strained silence. 

“The answer is twenty.”

“Okay, I got the same thing.”

Suddenly, the familiarity of Shen, May hits him. He’s heard her name whispered in the Great Hall – her and Cindy Huang, the two girls who were neck-to-neck, tied first and second in their year. He’s also heard that a Gryffindor boy who mocked her for her heritage was implicated for some crime and suspended for a month. 

Mulciber had once remarked that she was untouchable, but that he wouldn’t want to touch a prissy Ravenclaw like her anyway. 

Severus had scoffed in disgust at that comment.

Vector recommences the lesson, and Shen turns back to her desk, bent over a page of obsessively neat, color-coded notes. Less than five minutes into the second part of the lesson, Severus is lost. The man is drawing graphs on the board, droning on about “variables” and “functions”. The rest of the class seems to share Severus’s sentiments. 

Except Shen. 

In a self-satisfied voice, she answers one of his questions, earning five points for Ravenclaw. 

“Turn to your partners again,” continues Vector, writing a new problem on the board, “and try to solve this.”

Shen writes something on her parchment, purple ink spreading across the paper like a typewriter churning out text. 

Soon, she looks up. “Can I see your graph?”

“What, can’t solve it on your own?” 

“Just want to check my work,” she responds monotonically. She pushes the parchment towards him.

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, the rest of us don’t know what the bloody hell the Professor’s going on about.”

She isn’t fazed. “Understandable, I suppose. He did move rather quickly.”

A prissy Ravenclaw indeed .

Right when Vector calls for the class’s attention, the bell signaling the end of class rings. Amidst the hurried shuffling of parchment and loud scraping of chairs, Vector yells: “Homework! Do problems one through fifteen on page ten of your textbook by next class!”

“Prick,” Severus mutters under his breath. 

Just as he is about to leave, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Uhm, I was wondering if you wanted to work on the homework together,” Shen offers tentatively. “Or if you, like, need help on anything.”

Is this a pity project or a cruel trap?

“I have no desire to be a Ravenclaw’s ego boost,” he responds coolly. 

For the first time since the start of class, she looks affronted, though her disdain is quickly masked by a stony expression. “Suit yourself.”

She pushes past him, flipping her sleek, black ponytail over her shoulder. He ignores her, already focused on a dark red streak drifting through the classroom and out the door. He trails it, finding his best friend standing just outside the exit. There, unfortunately, he comes face to face with Shen once more. She has her arm linked around Huang’s, while Huang is in conversation with Lily. 

“...Great Hall after dinner, then?” Huang finishes. 

“Works for me!” Lily says. He taps her on the shoulder, and she turns around with a bright smile. “Oh, Sev!”

“Hey.”

“How’d you find the lesson?” she asks. 

He almost tells her it was easy, but he meets May’s cold gaze. “A bit difficult to follow, though I blame the Professor.”

LIly breathes a sigh of relief. “Good, I thought it was just me! I’m actually studying with Cindy after dinner today, if you want to join, that is—”

She turns to Cindy awkwardly. To Severus’s dismay, the girl graciously replies: “Of course, we don’t mind.”

“Cindy here is really good at Arithmancy, and she’s willing to tutor us!” Lily exclaims excitedly.

“A-and May, as well,” Cindy adds hurriedly. “Sorry, I haven’t introduced you guys – Lily, this is May. May, this is Lily. Honestly, May is probably better at Arithmancy than I am, and she’s a really great tutor.”

May grins at her friend. “You sell yourself short.”

Lily extends her hand. “Well, it looks like we have the two best Arithmancy students at our disposal! It’s nice to meet you, May.”

We have? Our disposal?

“You as well,” May replies, tone warmer than it was with Severus. 

He coughs. “I think I’ll be studying on my own. It can’t be that difficult to figure out.”

Lily looks at him imploringly. “Please, Sev. It can’t hurt to have an extra study session.”

“A-alright, I suppose,” he mutters, feeling the rising heat in his face, accompanied by the fluttery beating of his heart. 

“Great! We’ll all meet by the entrance of the Great Hall at eight, then,” May says, a poorly-concealed smugness spreading across her features. 

May

She and Cindy leave the odd Syltherin-Gryffindor pair and make their way to the Ravenclaw dorms.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you out back there…” Cindy starts.

“What? Oh, no, it was fine,” May responds, suddenly uncomfortable. Had she once gotten upset over something so small? “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cindy’s shoulders relax. “O-okay. Are you, uhm, okay with them studying…?”

“Yeah, of course,” she assures. “Actually, I offered to help Snape, but he rudely rejected me.”

Cindy frowns. “I’ve heard he has an attitude.”

“Mhm. Told me he has no desire to be a Ravenclaw’s ‘ego-boost,’” she laments, putting the last two venomous words in air-quotes. “And I genuinely wasn’t rude about it. Guess some boys just think they’re above help from a girl.”

“Ugh. Well, I’m sorry I unintentionally invited him.”

“No worries,” May says. “I wouldn’t have asked him in the first place had he not been the top of our class in Potions.”

In Ravenclaw-Slytherin double potions last year, she ended up next to Snape and some other distasteful Slytherin already knee-deep in Dark Arts and blood supremacy. She spent the first nine months tuning them out, but during one of the last weeks, she noticed Snape’s textbook as she passed by to pick up ingredients: it was covered in a spidery script, substitutions and alterations littered across the yellowing pages. 

She realized, then, that it was no coincidence his potions bested hers every single class – that Slughorn always saved the otherwise unremarkable boy his glowing praise – even though she followed the textbook instructions to a tee.

Cindy snorts. “Smart. Planning some sort of exchange?”

“I’m hoping, but given his attitude, I’m not so sure.”

“We can play good cop, bad cop.”

May smirks, reminded once more of why Cindy was her best friend. “Definitely worth a shot.”

“I’ll be the hostile one,” the other girl offers quickly. 

Perfect. 

“Sounds good.”

The pair arrive in front of the eagle door knocker. To their relief, the damned thing swings open, and one of their housemates walk out. He gives them a sympathetic smile.

“I honestly hate this thing,” May mutters under her breath. “We just had a long day at school, and it wants to give us a bloody riddle. Does nothing to keep the other Houses out because the so-called puzzles don’t require more than two brain cells, a bit of energy, and thirty seconds to solve.”

“Exactly,” Cindy agrees. 

May and Cindy walk up the familiar, winding stairs to the girls’ dorms. A few flights later, May pushes open the door labelled Year 3 . Inside the dorm lies five four-poster beds, complete with midnight blue canopies and walnut bedposts. Intricate bronze carvings are splattered across the room, from the small chandelier on the ceiling to the edges of the windows overlooking the sprawling Hogwarts grounds. 

Thankfully, the space is devoid of her dormmates. She has nothing against them, really, save for the occasional spats that inevitably come with rooming with five people for ten months of the year. She just likes Cindy the best. 

She likes Cindy’s undivided attention the best. 

Resisting the urge to flop down on her bed, May pulls out her fresh pile of homework with a sigh. It was easy enough – an improvement, really, from the painful equations and migraine-inducing texts assigned by her father as “summer reading” – but she would have to finish it soon if she wanted to tutor Evans and Snape tonight.

—

Four sets of footsteps echo through the deserted third floor. She, Cindy, Evans, and Snape are searching for the unused classroom May remembers stumbling across in her second year. 

“Why don’t we just use the library?” Snape asks impatiently.

“May and I studied here last year,” Cindy responds, voice frigid. “Though you’re more than welcome to leave.”

“I was simply pointing out a logical alternative, seeing as your sense of direction leaves much to be desired.”

“We’ve arrived,” May interrupts, stopping in front of Classroom 3E. Slowly, she pushes the creaking door open to reveal a dimly lit space filled with dusty desks and a neglected blackboard. On the back wall lies a clock, permanently displaying five hours, forty-five minutes and ten seconds. 

“How lovely,” Snape remarks sarcastically. 

Evans elbows him in the ribs. “Quit being so negative, would you? I think it’s nice.”

With an incantation and a wave of her wand, May dispels the grime covering the unused classroom.

“I didn’t expect you two to be rule-breakers,” Snape says. 

“It’s not explicitly against the rules,” Cindy retorts. “Plus, no one comes in here – not even Filch to clean. We’re actually doing something good by maintaining this place.”

“Sure. Looked very maintained when we walked in.”

“Well, excuse us for not sneaking into Hogwarts this summer to dust off our favorite room.”

“Let’s get to studying, guys,” May suggests. “I’ll take Severus, and Cindy can work with Lily.”

“I’ll be fine on my own,” responds Snape stubbornly. 

Evans gives him a stern look. “Sev, please.”

“I’ll be nice,” he agrees begrudgingly. At Evans’s raised eyebrows, he adds: “And I’ll ask for help if I need it.”

“Great. I’ll be here if you need anything, then,” May says, exchanging an amused smirk with Cindy.

The group separates, with Evans and Cindy setting their bags in the corner of the room furthest from the door. Cindy begins writing something on the board, while Lily nods along, occasionally asking a question. May plops down next to Snape and pulls out her half-completed Transfiguration essay. 

It takes about ten minutes for the boy next to her to sit still, casting sidelong glances at her instead of the textbook problems. She waits for him to initiate conversation. 

“Uhm, I think…I don’t quite understand number one,” he finally mutters. “I don’t think Vector went over this in class.”

She turns to him immediately. “Oh, this. The first thing you need to do is solve…”

The rest of the lesson crawls by in resentfully-posed questions and slow scratches of chalk against blackboard. Snape, she realizes, is a sharp student – quick to understand, quick to make crude excuses for his lapses in knowledge, quick to scathingly retort to any criticism. Despite his difficult temperament, they manage to finish the homework before Cindy and Evans. 

“Is there anything you want to review?” she asks as he boxes his final answer for the tenth problem. 

“No.”

“Okay, well, let me know if you need help. I’ll be in here most days unless there’s orchestra rehearsal, and you can talk to me during class.”

With a dramatic throw of his head, Snape sighs. “Just tell me what you want from me.”

“What d’you mean?”

A scoff. “I know I’m one of the most hated students in our year – hell, probably in this whole bloody school. Why are you helping me?”

“Because you’re my seat partner,” she answers easily. “You heard Vector – we’re supposed to work together.”

“Cut the bullshite.”

“You first. Quit acting like an arsehole.”

“Fine. Please tell me what you want from me.”

She mulls over the options in her head: either she maintains her alleged belief in Vector’s spiel about teamwork and potentially garner even deeper mistrust, or she reveals her true intentions and faces direct rejection. 

“Since you asked so nicely, I want to see your Potions’ textbook,” she says. Option one was a straight-out lie; option two left some room for bargaining. 

He scrunches his eyebrows in an expression of equal parts surprise and confusion. “What?”

“I want to see your Year 3 Potions’ textbook,” she repeats. “I noticed you had annotations in your book last year. I followed the textbook instructions word-for-word, but my potions were never as good as yours.”

“Perhaps,” he responds arrogantly, “I’m simply the better potioneer.”

“Shocking,” she drawls. “That’s probably why you made those annotations.”

“There are no annotations.”

“Sure.”

“So the tutoring offer is no longer up, is it?”

A test of loyalty? How juvenile.

“No, it is. I’ll be here Wednesday after class if you need help.”

—

Amidst the quiet murmurs of confused students and rhythmic chopping of ingredients, a pale hand slides a sheet of paper onto her workstation during Slytherin-Ravenclaw double potions. 

On it is the recipe for Shrinking Solution, its edges jagged, as if ripped straight out of a textbook. The yellowing, crinkled paper is covered in a thin, spidery scrawl, complete with long-dried blotches of ink and hastily crossed-out-then-rewritten words. She turns the fragile thing around to find a note scribbled in the margins: 

It’s yours to keep – I’ve memorized the procedure. I don’t like leaving favors unpaid.

Chapter Text

March 1974

Severus

Over the course of the year, he and Shen settled into the comfortable rhythm of tutoring and potions-recipe exchanges. Some point after Christmas break, he decided she wasn’t half-bad. They’ve made the habit of waving when they pass by each other in the halls, where she is occasionally surrounded by girls with blue-and-bronze ties and nearly never without Huang by her side.

Huang, he doesn’t like so much. She put up the nice-girl facade after their first day in the classroom, but he suspected it was only because she was leeching off his potions annotations, being May’s partner. 

For Lily’s sake, he tolerated her.

Their study room, too, has become a sanctuary from the noisy students and torturous encounters with Potter, who manages to lurk in every corner of the castle. 

Unfortunately, he is assaulted by an arrogant voice as he ascends the stairs to said room.

“Hey, Sniv!” shouts Potter from below. “Playing hooky, are we?”

“I don’t have a class this period,” Severus hisses, spinning around quickly, fingers clenched around his wand. “And don’t make me hex you.”

“ Expelliarmus! ” shouts a voice from behind Potter. Black emerges with an insolent grin, Severus’s wand in hand. “You won’t be practicing Dark Magic on anyone today, Snivellus.”

“Of course you have one of your cronies with you,” taunts Severus. He might be defenseless, but he isn’t about to comply with whatever loathsome plan the Gryffindors have in store. “Can’t face me alone, can you?”

His statement wipes the sickly smirk off Potter’s now beet-red face. “ Flipendo! ”

Severus swerves to his right, barely dodging the jinx that would’ve sent him tumbling down the stairs and onto the marble floor, immobilized in a pile of his own blood. He’s about to lunge for Black and retrieve his wand when the boy casts the jelly-legs jinx at him – another shot he expertly avoids. 

“ Stupefy! ” 

Severus stops in his tracks, half-expecting to stiffen and hit his head against the hard stone edges of the stairs. However, it’s Potter that crumples to the floor. In another quick flash of red light, Black is down too, mouth half-open in a scream. 

Behind them, wand raised, stands Shen. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, she steps over their bodies and grabs his arm, dragging him up the stairs, through the empty halls, and into Classroom 3E. The door slams shut behind them with a gust of air. 

Under the dim lighting of their refuge, he stares at her – consciousness still stuck in the stairwell – mouth agape.

“I’ve always hated Potter,” she says, dropping her bag on the nearest chair with a loud thud . 

“O-oh.”

What does one say to their saviour?

“I would’ve been fine on my own,” he mutters, having managed to collect himself.

“It was two-against-one.”

“It was.”

Then, after experimenting with the feeling of the unfamiliar words on the tip of his tongue: “T-thanks, I suppose.”

“My pleasure, really.”

“Uhm, did anyone see us?”

“Don’t think so,” she replies, hopping back onto the desk behind her. “We’re in the clear. Just don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Yeah, of course,” he promises. Then, unable to contain the question: “Why’d you do it?”

She gives him an odd look. “Because I hate those arrogant arseholes, strutting around the castle like they own the place. Neither Potter nor Black seem to have a grasp on the fact that other people are humans with emotions, nor that their actions have the immense capacity to hurt – hell, the morons probably don’t have a single thought in those hollow skulls of theirs. I wish people like them didn’t exist.”

For the first time in years, he feels the upward turning of the corners of his mouth – the rising, tingling warmth of fondness – for someone other than Lily. “We might be the only people in Hogwarts who feel that way, you and Lily and I.”

“Cindy, too,” May adds absentmindedly, not noticing his frown at the mention of her friend’s name. “Good thing we all found each other, then.”

—

June 1974

“I think I failed that test,” May exclaims as soon as they step out of the Arithmancy classroom. 

Severus doesn’t bother suppressing his eye roll. “I’m sick of hearing that.”

“No, really! What did you get on question thirty-three? And eight? And the graphing question? And the very last problem?”

Huang sighs, long used to her friend’s bouts of post-test anxiety. “One by one, please. What was number thirty-three again?”

“I don’t remember the question,” May answers shakily. “Just that I got one-thousand three-hundred and…something. It was a suspiciously large number.”

“I remember getting that,” Lily confirms. 

May’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “Oh, thank Merlin. And eight? That was the one about the applications of linear functions in potions. I really should’ve reviewed practical applications more thoroughly…”

“I put option B, and I’m sure it’s right,” replies Severus. “I was actually going to ask about the graphing one, too.”

May rubs her temples. “B? Crap, I think I put D.”

“You might be remembering wrong,” Huang says, placing a comforting hand on her friend’s back. 

“No, no. I’m sure I put D because it was my third D in a row, but it seemed like the best option!”

“It’s only one question,” Lily soothes. 

“And it could be the difference between an O and an E!”

“Statistically unlikely,” Severus points out.

May ignores him. “And even if it wasn’t, I shouldn’t have gotten such an easy question wrong – hell, I shouldn’t be getting any of these questions wrong. I spent my summers doing Arithmancy problems in my father’s office while everyone else was out playing in the sun, telling myself that it would all be worth something. What was it all for, if I lose the highest score to someone who actually enjoyed their childhood?”

Huang wraps her arm around May’s shoulder, whispering something placating in her ear, while Lily takes her hand. Unsure of how to act, Severus pulls out a sheet of parchment from his bag and sketches what he remembers from the graphing problem. 

“S-sorry, guys. I don’t mean to sound conceited,” May finally says, voice raspy. “I just don’t want to disappoint my parents again.”

“Don’t worry, we understand,” assures Lily. Huang pats May’s back again, murmuring more consolations. Severus nods in what he hopes is a sympathetic manner. 

May disentangles herself from the girls’ bubble of support, reaching for the parchment in his hand. “Let’s look at the graph.”

May

Horrible. 

I sound horrible.

May leans against the wall of the practice room, heaving panicky, dry sobs. The damned piece of metal in her hand feels icy, and when she brings it to her lips, it emits a thin, pathetic noise. Shakily, she opens her practice book to the page Chloe recommended, the notes blurry through a film of tears. 

It’s okay. I have it memorized. It’s okay.

After sucking in a quivery breath, she pushes the air through her lips. It hits the rim of the embouchure hole, splitting into a shallow B-flat and an ugly, residual wind that travels through and out of her flute.

She can’t help it. Not the hyperventilation that amplifies her vile tone, nor the vile tone that amplifies her hyperventilation.

There’s a soft knock on the door, followed by: “Can I come in?”

Using her hands, May quickly wipes away the wetness on her eyes.

“S-sure,” she forces out. Behind her, the door opens by a sliver, and in slips Cindy. Chloe Huang, Cindy’s older sister, follows.

Chloe places her hand on May’s shoulder. “You’ll do just fine. We’ve practiced the duet a million times.”

May nods numbly. 

“I know you’re worried about your intonation,” Chloe continues. “Have you done that long tones exercise?”

“I-I can’t,” May whispers, voice croaky. “It’s so airy.”

Cindy pushes a bottle of water into her hand. With fumbling fingers, May uncorks it and takes a long swallow, feeling the liquid inch painfully down her contracting throat.

“Take a deep breath,” Chloe says soothingly. “It’s airy because you’re shaking so badly.”

So, May tries. She takes in a wobbly gulp of air, exhales, and repeats her mantra. 

It’s okay. Everything is okay. 

“We always sound amazing during practice,” Chloe murmurs, rubbing her hand against May’s back.

We will sound great.

May cringes at the empty words. How could she tell herself they would be fine when she just sounded like a dying animal? How could she give herself false hope, knowing she would be soon hit with cruel reality under the blinding lights of the stage?

Chloe, she knew, would sound like an angel, the same way Cindy would end up top of the class this year. Inevitably, she would go home to Mama ’s acidic comparisons and Baba ’s sighs of disappointment, until one day, their expectations dissolved, and their daydreams of a perfect daughter faded into ash. 

And even then, she would continue to fight for a morsel of validation, the same way she has done her whole life: for she knew no other purpose; for studying only felt worthwhile when she received full marks on an exam; for playing flute only brought her joy in the fleeting moment of her final note lifting beautifully into the distance, in the short but thunderous applause that followed.

So, the hours upon hours of sitting through stuffy rehearsals, of locking herself in this room in the early morning hours before her first class, would be thoroughly wasted if tonight didn’t go exactly as she hoped. And there was the matter of Severus and Lily listening in the audience, of their piteous smiles and sickening compliments should she make a fool of herself on stage. 

Finally, it was Chloe’s last concert. She would never again play with her mentor of the past three years, never again step into the auditorium with the older girl’s comforting presence enveloping her. 

For Chloe, their last performance needed to be flawless.

With the weight of it all resting on her shoulders, compressing her lungs, she wheezed out sob after sob, promise after promise. 

If this goes well, I will study every day of the summer without complaint.

If this goes well, I will make a real effort to befriend my other dormmates.

If this goes well, I will…

If this goes well, if this goes well, if this goes well…

In the meantime, Cindy is whispering something in her ear, something about how she will do just fine and how everyone will be proud no matter what. Chloe is telling her to remember to add vibrato on the longer notes, to remember that the domed hall would mask any tonal imperfections.

She is pulled out of her trance by another knock on the door, the voice behind it informing them that the concert was about to begin.

—

The first part of the set is always a full ensemble selection, chosen by Flitwick. Throughout the piece, she concentrates on the noise emitting out of the end of her flute. Does it sound in-tune? Does it sound full? Does it sound pretty?

All too soon, the sound of clapping hands from below reach her ears: far away, distorted, piercing. Flitwick begins to speak: exclaims that the Hogwarts orchestra had an amazing year; introduces their most outstanding player from their graduating class – though, of course, they had plenty of outstanding players, and he was incredibly proud; announces that Miss Chloe Huang would be playing the famed and beautiful Shostakovich Waltz No. 2, arranged for two flutes, with one of their talented third-year musicians. 

“And with that, please welcome Miss Cindy Huang and Miss May Shen to the stage!”

In a daze – with the noise of the audience echoing around the auditorium until it makes its way, warped and muffled, to her ears, with the blistering overhead lights that send sticky beads of sweat rolling down her back – May steps to the front of the stage before the heavy velvet curtains shut behind her. 

She closes her eyes.

Inhales. 

Exhales.

It’s just her and Chloe, in their practice room, featherlight notes breaking tranquility.

Avoiding the dark chasm of blurred faces before her, she turns towards Chloe, shares a reassuring smile, and feels the rhythm of the waltz. 

One-two-three one-two-three. One-two-three one-two three.

With a nod and breath, Chloe cues her in. 

And they started, the staccato notes filling the room before they are overlaid by Chloe’s beautiful, suspenseful melody. The next three minutes pass in a flurry of flowing melodious lines and metronomic harmonies. With all but the music, her flute, and the slight tapping of her foot fading into the background, she easily slides through the rapid arpeggios and crisp ornaments.

She and Chloe play their last chord, striking it in perfect synchrony, basking in the nearly-tangible, wispy remnants of sound travelling across the seats and up to the dazzling ceiling. Only until the note is fully absorbed by the air does the audience, broken out of their trance, begin their rounds of echoing applause. The two girls take a deep bow, soaking in the unspoken praise and lasting high of a breathtaking performance. 

For the first time since she stepped to the front of the stage, the murky film over the audience lifts, and May lets herself search for familiar faces in the sea of students. In the front row, she can see Cindy’s proud smile. About halfway back, she spots dark red waves under the dim glow, and next to it, a head of limp black hair. With her gaze fixed on the two newer audience members, she breaks her lofty countenance with a small upturn of the corners of her lips.

With Chloe following her, May disappears back into the orchestra, heart jumping erratically in her throat, fingers trembling from the shock of success. Carefully, she smooths her gown and sits back down, now hidden from the view of the audience.

“We did amazing,” Chloe whispers, her warm breath tickling the shell of May’s ear.

—

After the concert, she finds Cindy, Severus, and Lily gathered outside of the auditorium. 

“You sounded so great!” Cindy exclaims, handing her a bouquet of red roses. 

“Thanks,” May says, smiling widely.

“You were stunning up there,” Lily adds. “I wish I had come to these concerts earlier.”

Severus nods in agreement, the twitch of his mouth betraying his customarily dispassionate expression. “I enjoyed it, too. Congratulations.”

May thanks them all once more before she feels a tap on her shoulder. 

Chloe grins down at her, a matching bouquet in hand. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“The aftermath of it, I suppose,” May responds with a laugh.

“Well, now you know there’s nothing to be nervous about,” Cindy says. “The solos will be all yours, next year.”

“We don’t know that for sure…”

Cindy shakes her head, chuckling. “Always so humble. I was just speaking to Flitwick, and he said you’re practically guaranteed first chair.”

Intertwined with the relief she feels at her superior’s reassurance, there is a stinging twinge of bittersweetness rising in her chest. So, she wraps her arms around Chloe’s waist – remembering Chloe, standing up proudly after her solo features; remembering her younger self, brimming with anticipation that it would one day be her absorbing the encores; facing, now, the reality of having to confront it all alone without her mentor by her side.

Part of her yearns for the safety of wishing, for the three years of orchestra that blended into one. 

She didn’t like change, much.

Head buried in Chloe’s gown, May blinks the tears back. Only once she is sure that her breathing is even does she lift her eyes. 

“I’m going to miss you,” she says softly. 

“I’m going to miss you, too,” Chloe murmurs into May’s hair. 

“Not to interrupt,” Cindy cuts in, “but Mum and Dad are waving us over right now.”

Reluctantly, Chloe releases May, momentarily creating a cold, gaping hole in front of her.

“I have to go,” Chloe says. “But don’t be sad – I’ll see you at graduation, and I’ll be home for a couple weeks during the summer.”

May nods, waving at the sisters’ retreating figures. When she turns around, only Severus remains. 

“Where’s Lily?”

“Went to find some of her Gryffindor friends who performed.”

“Oh.”

“I think I’m going to go,” Severus mumbles, face pale and uncomfortable. Belatedly, May remembers that he doesn’t like crowds. 

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll come with you.”

Together, the two of them squeeze their way through throngs of students, smothered by the increasingly intolerable buzz of congratulations and goodbyes. 

“Are there any graduating Slytherins you’re going to miss?” May asks in an attempt to distract her friend from the oppressive atmosphere. 

Severus hesitates. “No, not particularly.”

“I won’t judge,” May teases.

“Lily disapproves,” Severus replies with an edge.

“Well, I’m not Lily,” May answers. Lily this, Lily that – the boy’s obsession with the redhead, once entertaining in its own pathetic way, became more and more irritating as he and May grew closer. “I couldn’t care less about who you interact with outside of this group.”

“Thank Merlin,” says Severus with a dramatic sigh. “Lily’s going mad about the fact that I’m attending graduation for Lucius.”

May has heard the name Lucius Malfoy uttered in both awe and disgust. His association with the rising “Dark Lord” is well-known throughout the school, though part of her questions its truth: if the situation is really so dire, wouldn’t the professors – even with their relative uselessness – do something about blatantly illegal activity?

“I see,” she responds, pushing the door open. Next to her, Severus breathes deeply, glad to be out of the stuffy room. “From my experience, the moment they leave is when it hurts the most. They fade away soon enough – both the person and the emotion.”

“Lucius Malfoy is the only one who recognizes my talent,” Severus says, words laced with bitterness. “I’m not planning to let him fade away, as you put it.”

With a frown, May logs the information in the back of her mind. Malfoy, like all powerful men, is bound to become dangerous. Refusing to associate with that type of danger leaves her with only two options – either cut Severus off from her, or cut Severus off from the simmering toxicity that is Slytherin House.

Chapter Text

Summer 1974

Severus

Severus plops down on the swingset, cringing at the creak of its rusted iron chain under his weight. He pulls a velvety envelope out of his pocket and carefully smooths the crumpled and bloodied corner. The embellished Malfoy crest stares up at him, painfully out of place in his dirty hand and patched-up sleeves. 

His father, drunk from another early-morning episode of his ever-resurfacing mid-life crisis, had gotten his hands on the letter before Severus could snatch it away. Luckily, the drunkard was too inebriated to recognize the trademark intricately decorated envelope of Wizarding World mail, so he discarded it with an annoyed huff and a heavy blow to his son’s jaw. After escaping to the safety of the Cokeworth park – slightly early for his meeting with Lily – Severus peeled open his prized letter.

Dear Severus,

I sincerely hope this letter arrived at the right address. I know you come from humble origins, but I was not quite expecting a Muggle town with such an unpleasant name. 

Briefly transported back to Lucius’s disgusted scrunching of his nose upon hearing Cokeworth , Severus almost regrets giving the pureblood his mailing address. Almost – for Lucius’s long-anticipated news outweighs whatever shame he felt at his poor upbringing. 

Perhaps I should applaud you for your exceptional ability to rise out of such poverty. I am writing to inform you that I have spoken with Mister Rodolphus Lestrange. I’m sure you have heard his name in the papers – he has recently inherited the Lestrange fortune following his father’s unfortunate passing. Being the distinguished individual he is, he has also risen in the ranks of the noble forces that fight for the purity of Wizardkind. I have recently made his acquaintance, and I have learned that said forces are currently in search of a brilliant potioneer. 

You are still young, of course, but if you continue to show potential, I will recommend you in due time. I have no doubts that your abilities, even at fourteen, put that of most adult wizards to shame. Continue studying hard at Hogwarts, and remember our cause. 

Expect to receive an invitation to my wedding with Narcissca in the near future. She has grown quite fond of you, and I am willing to arrange whatever is necessary so that you can attend. 

Sincerely, 

Lucius Malfoy

Heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy

His previously sour expression breaks into an unrestrained smile, his eyes skimming the lines once more—

—brilliant potioneer…

…I have no doubts that your abilities, even at fourteen, put that of most adult wizards to shame…

…remember our cause.

He would remember their cause. 

He would hold it very close to his heart, if it meant he could grow closer to – if it meant he could become one with – the likes of Lucius Malfoy.

“Boo!” 

Severus jolts upwards to the sound of a girl’s voice, his eyes suddenly covered by soft, pale hands. 

“Guess who?”

He scoffs, bemused. “What a difficult game. Must be Tuney.”

Lily laughs. “Silly.”

“C’mon, Lily. Lift your hands.”

Behind him, she is silent. Belatedly, he remembers the letter in his hands, open wide, the words “ fight for the purity of Wizardkind” glinting under the afternoon sunlight. His fingers move to fold the incriminating thing in half, but Lily is faster. In a swift swing of her right arm, she frees one of his eyes and snatches the letter away. 

“Malfoy has your address?” she asks, clearly unsettled. 

“Yes, but–”

Her face loses its playfulness as her gaze travels down the parchment. 

“Not a bad offer, is it?” he says tentatively. 

“Not a bad offer?” she repeats shrilly. “You want to join an organization that wants to purify wizardkind? Have you even thought about how they’d do it?”

“T-they…by ensuring the quality of our education is all,” he answers carefully. “And by revealing ourselves to Muggles so that the world knows our true place.”

She glares at him, green eyes narrowed in contempt. “No! By exterminating people like me! Why do you think they call us Mudbloods?”

“Don’t use that word, Lily.”

“Don’t tell me what words I can and cannot use! I hear your Slytherin friends throwing it around all the time, promising violence and bloodshed for anyone who doesn’t have their oh-so-superior purity.”

He scoffs, tired of her constant slander of Avery and Mulciber – sure, they could be insufferable, but it’s not like he had a choice but to be cordial to the people with whom he spent the majority of his time at Hogwarts. “Let’s not pretend those four Gryffindor brats are any better.”

“You’re always bringing the conversation back to Potter,” she hisses. “Potter this, Potter that – look, I know Potter is an arse. But he’s better than a blood supremacist! He doesn’t support literal genocide!”

“You criticize them without understanding their true intentions.”

“Then, Merlin, help me understand!”

“I’ve tried explaining. You never listen.”

She sighs and rubs her hands down her face. “Because your explanations are sugar-coated words taken straight out of the mouths of bigots!”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Severus yells. He closes his eyes, trying to dampen his rising impatience. “Let’s just talk about something else, okay? I don’t want to fight.”

Lily crosses her arms. “We’re always deflecting this conversation. Don’t you understand? I’m a Muggleborn – I don’t want my best friend to join forces with the people who want me dead.”

“They don’t—”

“You know what, Sev? I don’t want to fight either,” Lily says with a tone of finality. “I’m leaving. Contact me when you’ve thought about what Malfoy’s offer really entails.”

So, ever a person of her word, Lily walks away – back turned – through the dilapidated playground and out onto the street, her dark red hair fading into the grayness of Cokeworth. Severus sits on the swingset, her name on the tip of his tongue, fresh blood dripping from the cut in his jaw and onto the rough ground below. 

May

Dear May, 

How’s your summer going? It’s so boring up here in Cokeworth that I finished my Arithmancy homework. My parents planned a trip to France next month, so I at least have that to look forward to.

I’m writing because I spoke to Sev the other day. Don’t tell him I told you this – though I’m sure you already know – but he’s getting more and more involved in the Slytherin circle that is associated with the Dark Arts and blood supremacy. He seems almost…set on joining them once he’s old enough, and I’m scared. 

I’ve tried talking him out of it, but he just won’t listen. I know this is a big favor to ask, but could you try to make him see reason? He’s a pretty reclusive person, but I know you two have grown closer, and I honestly don’t know who else to ask. I don’t think I can bear watching him go down such a horrible path.

Hope you enjoy the rest of your summer, and stay in contact (though I won’t be able to reply from Aug. 3-17 because I’ll be in Nice)!

Love, 

Lily

May finishes the letter with a frown and pulls out a piece of parchment and quill to write a reply. She’s sure Severus has some half-baked reason for wanting to join a cultish organization, but it shouldn’t be difficult to debunk. 

That is, unless he really is a blood supremacist. 

Considering his best friend is a Muggleborn, it doesn’t seem too likely. However, contracting a serious case of doublethink in Slytherin house isn’t exactly unlikely, either. 

Dear Lily…

Suddenly, the sound of piercing shouts and shattering glass emitting from downstairs abruptly ceases. Accustomed to Ma’s ritual of “checking up” on her after her fights with Ba , May quickly slides the letter under a page of Ba ’s Arithmancy problems and continues her work. Sure enough, Ma pushes open the door to her room moments later, eyes glossy with fresh tears, a letter with the Hogwarts seal in hand. 

“Have you been working?”

“Yes, Ma .”

Her mother sighs. “We got your grade report today.”

May feels a trembling feeling overtake her, pulse skyrocketing. “Oh.”

“I already opened it,” Ma continues, showing May the dreaded piece of paper. “Second in the class, again.”

“Oh,” May says again, heart dropping to her stomach. “Well, Cindy is probably first.”

Ma slams the report on her desk. “Not an ounce of ambition in you, is there? It’s just ‘Cindy is probably first, and I’m going to accept that’. Maybe it would’ve done you some good to be sorted in Slytherin – you’d see how people are supposed to live their lives!”

“Slytherin has its own problems.”

“Don’t change the topic!”

May doesn’t look up, doesn’t want Ma to see the tears welling in her eyes, doesn’t want to hear her mocking words (Cry? What good does it do to cry? If you worked harder, then, you wouldn’t be crying, now!) .

So, eyes firmly tilted down at the condemning “Rank: 2nd” and “ History of Magic: E” – voiced laced with bitterness – she feigns indifference. “History of Magic is a useless class. I don’t see why my grade matters.”

“It shows that you are incompetent!” Ma retorts. “Your school offers these classes, so they all have value. Do not make excuses for your poor time management.”

She wanted nothing more but for her mother to leave her alone. “Okay, sorry. I’ll work harder next year.”

“Always the empty promises! You’re just like your father – do you know what we were fighting about earlier? He put the plates on the drying rack all wrong again.”

“They’re just plates, Ma. ”

“No, they’re not! I tell him to remember little things all the time – don’t put so much salt in the chicken, don’t hang my sweaters up to dry, don’t rack the plates like that – and he never does!” she complains, voice shrill. “The problem with him – with you two – is that you don’t listen, and you don’t even bother to try. How am I supposed to live in this household?”

Downstairs, May hears a loud grunt as the front door slams shut. 

“And there he goes, heading out of the house again. I can’t reason with either of you.”

With her theatrical proclamation, Ma storms out of the room. Relieved, May tries to blink back the tears, but the action only pushes the droplets out of her eyes and onto the paper below, smearing her work. She watches as the tendrils of black ink, now diluted with water, spread across the thick parchment.

May crumples the thing up with renewed vigour and tosses it in the direction of the trash can behind her. Fate, mocking as always, ensures that the paper ball bounces off the rim and lands just outside her target. 

In a fit of spitefulness, she rips another piece of parchment off from the roll beneath her desk and scribbles: I hope I’m top of the class next year. Her shaking fingers smudge the last three words of her wish, leaving twin black trails on the ruined parchment and the side of her right hand. 

So, she balls it up and throws it – hard – towards her trash can. It misses. 

Another piece of parchment. 

I hope my parents divorce. I hope I never hear one of their inane fights ever again.

With a humorless laugh, she scrunches it up, throws again, and misses the blasted can by half a meter. 

Anger simmering just under her skin, she continues her ripping, scrawling, and throwing until the area around the trash can is surrounded by crumpled parchment covered in ugly words. As she goes to dip her quill for what must be the twentieth time, her wrist knocks the inkpot over. So, she throws her quill into the black puddle and watches with detached curiosity as the mess spreads over her desk, seeping through her page of Arithmancy problems. Too late, she pulls out Lily’s letter, finding it covered in dark splotches and half-legible writing. 

She stands in the middle of her room, watching the murky pool snake across her belongings, swiping the important ones off her desk before they could be tainted. When the monstrosity finally stops expanding – when her breathing is finally even, when the burning fire that fueled her tantrum finally fades into ash – she heads to her bathroom and brings back a roll of toilet paper to soak up the ink.

Then – a revolting combination of regret at her carelessness and shame at her outburst churning in her chest – she kneels on the ground, picks up the wads of saturated parchment, and throws them into the trash can.

One by one.

Chapter Text

September 1, 1974

Severus

He arrives at Diagon Alley’s apparition point, nauseated. Next to him, his mother isn’t faring much better – she’s doubled over, physically drained, black eye prominent against her unusual palour. He lets her lean onto his arm, reminded of the weight of her injured body against his shoulder after his father’s alcohol-induced beating the week prior. 

“Can you walk, Mum?” he inquires softly, avoiding the glances – some pitying, some judgmental – of the passersby. 

She takes a few deep breaths before straightening up. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Side-by-side, they take the route from Diagon Alley to King’s Cross. He’s only walked it once before with Mum, back in his first year. He remembers being impatiently pulled along, his mother’s ironclad grip ensuring her son would get onto the Hogwarts Express without spending any of their already-scarce money on frivolities. 

For eleven-year-old Severus, his mother’s stories didn’t hold a candle to the real Diagon Alley, the real Hogsmeade, the real Hogwarts. He remembers taking it in – the magical shops, the magical people, and even the air, buzzing with a distinct magic – as if it were his first time experiencing life the way it was meant to be lived. 

As if he truly belonged somewhere.

His illusion of belonging was soon shattered by James Potter, Sirius Black, and the damning brand of Snivellus .

“What happened between you and Lily?” asks Mum, as they cross the Muggle-magical barrier in the Leaky Cauldron. 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. 

She fixes him with a stern look. “I have a right to know why I needed to sacrifice my afternoon shift to bring you here when the Evans’ were more than happy to do so.”

“It was just a fight, Mum.”

“Well, do endeavour to make up soon,” she snaps. “If you make me come pick you up this summer, I won’t be happy.”

They walk the rest of the way to King’s Cross in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the bruises marring her face and peeking out from under her turtleneck – the one she always insisted on wearing, even in the scorching summer heat, because there was always some imprint of violence to cover up. 

Yet, she strides briskly, shoulder back and head up. A vestige, perhaps, of her pureblood upbringing that even his father’s relentless abuse and Spinners End’s crushing poverty would never strip her of. To the outside world – to which she displayed only her prim exterior; to her son, to whom she addressed with either sternness or indifference – she seemed like a strong woman. 

And for the majority of his young life, Severus thought her to be.

But to his father, she was whomever he needed – an uncomplaining breadwinner, a docile wife, a remarkable witch stripped of her magic. 

Reduced to greyness.

“I do it for love, ” Mum used to tell him in her post-abuse vulnerability. 

So, when she sees the clock strike ten-thirty, she hurriedly unshrinks his meagre luggage and hands it to him, panickedly says something about having to warm his father’s breakfast before the man wakes up, and apparates away. 

For love , he thinks bitterly. 

Left alone on Platform nine-and-three-quarters, he watches as the other parents hug their children and exchange tearful goodbyes. Three years ago, perhaps, he would have teared up at the injustice of it all. Now, long-accustomed to her coldness, he couldn’t care less: for caring would have meant falling into a spiral of self-pity and depression.

Instead, he walks up and down the platform, eyes peeled for May. On his second round through the throngs of students, he spots the back of her signature long ponytail. He speeds up, elbowing his way past a couple second-year Gryffindors, hand halfway in the air and ready to wave. 

He stops in his tracks when he spots Huang next to her. 

While sliding behind a brick pillar, he hears their voices – Huang, pleading, and Shen, irritated – over the buzz of the crowded platform. 

“...just feel like he doesn’t like me. Can’t we get a compartment to ourselves this time?”

Are they talking about me?

“I already told you – he and Lily are going through a bit of a rough patch,” May responds. “Who else is he supposed to sit with?”

He cringes at her revelation.

“I don’t know, but how is it our problem?” the other girl asks. Severus snorts to himself, unsurprised by the girl’s admission of her dislike. 

“Because we’re his friends! How could you be so selfish?”

That, he smiles at. 

“May, I’m sorry, but please try to understand where I’m coming from. It’s always awkward when the four of us study together because he’s all close with you and Lily, but he gives me the cold shoulder every time.”

I wonder why , thinks Severus sardonically.

“Try talking with him, then. Maybe you can sort this out.”

“I have!” Huang objects. “There was this time you left to use the bathroom, and Lily forgot her arithmancy homework in her dorm, so she also left to go pick it up. The two of us were alone in the room, and it was really awkward, so I tried to make small talk. You know what he said? He said ‘Don’t waste your breath. We both know neither of us wants to talk with each other.’”

Which, evidently, is true. You were putting up a nice facade, after all.

“Well, he can be prickly sometimes…”

“He’s like that every time we’re together!” she insists. “I feel like he’s developed some vendetta against me after our first interaction.”

“Well, you were pretty rude.”

“Because you asked me to be!”

What?

“I didn’t ask you for that,” May hisses, clearly angered. “You offered.”

Confusing, but I don’t like her any better.

Cindy sighs loudly. “Can’t we just explain the whole situation to him?”

“Are you kidding? That would be such an awkward conversation! It happened so long ago that it’s hardly relevant, anyway.”

“May, please,” Cindy implores. “Do you know how it feels to be left out? It’s like I’m below his acknowledgement. Subpar, somehow.”

Glad you’re self-aware .

May scoffs. “Please, you’re the polar opposite of subpar.”

“I know – I mean, I—”

“If you know,” May interrupts, voice tense, “then why are we having this conversation?”

“May, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“The bottom line is: you have tons of friends, and he only has us,” May says with a tone of finality. 

“Fine,” Cindy retorts. “I’ll find Gen.”

May is silent, rooted to the spot, as Cindy’s footsteps trail off. From his spot behind the pillar, his face breaks into a wide grin at the prospect of sharing a compartment with only May – no moronic Slytherins, no scornful girls, no exasperating fights about the Dark Arts. 

May

“Subpar, huh?” May mutters under her breath as Cindy’s figure retreats. “She should try telling that to my mum.”

Her brooding is interrupted by a tap to her shoulder. Spinning around – hoping whoever it is didn’t hear her talking to herself – she comes face-to-face with Severus. She can’t stop the instinctive upturn of the corners of her lips, but she does stop herself from giving him what would probably be an unwelcome hug.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey. I missed you this summer.”

His eyes, previously focused intently on hers, drift away awkwardly. “Y-yeah, me too.”

Suddenly, the rumbling of wheels against the track captures the attention of everyone on the platform. Grabbing his wrist, she drags him past the crowd until they stand directly in front of the blurry streak of red that is the Hogwarts Express. After what seems like a good five minutes of ear-splitting whistles and clunking of metal against metal, the train slows to a stop before them, and the doors slide open with a long creak.

Hand still glued to Severus’s arm, she leads them down the long hallway. 

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“Furthest compartment from the big entrances,” she says. “I don’t want anyone to ask if they can join.”

After expertly dodging the flocks of oncoming students, she pushes open the door to her desired compartment and slides her luggage in, letting it hit the opposite wall with a satisfying thunk .

After turning back around, she offers her companion a broad smile. “We made it.”

He raises his eyebrows, amused. “We did, apparently,”

She ushers him in before sliding the door shut behind them. Then, she picks up her luggage with a grunt, reaching up to put it in the overhead bin. Unfortunately, the blasted rack is much too tall, and her foot slips—

A pair of sturdy hands catch her mid-fall, holding up both her and her luggage. Blushing, she re-centers herself as Severus, still standing behind her, takes the heavy thing out of her hands and pushes it into the overhead compartment. She tilts her head slightly back, only to find her nose barely an inch away from the tip of his.

“You okay?” he asks, breath warm against cheek.

“Y-yeah. Sorry.”

“No worries,” he says, stepping away. She sits down – noting his unfazed demeanour, his complete unawareness of their previous proximity – as he lifts his own luggage onto the racks above.

After taking the seat opposite her, he asks: “Where’s Huang?”

“O-oh, she, erm, went to sit with our dormmates.”

“Oh.”

With spiteful words on the tip of her tongue, she almost tells him about Cindy’s utter unreasonableness , about her best friend’s refusal to comply with such a simple request.

Wait, why does Cindy have to “comply” with you? whispers her conscience.

Now, shameful confession threatening to spill out of the trenches of her heart, she almost tells him about the good cop, bad cop ordeal, about Cindy’s constant reading of her mood, about the way she treated her best friend when they were nine, about the way it left its grotesque mark—

But she swallows the guilt, like she always does. 

Please, May, echoes Cindy in her head. Do you know how it feels?

She wishes she said something different, wishes she was more understanding, wishes she came up with a compromise in that moment. 

But she swallows the guilt, because what else can she do?

“I-I heard you had a falling out with Lily,” May says, forcing herself to think about something else. Anything else. 

I may not ever truly be a good friend to Cindy, but it’s not too late for Severus and Lily.

His shoulders tense. “What did she tell you?”

“Not much. Just that she’s…worried.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” he answers tersely. 

After a few beats of strained silence, she asks the dreaded question: “Your Slytherin friends…are they blood supremacists?”

Severus

“Did Lily put you up to this?” he bites back defensively.

“No,” she says flatly. “Just curious.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Hanging around them is ruining your reputation around teachers, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“And? Why the bloody hell should I care?”

“It biases them against you,” she replies. “It’s why Potter and Black get away with the things they do. The Gryffindors are in positions of power in this school, so naturally, they don’t support blood supremacists and people who appear to be friends with them.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that the whole lot of them are biassed arseholes?” he retorts. 

She sighs in frustration. “I’m not pinning this on you. Yes, they’re in the wrong, but that’s precisely why you should exploit their weaknesses!”

“How would isolating myself exploit their weaknesses? I would only be yielding to them!”

“Yielding is if you let Potter and Black continue to torment you. Yielding is fighting for them if this war escalates. Manipulating is pretending you’re on their side and fleeing the country as soon as you graduate.”

He scoffs. “You think I have the option of leaving?”

“There are plenty of other options. Ones that don’t involve ruining your chances of getting recommendation letters from professors or signing your life away to some psychopath.”

“What options?” he snarls. “Join Dumbledore? Fight alongside the people who made my life a living hell? Or perhaps stay neutral? In case you haven’t noticed, my family is piss-poor and has no foothold in the wizarding world, not since my mother signed her life away to some muggle alcoholic! That rules out any Ministry jobs. How about apprenticeships? I can’t ask Slughorn for a recommendation because I’m not pretty or handsome or some pureblood socialite. I very well can’t ask any other professor if I don’t join the Light. 

“That leaves me…what? Low-paying jobs as someone’s store clerk, never able to climb up the social ladder? I came to Hogwarts because I didn’t want to continue living like that, unsure of where my next meal would come. I came, thinking everyone had equal opportunity. I know better now, but I’m not just going to sit here and accept my fate.

“Lucius has told me all about what their side offers. He says I’m talented. I know I’m talented, but what’s more important is that they recognize it, so I’ll get an apprenticeship, and I’ll be able to innovate like I’ve always wanted to, and I’ll be paid, and I’ll be able to afford things for once in my life – but you and Lily don’t get that because your families have everything!”

May sits there for a moment, contemplating. She chooses her next words carefully.

“I’m sorry all the adults here are so fucking useless ,” she starts. “I’m sorry it seems like you have no other choice. But Severus, joining him is not the right choice either.”

He opens his mouth to object, but she holds up her hand for him to stop.

“I’ve listened to your side, so it’s only fair you listen to mine,” she says firmly. “You want money, right? Financial freedom, a comfortable life, and the power that comes with it.”

He nods.

“You will not get that if You-Know-Who rises to power. He shows every sign of being a dictator, and the thing about dictators is that you can’t win against them. There are no checks and balances in the government. They control everything. They can give you everything you want, if it pleases them, but they can also take it away in the blink of an eye. And you can’t do anything about it, not if you want to stay alive.

“What you earn would never be yours. You would have to spend every moment walking on eggshells, carefully controlling everything from your actions down to your very thoughts because you never know what might offend him, what might slip through and be taken as a sign of disobedience.”

“You don’t know that he’ll be like that,” Severus replies, trying his best to sound sure.

“My parents fled here because there was a dictator at home,” she says. “He was charismatic. He promised progress for the people. I suppose the people didn’t encompass my family because we lost any wealth we hadn’t transferred out of the country in the blink of an eye. Saving money is a concept that only applies in a stable society, Severus. Does the society You-Know-Who is trying to build seem stable to you? Organised crime, violent revels, silencing victims? All because of blood status?”

He’s silent for a while. His mind wanders back to Spinners End and his father’s oppressive reign: walking on eggshells was all too familiar. If May really is right, joining the Dark Lord would be condemning himself to a new father.

One just like Tobias. 

May continues. “Do you even believe in his ideals? Do you believe Lily is less worthy because she’s a Muggleborn – and don’t tell me some bullshite about her being different. If there’s an exception, the generalisation isn’t true.”

“I don’t believe it,” he says quietly.

“Do you still believe joining him is a good idea?” she asks gently. 

“I don’t know what else to do! Acting hostile towards my housemates will only earn me a second set of bullies!”

“No need to be hostile. Act polite,” she says. “But uninterested. Be neutral. Pretend to hate muggle-borns if you must, but make it clear you aren’t radical. As you all reach the age of initiation into You-Know-Who’s circle, they’ll be fighting to be recognized. They’ll only be glad to have less competition.”

He supposes she has a point. Mulciber and Avery don’t care much for him anyway. 

“Oh, and if Potter’s gang – or any of them – ever bothers you, I’ll have your back.”

His heart makes an erratic thump at the warm promise, until he remembers an arguably more pressing problem. “And what of my future after I graduate?”

She pauses for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“We move to America together. I’ll find a way to get us there.”

He sighs. “May, I know your family is rich, but I don’t want charity!”

“It won’t be charity!” she argues. “It won’t be charity. The war will escalate. You think it’s easy to move out of a warzone when everyone else is trying to move out, too? My family was able to flee here from China because we have connections, but we don’t have those in America.”

“So you’re telling me it’s even more impossible than I thought?”

“No. I’m telling you that we will move out on our own merit.”

“And what, pray tell, is our merit?”

“Potions,” she replies, lips stretching into a shrewd smile. “I can ask to borrow Slughorn’s room. We make an innovative breakthrough. I’ve been doing research, and America has universities for magical folk that pretty much guarantee a well-paying job for their best graduates. With this sort of accomplishment, we can get admitted. And as long as we’re within American borders, we can find a way to stay there.”

There has to be a catch.

Well, he supposes the catch is making a breakthrough. But he’s talented, and so is she. 

“What sort of breakthrough?” he asks.

“Some vaguely useful modification is probably enough.”

Doable.

She grins at him. The twelve o’clock sun filters through the partially-closed blinds of their compartment, making her dark eyes gleam a golden brown. “We have no roots in the Wizarding World here. Nothing to leave behind. What’s stopping us?”

For a moment, he forgets about Lily.

All that exists is the glowing girl in front of him, and her promise of a future that could be built from hard work and talent alone. 

He grasps her small hand in his larger one, interlacing their fingers. A faint blush spreads across her cheeks, and a look of surprise flashes briefly across her face.

“Let’s do it.”

Chapter Text

September 1974

May

In the Great Hall, May plops down next to Cindy before the Sorting begins. Based on the lack of reaction from her dormmates, Cindy hasn’t told them about their…disagreement. 

“Hey,” May greets.

“Hey,” Cindy replies, head turned stiffly towards the professor’s table at the front of the hall.

“I…uhm, how was the ride here?”

“Fine,” says Cindy quietly, mouth pulled into a thin line. “And yours?”

“It was okay.”

I’m sorry about earlier, she whispers to Cindy in her head. I didn’t mean to disregard your feelings. I just really wanted to sit with you guys together, and I didn’t expect you to, well, not want to do something I wanted to do – which is wrong, I know – but I’m just so used to it. And I’m sorry about the past too, when you became accustomed to following my every whim. I’m sorry for not telling him earlier about the good cop, bad cop thing, for not clearing the air, for forcing you into such an uncomfortable position for the past year because I felt uncomfortable giving a five-minute explanation. 

In her head, she builds the foundation for a fresh start. 

But the words are like molasses on her tongue: stuck to the roof of her mouth, sliding back down her throat in a vile, gooey mess. 

So – pathetically, hoping Cindy would understand all that was left unsaid – she whispers: “About earlier…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cindy answers, turning towards May with a weak smile. 

She understands, doesn’t she?

“Thanks,” says May. “Thanks. We can spend more time together this year, y’know? Less with them. I think he and Lily are going to figure it out anyway, so they have each other…”

“I’d like that,” Cindy murmurs, leaning her head back on May’s shoulder. May snakes her arm around her best friend’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar citrusy scent, letting the lingering wisps of remorse dissipate into the starry ceiling above. 

—

After a rather exhausting first week back, May opts to spend Friday night in the dorm, keeping her promise to Cindy. While she sprawls across her best friend’s bed, talking about nothing in particular, her dormmates Rhea Patil and Abigail Clarke push open the door and walk in, looking about as energized as she feels. 

Sighing heavily, Rhea drops onto the floor with a thump . Abigail sets her textbooks down on her nightstand, softly but wearily. 

“Where were you at dinner, Abby?” Cindy asks, turning her attention away from May.

“Studying,” answers Abigail with a yawn. 

Cindy furrows her eyebrows. “You ate, though, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen.”

“Why the bloody hell are you already studying during mealtimes?” asks Rhea. 

“McGonagall already assigned us a quiz next week,” Abigail explains, “and I’m pants at Transfiguration, you know that.”

Rhea swears, rubbing her hands across her face. “I wasn’t even paying attention.”

“You’ll be fine,” Cindy says. “You always ace Transfiguration practicals without practice.”

Rhea exhales in relief. “Oh, thank god it's a practical. I can help you if you want, Abby.”

“Thanks, but I think I got it.”

“Great,” says Rhea, attention already directed towards the soft pattering of water emitting from inside the bathroom. “How long has Genevieve been in there?”

May and Cindy shrug just as the sound of a tap turning off floats through the cracks of the bathroom door. 

“Thank Merlin,” laments Rhea, pushing herself up with a grunt. “I desperately need a shower.”

May watches, half-interested, as Rhea lazily flips open her half-packed luggage and digs out what must be her third set of pajamas. When asked about unpacking, Rhea only acerbically retorts that the action is completely unnecessary, as her belongings would inevitably unpack themselves as she used them. 

Personally, May doesn’t think she could withstand such disorder. 

Genevieve Levesque steps out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around her chest, sandy brown hair leaving behind a thin trail of water on the rug beneath. May only catches a glimpse of the inside of their communal bathroom – the counter already covered with Geneveive’s makeup-remover pads, cosmetic products, and nearly-deflated tube of moisturizer – before Rhea snaps the door shut behind her. 

“Oh, hey guys,” Genevieve says, upon realizing her dormmates had all returned in the span of her shower. “How were your weeks?”

“Tiring,” Abigail and May say at the same time.

“Mine too,” agrees Cindy. “And yours?”

Genevieve flops onto her bed dramatically before pulling the curtains of the four-poster bed shut. There are a few moments of awkward silence, broken only by the sound of shuffling clothes, before she emerges once more, dressed in her pink satin nightgown. 

“I miss summer,” exclaims Genevieve. “To think that this time last week, I was lounging in my own bed, no homework, no responsibilities…”

“C’mon, there’s got to be something you guys are looking forward to,” Cindy says, trying to lighten the mood. 

Had she been a more virtuous person, she might have told her dormmates about her plans to move out of the country, to secure a safe haven in the midst of the looming war. As it is, she would rather continue her un-virtuous existence rather than risk the competition that would be inevitably drawn forth by the revelation of an enticing opportunity.

“To be done with the Transfiguration practical,” Abigail declares from behind her closed canopy, eliciting a laugh from everyone. 

“Absolutely nothing,” Genevieve answers gloomily. “Oh, yeah – May, how were chair auditions?”

Earlier that afternoon, May shakily walked into the auditorium, feeling wholly unprepared for the ten minutes that would decide whether or not the solos were truly hers to play. She came out, thankfully, with her dignity intact and confidence boosted by Flitwick’s praise. 

“Good, I think,” May replies with a smile. 

“Great, let us know when your first solo is.”

“The Welcoming Concert,” Cindy answers smoothly. “September 15th, 8:00 PM, auditorium.”

“L-let’s not get ahead of ourselves…”

The other girls in the dorm sigh with varying levels of exasperation. Abigail voices everyone’s thoughts: “If you think it went well, May, that means you were phenomenal.”

“Well, I’m thinking of trying out for the Quidditch team this year,” Cindy reveals when it is clear that no one has anything else to share. May gives her friend’s hand an encouraging squeeze, having already heard the news. 

“Ooh, we’ll go to cheer you on!” says Genevieve excitedly. “When are tryouts?” 

“Sunday at eleven, for preliminaries.”

“M’kay, I’m free.”

“Be careful to not get yourself hurt,” Abigail warns with a frown. “Quidditch always looks so dangerous.”

“Yeah,” agrees May. “Also make sure to kick Potter’s arse on the field.”

Cindy snorts at that, while Genevieve asks: “What’d the morons do this time?”

“He tried to hex me in the halls for no particular reason, and twice in a day at that. Then asked me if foreigners were blood supremacists, seeing as I was hanging around the snakes so much.”

Abigail wrinkles her nose. “Geez, what the hell?”

“I know, right?” says May, leaving out the part where she has been hanging around a Slytherin. And that, up until very recently, said Slytherin was ready to join a blood supremacist cause.

His reasons for joining didn’t have much to do with blood supremacy , she tells herself. So it doesn’t count.

“I swear to God, that idiot is always strutting around the school and finding someone to pick on,” Genevieve says. “If he bothers you again, I’ll turn his hair green during Potions or something. Ol’ Sluggy doesn’t have the balls to take the reins in his own class, anyway.”

May flashes her what she hopes is a grateful smile, though she doubts she’ll be getting anyone else involved, lest Potter reveal her friendship with Severus. While the Ravenclaws didn’t particularly like Potter’s gang and their trouble-making antics, most harbored an outright hatred towards the bigoted Slytherins. 

Just as their conversation comes to a close, Rhea walks out of the bathroom. “I heard something about charming someone’s hair green during Potions.”

“Yeah, Potter’s being a dipshite,” May explains.

“Ugh, I hate that idiot.”

Severus

“I made up with Lily, by the way,” Severus tells her as they make their way from Room 3E to the library. 

“That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling slightly as he remembers Lily’s arms, thrown around his shoulders, and the soft “ thank Merlin” whispered in his ear.

Out of his peripheral vision, he sees the corners of May’s lips pull into a frown – just for a split second – before her face settles once more into that inscrutable mask. He concludes that he must be imagining things; after all, she has no reasons to be upset about the good news, does she?

“So, uhm, did you tell her about the moving thing?”

“‘Course I did! I asked her if she wanted to come along, if that’s fine.”

“As long as she doesn’t tell anyone else about our plans,” she answers tersely.

“Yeah, she promised not to.”

“Good. Is she willing to move with us?”

He hesitates. “Well, I don’t think she’ll be joining us in our project. She said she might try her own thing in charms if she wants to leave, but she’s still thinking about moving. Said it felt right to stay and fight.”

“Well, it is her decision.”

“I think she’ll budge, in the end,” he says with a shrug. Lily, he isn’t too concerned about – sure, she’s hot-headed and recklessly courageous, but he doesn’t think her stupid enough to stay and fight for Dumbledore’s hypocritical cause, of all things. 

“I suppose we’ll see,” May replies, a hint of skepticism in her voice. 

“She’ll move,” he insists.

She would see the right choice. 

He would make her see the right choice, for the alternative could mean losing her.

Suddenly, he feels May’s fingers tighten around his arm.

“Turn around,” she whispers. “I heard footsteps behind us.”

So, he does as she says – heart in his throat – only to find the hallway completely deserted. 

“You could’ve misheard.”

She frowns. “I’m certain.”

“Let’s just walk faster, then,” he says, pulling her in the direction of the library. Reluctantly, she lets herself be dragged along, still clutching to his left arm tight enough to leave fingerprints. 

The moment he feels her vice-like grip release him, May shoves his chest, and he tumbles backwards in the opposite direction. Before he has a chance to yell at her, he sees a flash of red light fly between them, nearly grazing the tip of his nose. 

Potter – wand raised – and his sidekick Black stand less than a meter away.

Taking advantage of their shock, he casts a quick Expelliarmus at Potter, while May does the same to Black. Two wands in hand, he staggers up from the ground and hastily dusts himself off. May – bless her – has her wand trained straight at Potter’s neck. 

“Why the hell did you attack us?” she hisses. 

Black smirks arrogantly, foolishly unconcerned for his safety as usual. “An eye for an eye.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” May grits out.

“Sure you don’t, hun.”

“Don’t call me hun. ”

“Seeing as you and Evans are the only ones in this school who tolerate Snivellus, it must’ve been you who stunned us last year,” Potter spits out. “Because Evans would never do something so malicious.”

“Ooh, big word you used there. Got any proof?”

Sick of the bickering and itching for revenge, Severus casts a stinging hex at Potter’s groin. The boy doubles over in pain, clutching the spot between his legs while yelping pitifully.

Without missing a beat, Black takes a swing at Severus’s eye, an attack he swiftly dodges. Just as he is about to subject Black to the same fate as his unsavory friend, May yells: “That’s enough!”

Evidently, her call surprises Black as much as it does Severus, for they both cease in their rapid movements. He keeps his wand trained on Black’s neck as Black turns around slowly, an ugly laugh ripping out of his throat. 

“Got your feral boyfriend under control, eh?”

“If I were you, I would shut the fuck up.” May responds smoothly.

“He’s like a vicious dog, isn’t he?” Black taunts. “Tamable only by certain owners. Surprising you were able to do it. If I were a dog, I’d be rather wary of you, considering your people’s reputation for eating them.”

He really has no idea why May stopped him from casting that stinging hex on the insufferable excuse of a human, so he mutters the incantation. Unfortunately, Black dodges it.

Potter chooses to come to his senses at the same moment. “Maybe, Pads, she’s swallowing him in a different way, if you catch my drift.”

“Ooh.”

Before he can react, May slaps Potter across the face – hard. The sound of skin hitting skin is amplified in the quiet corridor. As Potter reels backwards, Black lunges forwards in an attempt to avenge his injured friend. May ducks out of his reach as Severus tackles him from behind, landing in a disheveled heap on the cold floor with Black pressed firmly under him. 

To prevent Black from tipping them over, Severus uses his non-wand hand to press down on the boy’s chest, eliciting a chain of sputtering breaths and nasty curse words. Meanwhile, Black grabs his wrist, squeezing and twisting in an exquisitely painful combination, simultaneously inhibiting his ability to cast a spell while attempting to force him to drop the wands. Black’s other hand reaches up to claw at Severus’s face, leaving sharp, stinging scratches that fill the air with a coppery scent. 

Just as he sees Potter’s sinister shadow rising behind him, he hears May shout Petrificus Totalus , followed quickly by the loud thud of Potter’s skull hitting the ground. Two seconds and another Petrificus later, Black ceases his writing beneath him, body stiff. 

With a tired sigh, Severus lets himself fall back on Black’s legs. May extends him her hand, which he grabs with relief, noting its coolness under his clammy palms. After he pulls himself up into a standing position – half supported by his own legs, half-leaning on May – he takes a satisfied glance and the immobilized bullies, lying helplessly on the floor. 

“I’ll leave your wands nearby,” May says, addressing the paralyzed figures on the floor. “Don’t even bother trying to pin this on us whenever some generous soul renervates you. I used Black’s wand to cast the spell. Knowing the consequences, you wouldn’t want to make more baseless accusations, would you?”

Having finished her spiel, May begins to drag him away from the scene of crime.

“Hey, I have some spells I want to test!” he protests quietly.

“We should get out of here in case someone shows up soon,” she mutters, pulling him along at an even faster pace. “We’ve already pushed our luck.”

—

Personally, he believed the best course of action would be to break the damned wands in half and toss them on top of Potter and Black’s paralyzed bodies. May, however, denies his request, citing that a crime of such a scale would call for serious investigation tactics they may not be able to evade. So, after having dropped the wands off at the end of the corridor, she leads him back to Room 3E. 

May gestures for him to sit on the desk, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a small package of tissues. 

“Are you sure Huang won’t walk in on us?” he asks.

She gives him an admonishing look. “Cindy hates Potter’s arse, and she wouldn’t rat us out.”

He decides to take her word for it. After all, May is as paranoid – if not more so – than he is. Now safe in their room, he finally feels his heart rate slow to a steady pace, and with nothing else to do, he focuses his attention on May.

He watches as her long fingers carefully pry open the sticky sealing of a plastic bag and pull out a tissue. With a soft Auguamenti , she conjures a thin stream of water, soaking the tissue thoroughly but evenly.

“This might hurt a little,” she murmurs, bringing the wad up to his bloodied face and dabbing softly. Long used to his mother’s rough hands that had bandaged wounds far more severe, he hardly winces at the slight sting of May’s featherlight touch. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, discarding the used tissue and wetting a new one. “Can I keep going?”

“Y-yeah.”

Only as she leans in to wipe a scratch close to his left eye does he abruptly notice her proximity: her hands, pale and soft, one gently lifting his chin as the other cleans his cuts; her eyes, chocolate-brown under the light, brows furrowed in concentration; her hair, let out of its usual ponytail, flowing in a silky, black sheet over her shoulder. When a strand slips from its place tucked neatly behind her ears, she turns away from him and flips it over her shoulder, spreading the floral scent of her shampoo through the stale air of their room.

 “Two more to go,” she announces, the weight of her hand soft against his cheeks. “Black should really trim his goddamn nails.”

He chuckles, trying to repress his now-accelerating heartbeat and the rising heat in his face. All too soon, the light pressure against his face ceases, and the air in front of him is cool once more. 

“An episkey should heal this fine,” she says, reaching for her wand. She leans in once more, and he tries to grasp it, to breathe her in – the flowery air, the softness of her hands, the low whisper of the healing spell in his ear – but she finishes before he can absorb her presence once more.

He hardly registers the hot-and-cold flash of episkey .

“All done.”

Sure enough, he reaches up to find the skin on his face unblemished. “Uhm, thanks. You really didn’t have to, though. I would’ve been fine.”

She looks away for a moment, tucking the stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Well, we can’t have you walking around with evidence on your face.”

Right. Evidence.

“Why’d you use petrificus on them?” he asks, pushing his mind away from the dizzying few minutes of newfound feelings.

“I took a gamble by using Black’s wand, and I didn’t want to risk backfire. Petrificus is simpler than stupefy ,” she answers easily. “Plus, I wanted them to be conscious during the painful waiting period.”

He smirks. “I hope they’re still lying there.”

“I just hope they don’t try to avenge themselves again.”

Chapter Text

September 15, 1974

May

Something she could see: the stage, illuminated by blinding lights.

Something she could hear: the click of her polished black heels against the floor. 

Something she could smell: Geneveive’s overpowering vanilla perfume. Had she sprayed too much?

Something she could feel: her racing heart, her shallow breaths–

No, that wasn’t the point of the exercise . 

Something she could feel: the clamminess of her hand, the coldness of her flute. Would she be out of tune? What was the rule, again, about tuning and temperature?

Before she can spiral any further, the oboe’s tuning note rises above the band: steady, grounding. 

She listens.

Sets her embouchure. 

Inhales.

Plays her concert A.

The sound coming out of her flute is full and perfectly in tune. Nerves slightly soothed, she sits through Flitwick’s speech as he introduces the orchestra and the piece they would be performing: Carmina Burana . After a deep bow, Flitwick steps onto his conducting platform with a flick of his dress robes.

The ensuing minutes are almost ritualistic, for they perform Carmina Burana at each Welcoming Concert. With a raise of his baton, Flitwick cues the heavy, dramatic chord of O Fortuna , the first movement of the selection. Just as May remembers, it fills the concert hall, majestic and chilling. The orchestra moves through the rest of the piece, powerful chords and fast sixteenth-note runs in perfect synchrony. May lets herself fall into the comforting familiarity of playing with this specific ensemble, knowing that their closeness would soon be unwound by the inexperienced players who were to be added later in the year.

The sixth movement, Dance begins in a flourish of joyful chords, alternating time-signatures, and bouncy rhythms. Flitwick soon cuts the orchestra off with an abrupt swish of his hand, and she sucks in a deep breath.

The lone flute and timpani melody floats outwards, above the band and the audience beneath. She plays flawlessly, just like she did in rehearsal, when Flitwick complimented her light vibrato; just like she did in her room during the long summer days, when she imagined herself on this very stage; just like Chloe did the past three years, when she was the one sitting in what is now May’s chair. 

Suddenly, her sound is cut off. 

No, perhaps she is imagining it. 

Quickly, she readjusts the placement of the mouthpiece against her lips and directs her airstream downwards, but all that comes out is the whistling of wind over the edge of the embouchure hole.

This isn’t happening.

But it is. She blows, and blows, and blows, but it is as if she is seven and playing for the first time and—

There is no sound except for the echoing hits of the timpani far behind her. 

Now, the music before her is blurry, and the room is spinning, and she is falling backwards, and she feels something solid – something distinctly human – catch her head just before it hits the ground. 

Then, her vision goes dark.

—

She wakes up to blinding lights above. Cold and sterile. Not the ones of the auditorium. 

“She’s awake!” someone screeches next to her. The voice is familiar. Accented. Not from anyone at Hogwarts. The rapid clicking of heels against tiles soon follows, and two worried faces emerge from her peripheral vision: Madame Pomfrey and her mother.

With a grunt, she pushes herself upright. 

“Miss Shen, lie back down!” Pomfrey protests immediately. 

“I’m fine,” she replies, as the events of the past thirty minutes swifty re-insert themselves in her memory. She remembers that she had a concert, and that her parents must be here because they promised to come listen to their daughter’s first solo, and that–

Yes, she had a solo.

It was going fine, wasn’t it? Until she couldn’t make a damn noise. 

Then what?

She fainted. How embarrassing. But she felt someone’s knee on her back and someone’s hand under her head, and it couldn’t have been the people sitting behind her because the bass clarinets – with their expensive instruments weighing them down and music stands blocking their way – would not have been able to catch her in time. 

So, someone else was on the stage right behind her. 

She knows she wouldn’t have messed up so badly on her own.

Therefore, whoever it was that snuck up behind her had purposely sabotaged her. 

With her knuckles clenched around the bedsheets at the infuriating realization, she swings her legs off the bed, relieved to find that she is still wearing her concert dress. She couldn’t have been out that long, which means she still has about an hour before curfew to find some answers. 

“Miss Shen!”

Before Pomfrey can push her back into the cot, the curtains around her are pulled open, revealing Flitwick and her father – faces contorted in muted fury – and McGonagall – lips pressed in a thin line. Tufts of messy black hair peek out from behind the imposing group of adults. 

Potter.

Of course it was James fucking Potter .

Wasting no time, she proposes her accusation, seething with anger: “I know Potter somehow snuck onto that stage. He’s the one who caught me as I fell, isn’t he? I can tell all of you right now that he’s also the one who single-handedly ruined this year’s Welcoming Concert.”

“S-she’s lying!” Potter retorts immediately.

“My flute wouldn’t stop working on its own!”

“Well, maybe you’re just a bad player,” Potter says with a smirk. “Isn’t that why you made friends with Sniv– Snape? To cheat your way to the top in potions? Bet you did the same here.”

“How the bloody hell am I cheating by making friends with a classmate, you—”

“That’s enough!” Flitwick yells, a rare display of frightening rage from the usually cheerful man. “Mr. Potter, I’ll have you know that I personally pick all my soloists, and I am absolutely impartial when it comes to the fate of my orchestra.”

“O-of course,” Potter replies, shaken. “I’m sorry, Professor.”

“I believe Miss Shen deserves an apology, too.”

At her, Potter narrows his eyes, grits his teeth, and mutters: “Sorry.”

“Liar. You’re not sorry.”

McGonagall clears her throat. “Miss Shen, please be cooperative.”

At that, her father bristles. “My daughter is not uncooperative. It is the boy!”

“Sir, please keep your voice down,” Pomfrey says sternly. “There are other students in the Hospital Wing who are resting.”

“Then tell me why all of you do nothing when he hurt my daughter!”

Mama ’s distressed gaze travels from May to her father to the Professors and back, only able to comprehend snippets of the increasingly aggressive argument that is unfolding. Meanwhile, May cringes at her father’s abhorrent behavior – his beet-red face, his heavily-accented English, his blatant disrespect towards her superiors.

“...will be receiving due punishment…”

“...still goes to this school? He is dangerous!”

“Sir, please…sir, calm yourself…”

“Not until you do something about him!”

It is Potter’s arrogant voice that pulls her out of her nauseating trance, stuck between mortification and dumb hope that she is dreaming. “Hey, I’m not some criminal!”

“Mr. Potter, we have discussed this,” McGonagall scolds, voice hard. 

“You can’t prove I did it.”

“Five points from Gryffindor for your insolence—”

“I can,” May interrupts. The rest of the group goes silent. “Check his wand. Whatever fully silenced my flute was most definitely a spell, not a hand.”

“This incident isn’t serious enough to warrant such a check,” McGonagall responds.

“Not serious enough for you people?” her father screams. “She could’ve hit her head and died!”

“No need to be so dramatic,” McGonagall snaps back. “A perfectly healthy witch will not pass away from a fall off a chair.”

“My daughter,” her father hisses back, voice low, “cares very much about this solo. So do me and my wife. And this stupid boy– ”

“That’s enough, Dad,” she says, her shaky voice ringing abnormally loud in the stuffy silence. “I trust the Professors to take care of this appropriately.”

Baba turns away with a deep sigh but ultimately complies with her request. She watches – eyes downcast, face burning in shame – as Pomfrey ushers the “disturbance” out of her prized Hospital Wing. Mama gives May’s hand one last squeeze before trailing after them. May watches, face drained pale, as a middle-aged man – visibly deflated – and his aging wife – frown lines already prominent – step into the grimy fireplace; watches, chest tightening with something akin to remorse, as McGonagall and Pomfrey cast them one last scornful glance.

At one point, her parents were the poster couple of their school: youthful, brilliant, and brimming with potential. Baba was his advisor’s favorite student, well-known amongst his peers for being both intelligent and humble. Mama was one of the few girls who fought her way into the male-dominated higher education system. 

What had they been reduced to, now? 

“..suggest we ban Mr. Potter from Quidditch for a year, Minerva,” says Flitwick, his high-pitched voice and enticing suggestion reaching her through the haze.

“Filius, please—”

“If I may suggest, Professors,” Potter cuts in, his once panicked voice now smooth, “that I should be considered innocent until proven guilty.”

Flitwick glares at the boy, beyond vexed. “Your presence is evidence enough.”

“I’m truly sorry, sir, but I was only visiting a friend,” he answers easily. “Krisalyn Bones, sits right next to Shen. You can call her in if you need proof.”

May snorts at that. Bones, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, would undoubtedly lie to keep her star player on the field. 

“I will speak to her,” Flitwick concedes with a sigh, falling victim to his unwarranted sympathy and McGonagall’s imploring stare. 

With a sigh, May turns to Pomfrey. “Am I discharged, ma’am?”

The matron replies with an indignant huff. “Yes, seeing as you withstood the absolute ruckus that was the past twenty minutes.”

After the doors of the Hospital Wing snap shut behind them, the two Professors leave in the directions of their respective offices. Just as she is about to escape to the safety of her classroom, Potter’s offensive hand catches the edge of her gown.

She turns around slowly, unwilling to listen to whatever drivel he feels the urge to vocalize but forced to protect the expensive cloth of her dress. “What the bloody hell do you want?”

He flashes her that insufferable smirk of his. “Knowing the consequences, you wouldn’t want to make more baseless accusations, would you?”

She has half a mind to rip the gown from his hands and suffocate him with the piece of cloth, price tag be damned. In an anticlimactic finale, he releases her immediately after his dramatic statement. Left with nothing but her simmering rage and a burning vengefulness, May stands in the middle of the corridor, glaring at his retreating figure.

September 18, 1974

Severus

Upon returning to their classroom, May had told him everything that happened in the Hospital Wing. Scoffing, he had told her that Potter would undoubtedly suffer laughably insignificant consequences. 

“We’ll have to give him our own, then,” she responded coolly.

The next morning, the Great Hall was filled with murmurs and judgmental glances as May walked in for breakfast. During Arithmancy, some moronic Gryffindor theatrically pretended to faint while uttering “ Oh, oh no! I cares very much about this solo, cares very much! However will I become a star?” in a crude imitation of a Chinese accent.

After class, he and May hunted the girl down – for he recognized her as one of Black’s many pursuers – and tested his new toenail-growing hex on her. He drew May into an alcove as their victim turned around, yelping in pain. Despite their stunt being a great success, May’s expressions never drifted from dejection and irritation. 

By this morning, the Welcoming Concert had lost the short-spanned interest of the student body, and his friend’s mood was considerably lightened by the abnormally lovely fall weather. Presently, he and May are walking through the busy courtyard, discussing their plan to start Potions research in hushed voices. 

“We should ask Slughorn to borrow his room soon,” Severus says.

“Yes, and we need to start setting aside time to do some preliminary research.”

He nods in agreement. “The library has some good potions magazines. Lots of uncompleted projects in there with in-depth descriptions.”

“Perfect,” she responds with a small smile. “We could go there after our—”

Black’s horrible voice abruptly cuts their conversation short. “Looky here, Prongs – I’ve found us today’s evening entertainment!”

He spins around, wand out, to find Black and Potter, twin smirks across their sadistic faces. The students milling about the courtyard stop in their tracks and start to gather around, eager to witness firsthand what would inevitably become the gossip of the week. 

“Bugger off,” Severus grits out.

Suddenly, Potter begins convulsing dramatically before dropping to the floor, clutching his chest. “Oh, no! It seems I forgot how to play my instrument! Oh, God! Who shall I blame for my shortcomings?”

Around them, the crowd is split between snickering and gasping in horror. He hears one girl whisper: “Isn’t that May Shen? Potter would be the only one who dares try this, of course…”

“You know very well what you did, Potter,” May says coldly, tensing next to him. 

“Does he?” Black asks innocently, kneeling down next to his friend. “Mr. Potter here appears to be unconscious right now. I thought you would have some sympathy, considering—”

“Langlock !” he yells, cutting Black’s horrible sentence short. The idiot drops his wand in his haste to reach his neck, clawing in futility at his now-dysfunctional throat. Potter, miraculously, wakes up from his pseudo-fainting spell. Severus is about to fire a hex at the boy, but Potter is faster, lunging across the small space between them and wrapping his right arm around May’s shoulders. In an instant, his wand is at her throat.

“Undo that curse you put Sirius under,” Potter hisses. “Or I harm your little girlfriend here.”

Severus swallows the acid in his throat before meeting May’s determined gaze. Trailing his eyes down her arm, he realizes that she is inching her hand towards the wand in her robe pocket, slow enough that Potter doesn’t feel the movement. 

So, heart beating at a sickening pace, he stalls. “I thought you lions are known for your chivalry, Potter.”

His opponent sneers. “Seeing as you snakes never have qualms about hurting our girls, it’s only fair I even the playing field.”

He snorts. The playing field was never even: not with Potter’s attacks, four-on-one; not with the Professors, staunchly protective of even the most vile Gryffindors; not with the rest of the student body, united in their hatred of Slytherin House.

“You have until the count of three,” Potter threatens. “One—”

“Aculeus! ” May says. A bright white light shoots out of her wand, hitting Potter’s leg. He immediately lets her go, grabbing his stinging limb in pain.

“McGonagall’s coming this way!” shouts someone from the circle of onlookers, interrupting the unfurling fight. In an instant, the crowd breaks into quiet murmurs as they separate into their old cliques, feigning disinterest at the scene before them. May grabs his wrist, pulling away from the cause of conflict. In the face of possible detention, Potter and Black, too, dust themselves off and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

“Those fuckers,” May mutters darkly. She releases his wrist from her tight grasp, and he rubs at the aching, white imprints of her fingers. “I’m going to kill him.”

Chapter Text

September 1974

May

May has a bad feeling in her gut. 

Severus has just left to return some archaic potions books to the library. She tries to convince herself that he is fine, that the library is only a few steps away, that they are in a school and there is hardly any danger. 

Unless one counts Potter. 

It doesn’t work, of course. She hates waiting. She hates letting fear stew around. 

The moment she leaves their classroom, she breaks into a brisk walk, keeping her footsteps as light as possible. She turns the corner just in time to see Severus, much further down the corridor, and a disembodied hand pointing a wand at his back. The end of a sleeve is visible, and the inside lining is the signature Gryffindor red. 

Without hesitation, she lunges forward and grasps vaguely at the odd material, hoping whatever was keeping the owner of the hand’s body invisible would fall away. Something that feels oddly fluid under her fingers drops to the ground, pooling around their feet like a transparent, shimmery cloth.

She meets the eyes of Potter and Black. The three of them pause, momentarily stunned. 

May recovers first. “Professor! Someone! They just tried to attack–”

Potter grabs at her, but she ducks. Suddenly, both Potter and Black fall over, completely stiff. She looks up to find Severus, his wand pointed, a sadistic smile etched upon his face— 

And Professor McGonagall, standing right behind him. “Mr. Snape, Miss Shen! What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, Professor! I turned the corner there to see Potter with his wand pointed at Severus’s back, so I called for help. I must’ve taken them by surprise, because all three of them turned around, and then…”

“Potter and Black were about to lunge at May, and she didn’t have her wand out,” continues Severus when May stops speaking. “I used Petrificus Totalus as self-defence.”

McGonagall revives the Gryffindors. Shouting commences immediately. 

“Professor, we were just walking down the corridor!” Potter argues. “Snape and Shen ambushed us from behind for no reason–”

“I’ve heard enough, Mr. Potter,” says McGonagall. “Mr. Snape is clearly in front of you, and I heard Ms. Shen’s shout. 20 points from Gryffindor each for your inexcusable behaviour.”

Severus smirks. 

“And detention, all three of you boys.”

Severus’s face falls. 

“But Professor, he was just trying to defend me–”

“You know the rules, Ms. Shen,” she replies, unsympathetic. “No harmful spells against other students, no matter the circumstances. There remains the fact that Mr. Potter and Mr. Black were not using magic at the time.”

Severus is about to interrupt, but one look from McGonagall stops him. 

“While I believe you, school policy states that all offenders must be punished,” she continues, “especially because there is no evidence that Mr. Potter and Mr. Black were using magic when they were attacked with the spell.”

“They would’ve hexed her had I not stepped in!” Severus argues. “It was in self-defence–”

“We weren’t going to hex anybody!” Black objects. May scoffs at that.

With Potter and Black facing Severus and McGonagall facing the combative boys, May – out of everyone’s line of sight – snatches the magical cloth off the ground and quickly folds it up before stuffing it into her inner robe pocket. 

Meanwhile, McGonagall is visibly frustrated with the whole affair. “Cease your arguing before I take off more points. Detention in my office tomorrow, 7 PM sharp.”

All three boys look livid, but May keeps her expression carefully schooled. 

“Professor, could you please supervise James and Sirius to the Gryffindor common room?” she asks, well-practised derision slipping into her voice. “I don’t feel quite safe after this incident, especially now that everyone’s upset…”

“Of course,” McGonagall says, expression softening. “Mr. Potter and Mr. Black with me, please.”

The Professor walks off at a brisk pace, and the two Gryffindors have no choice but to follow after casting a final, venomous glare at her. May drags Severus back to their classroom, gesturing at him to be silent all the way. Once the door closes behind them, Severus starts ranting. 

“Seriously?” he hisses. “You really had to play the scared victim? You dragged me off before I had a chance to properly hex them! You better be prepared to be ridiculed tomorrow. ‘ Oh look, it’s Shen and Snivellus. So scared of Potter and Black that they had to get a Professor to drag them away!”

May rolls her eyes. “First off, you hexing them would’ve gotten you more detention, so I don’t know why you’re mad about being stopped. Second, I think being escorted back to the common room like two first years is embarrassing enough that Potter and Black won’t say anything.”

He mumbles a half-hearted whatever in response, so May knows she’s won. 

“T-thanks for taking them out earlier, though,” she says, the unfamiliar expression of gratitude sitting awkwardly on her tongue.

He blushes. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

“But in the future, once a Professor is already there, don’t continue fighting, magically or physically,” she chides softly. “And don’t go around starting conflict.”

“They start conflict all the time,” he retorts. “They deserve it.”

She doesn’t disagree. “They do, but we can’t draw attention to ourselves by starting petty fights and responding to every provocation.”

“You threatened to kill them last time.”

She snorts. “I was pissed. Speaking of killing them, though, I have been thinking about getting our revenge in a more…fashionable manner.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“I was looking through some potions’ magazines the other day, and I found this adrenaline-booster that enhances physical performance. Apparently, some famous Quidditch star got caught taking it before a game. Ended his career.”

“Hm.”

With a widening grin, she continues. “So, I was thinking we sneak this potion into his drink and somehow ensure he gets caught. All his fame comes from Quidditch, so if he loses that, he loses everything.”

An eye for an eye: he ruined my performance, so I ruin his.

Severus sighs. “There’s multiple problems with that. First is how, though I’m not too worried about that because you always find a way. Second, won’t people suspect that someone might’ve drugged him for this exact purpose? And their first suspect would be you, wouldn’t it, because of the recent incident? Third, Potter probably has some secret tool that keeps him invisible! I would know from consistently being ambushed while on guard.”

“First, it’s an idea, not a plan. Second, Potter has many enemies, and I’m sure he’ll make many new ones before I act. Plus, we should also find some way to make him lose multiple Quidditch matches before we give him the enhancer. You know, so his desperation seems believable,” May answers easily. “As for your third question…”

She pulls the shimmery, transparent cloth out of an inside pocket of her robes. Her hand becomes invisible under it, making it seem like that part of her body had been cleanly cut off. 

“I took this while you guys were arguing with McGonagall. I think we know how Potter’s been sneaking up on everyone.”

Severus

He and May arrive in front of McGonagall’s office five minutes early. He had insisted that he didn’t need a chaperone, but she walked with him anyway. Potter and Black show up a few minutes later, right before 7 PM. 

Potter sneers at them and then takes a threatening step towards May. “Give it back.”

May gives him an innocent look. “Specify, please.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about–”

Suddenly, the door opens behind them, and McGonagall steps out.

“What’s the matter now?” she says sternly. “And Ms. Shen, this detention doesn’t involve you, unless you’re inclined to help me organise student files.”

Potter blanches. “U-um, Shen took something of mine last night, but it’s fine, she can return it later, I’m okay with that.”

How strange. Why would Potter want to keep it hidden from McGonagall?

“Oh, that’s what you were talking about!” May says, smiling sweetly. She pulls the cloak out of her bag. “I found this lying on the floor after you left last night, and I wasn’t quite sure what it did or who it belonged to. But I suppose it’s yours, James…”

Potter looks like a deer caught in headlights. McGonagall takes it from May before Potter can snatch it out of her hands. “Is this an invisibility cloak, Mr. Potter?”

“W-well, it really depends on how you want to define an invisibility cloak—”

“I see,” she says curtly. “I will be keeping this in my office because you have clearly been using this irresponsibly.”

“Professor, please!” he begs. “It’s my father’s, and he would really like me to have it!”

“Well, I will write to your father and explain what you have been using it for,” McGonagall replies, unmoved. “Until then, it will remain in my office.”

“But professor—”

“I would suggest you drop the matter lest you cost your house more points.”

Potter looks defeated. Severus thought he could kiss May for her brilliance.

McGonagall ushers the boys into her office, but Filch soon comes to collect the Gryffindors. Only Severus remains, and as promised, helps her organise the student files of last year’s Gryffindor graduates. Combing through all the papers, placing them in the correct folders, and then putting them in alphabetical order is no fun task, but he is secretly pleased to have received the easier of the two punishments. 

After about thirty minutes of working, she breaks the silence. “You are free to leave, Mr. Snape.”

“So soon?” he responds instinctively, surprised. “I mean, thank you, Professor.”

“Yes,” she says. “I understand your motives for casting that spell to protect Ms. Shen yesterday. Unfortunately, it is against school rules.”

He bites back a scathing retort about how the so-called Marauders get away with breaking school rules on a daily basis. “I understand, Professor.”

“Very well. Goodnight.”

He lingers at the door for a moment. 

“Do you have something to ask me, Mr. Snape?”

He hesitates but decides that May would want the confirmation. “Will Potter get his cloak back, Professor?”

“No,” she responds. “I do not wish to deal with any more of the mischief he’s undoubtedly caused with it. Nor do I want Gryffindor to lose any more points. Please thank Ms. Shen for bringing it to me – it has certainly solved the mystery of the many strange pranks that can be obliquely traced back to him.”

He nods. “I will. Goodnight, Professor.”

After leaving McGonagall’s office, he heads to the library. May would not be expecting him in their classroom for a while, considering that it is still early. She mentioned needing to finish the work her parents had sent her, so he doubts she would’ve gotten any research done for their little project . 

Yesterday, she wanted to make sure Potter lost a few games before sneaking in an enhancer. A good weakening solution would do the trick, but they would need a foolproof recipe that was sports-oriented; the fewer side effects it had, the better. They wouldn’t want Potter suspecting some type of poisoning. 

He finds the potions book that May must’ve been browsing through. She had the foresight – or perhaps, it was just paranoia – to not leave a record by checking it out. He copies the recipe for the enhancement potion onto a piece of parchment in case she hadn’t done so the previous night. To his delight, the enhancement potion is followed by the recipe for an adrenaline-lowering potion, presumably to counteract the effects of the former. Upon closer inspection, it does not seem as effective as its counterpart, and he’s not entirely sure if it would have a considerable effect on Potter’s Quidditch skills. He copies it down, just in case.

When Severus puts the book back on the shelf, another one catches his eye. It’s titled Peculiar Results of Failed Experiments . 

Failed experiments, he thinks, that May and I could make successful. It would be perfect for their other project – their “innovative breakthrough”. 

Their ticket out of this godforsaken country. 

Unfortunately, the book is filled with rubbish – odd ideas for potions that resulted in either disgusting soup or some deadly but indigestible poison. He stumbles across an attempt at brewing a potion that would reverse blindness but instead makes the drinker’s vision progressively blurry and “wobbly”. The effects reach their peak at about an hour after digestion, stay at their peak for approximately 45 minutes, and slowly subside until three hours post-digestion, at which time they would have disappeared completely. 

All in all, a rather useless potion. Unless…

Potter would not be able to see the hoops very well if his vision was impaired as such. Not even the glasses would help. That would be quite detrimental to playing Chaser. 

He quickly copies the entire three pages – both the recipe and the potioneer’s notes. Although the book does not seem very credible, no ingredients or clearly recognizable products of the magical reaction have any dangerous properties at first glance. Perhaps the author’s notes would guide them to a better recipe of their own. 

By the time he returns to their classroom – notes in hand, books carefully placed back in their original locations – it is already 9:30 PM.

May

The next morning, May and Severus head to Potions ten minutes early to discuss their ideas with Slughorn. They would need the lab for “experimentation” after school hours. 

“Ms. Shen, Mr. Snape!” greets Slughorn. “What brings you two here so early?”

The pair had agreed that May should do most of the talking. “We were just wondering, Professor, if there happened to be a time when the Potions’ lab is open. We want to do some brewing on our own.”

“Why, that sounds like a wonderful idea!” he says. “I usually don’t trust my students alone in here, but the two of you are exemplary, and what sort of teacher would I be if I didn’t grant my brightest pupils the opportunity to further themselves…”

He goes on and on about the last student who used his lab and greatly improved the effectiveness of Skele-Gro. May and Severus indulge him. 

After what must’ve been five minutes of rambling, he gets back on track. “Ah, where was I? Oh yes, the schedule!” 

He fumbles in his desk drawer for a moment. “Well, the room is definitely open Tuesday and Thursday nights…Saturday mornings too, though I’ll be sure to let you two know in advance if I have a detention scheduled here one of those times.”

“That sounds perfect, Professor!” May replies. 

“Yes, thank you, sir,” echoes Severus. 

“Of course, of course,” he says gleefully. “I’m curious as to what you’re planning to do here.”

“There are some modifications we’ve made on the current textbook recipes that we wish to try,” Severus responds smoothly, “though we might branch out if another potion strikes our interest.”

Slughorn smiles. “Ah, no wonder your potions are a level above the rest of the class! You’re very welcome to do so of course – and help yourself to the ingredients here, I know you both are smart enough to not use up an unreasonable amount –  and be sure to update me on the progress…”

Slughorn rips off a piece of parchment and writes down the times at which the lab would be available. “I’ll leave it unlocked right before, but if it’s closed, just drop by my office.”

They thank him once more before taking their seats. After the bell, Slughorn immediately instructs everyone to collect their ingredients and begin brewing the Ageing Potion. 

“So, are we planning to use Slughorn’s ingredients?” asks Severus quietly while May is chopping. 

“I looked at the recipes you wrote yesterday, and we’ll probably use some of his. I’ve already asked my parents to owl us the rarer ones,” she replies. “Thanks so much for writing those, by the way.”

“Mhm. Rarer ones are more expensive, right?”

She gives him a pointed look – at which he raises his brows – then nods almost imperceptibly. Rarer means less frequently used, not more expensive. They both understand that the rarer ingredients, if Slughorn noticed to be missing, might clue the man in on exactly what they were brewing. May deduces that Severus asked the question in case someone was eavesdropping and – in an unlikely scenario – pieced together their exact thought process as such. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d feel bad if we used those.”

“Will your parents be okay with buying…?”

She snorts. Her parents were willing to make any investment in her education, even when she never asked them to. The problem was that their monetary investments turned into emotional investments – emotional investments that turned into anger when nothing came out of them. “Yeah, they won’t care. They’ll be glad I’m ‘furthering myself academically’ or something along those lines.”

“Hm,” he replies. He looks slightly upset – he always does when she talks about her family, though she doesn’t push it. “Will they expect a report on what we brew?”

“Doubt it. Not in their field of study.”

He nods. They brew in near silence for the rest of class. May goes through the mechanical motions, following Severus’s annotated textbook instructions. She usually pays more attention, but her mind is on the Potter situation. The plot for vengeance seems almost deceptively simple in her head – that is, if one ignores the details. 

There are six Quidditch matches per year, meaning one team would only play at three. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup last year, with no small thanks to Potter. 

It boosted his ego quite a bit.

She would knock him down a few pegs by slipping the vision inhibitor into his drink at breakfast before the first two Gryffindor matches. The Great Hall would be full, of course, because of the match. That meant Potter would be more focused on his friends than his drink – but it also meant more people would be watching Potter, and by extension, his drink. 

Before that, they would need to test the inhibitor for its effects, which was another problem entirely. Thankfully, the first match of the year is Slytherin v. Ravenclaw, so they have a bit of time. As a last resort, they would use the adrenaline-lowering potion. 

Before the last match of the year, she would find a way to plant a bottle of the adrenaline-booster into his dorm room. Maybe even mess with the Potions lab a bit to make it seem like Potter brewed it himself. Then, she would sneak some into his drink at breakfast and hope that the improved performance is suspicious. Luckily for them, the last match is also the one that Quidditch recruiters watch, so hopefully, the more experienced adults would be able to realise something is off. 

The enhancer would be detectable, either with a more complex diagnostic spell or a urine test. Then, after looking at his losing record and searching his dorm, the authorities would find both the motive and the means for the crime. Potter would deny it, of course, but who would believe him? And even if Dumbledore let his favourite student get away with it, the majority of the student body would be more than just sceptical. 

It was her grandest plan yet.

May knows she has to be very careful with the last match. If it seems like a chivalrous comeback after a weak season, all her efforts would be undone. 

The bell jolts her back to reality. 

“Are you alright?” asks Severus. “You’ve been in a trance all class.”

“Mhm, just thinking about brewing here later,” she replies, hoping he understands her reference. “How was our potion?”

He snorts. “You were really out of it, then. It was perfect, as usual.”

She smiles and hits his arm playfully. “Of course it was. You brewed it!”

He blushes, but she looks away, pretending not to notice. They had more important things to focus on. 

“Meet me in our room during lunch. I’ll update you on what I’m thinking of.”

Chapter Text

Fall 1974

Severus

May explains her plan to him, and it seems plausible. The most difficult parts would be spiking Potter’s drink and getting into his dorm room without being discovered, though he was sure the Disillusionment charm would come in very handy, especially now that Potter didn’t have his cloak.

They write it out as such:

1. Brew the adrenaline booster and its counter-potion. Test both and take notes on the period and level of effectiveness, shelf life, and taste. 
2. Brew the vision-inhibitor. Check carefully for toxic ingredients and reactions. Test and take notes on the above effects. 
3. Use the disillusionment charm on the potions, then test them for effects once more. Make note of any significant changes. Make adjustments to the recipe if necessary. 
4. Disillusion oneself and the potion before the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match. Slip the inhibitor into subject’s drink at breakfast. If the inhibitor proves ineffective after testing, use the adrenaline reducer. 
5. Repeat at the next match. 
6. Find a potion on the market that has similar effects as the adrenaline booster. Owl order one under subject’s name. Replace the potion in the bottle with the brewed adrenaline booster, ensuring that all containers are fully sanitized.
7. Right after school, the night before the last match, disillusion oneself and adrenaline booster. Wait in front of Gryffindor's common rooms and slip in with a student. Wait in front of subject’s dorm room and slip in when someone opens the door. Wait until the dorm room is empty, then hide the booster in the drawers or the suitcase. 
8. During breakfast, repeat the drink-spiking performance, but this time with the booster. Ensure that enough is taken so that the improvement in performance is suspicious, or the level of strength gained is nearly impossible.

“You’re sure there will be a potion on the market that has adrenaline-boosting effects?” he asks, after watching May write step six. 

“Definitely,” she answers. “If not for sports, then for, um, other types of physical performance.”

“Ah,” he says, slightly embarrassed for asking.

“I’m going to set a passcode on this,” she whispers. “I’m thinking of making it a Chinese phrase, but I don’t think you’ll be able to pronounce it, if that’s alright.”

He nods. “The fewer people that can open it, the better.”

She gives him a relieved smile. He watches as she waves her wand over it, whispers an unknown incantation, and then says what must be the passcode. The writing on the parchment disappears completely. May taps it three times, whispers the passcode, and the black swirls of ink reveal themselves once more. 

“I’m going to put this in a concealed pocket of my suitcase,” she informs him, “which means I need to leave right now if I want to make it in time for afternoon class.”

He nods. “Alright, see you later.”

“Bye.”

A few minutes after she leaves the room, Lily enters. 

“Hey,” she greets. “I thought I’d catch you here. Where have you been the past few days?”

“Just with May.”

He contemplates telling her about their brewing, and for a moment, he almost feels bad about leaving his best friend out of it. Though, upon further consideration, he isn’t sure Lily is his best friend any longer. The thought brings on a stab of guilt. A year ago, he would’ve jumped at the idea that Lily missed him and came to find him out of her own volition. 

She was his lifeline back in Cokeworth. She was his only friend during the first two years at the school where the Slytherins scorned him for his blood status and everyone else steered clear of him to avoid Potter’s bullying. But now, there was May. 

May, who was cunning and brilliant. 

May, who listened and understood why he had to align himself with the blood supremacists. 

May, who offered him a way out. 

He could have two best friends, couldn’t he? Though he supposed that rather undermined the definition of “best”. 

Fortunately, there’s no need to tell Lily about their brewing plans and risk her asking to join them. She comes to her own conclusions. “Ohh, how cute!”

He hopes his face isn’t heating up the way it feels like it is. “It’s not like that!”

She smirks. “I’m sure, Sev. I’m glad – she’s a good influence on you.” 

“Hey, we’re just friends!”

“Well, class starts in five,” she says, ignoring his objection. “You can tell me all about her while we walk to Transfiguration.”

“What does that even mean? You know her already…”

May

May is collecting ingredients while Severus pours over the recipe for the vision inhibitor one last time. They spent the previous week researching all the possible reactions and ingredients for the potion in the library, and everything proved harmless. Severus deduced that the active ingredient was Boom Berry, which was supposed to have restorative effects, that reacted with the Essence of Daisyroot to cause impaired vision. The Boom Berry is what makes the subject’s vision return to normal after the Essence of Daisyroot wears off. 

Boom Berry was common and used in many healing potions that were needed for both the Hospital Wing and potions classes. May asked her parents to owl her the Essence of Daisyroot. 

Between splitting prep work and brewing, they were able to finish the potion in just over an hour. 

“Let’s test it,” she says immediately. 

He frowns. “It’s Thursday night. If this impairs vision your vision for three hours, someone’s bound to notice. I doubt it will expire by the weekend.”

“Ah, you’re right. I got excited.”

While cleaning up, Severus asks May what her plan for testing is. 

“I drink, I tell you what it feels like, and you take notes,” she responds easily. 

“That’s dangerous!” he exclaims. “What if the effects are permanent?”

“We followed the recipe. And plus, Essence of Daisyroot is neutralized by stomach acid a while after digestion, so the properties won’t last. Boom Berry will most definitely bring me back to health.”

Severus frowns. “What if I was wrong about the active ingredient?”

“Oh please, when are you ever wrong?” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I checked your work, too, and it all makes sense.”

He thinks for a moment. “I’ll take it.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ll take the potion, you take notes,” he clarifies. 

“Severus, this was my plan. There’s no need for you to put yourself at risk–”

“It’s our plan,” he interjects. “And now you’re admitting there’s a risk. Don’t worry about me – if I have to go to the Hospital Wing to reverse any damage, no one will blink an eye. I’ve had experiments go awry before, and I’m already in there plenty thanks to Potter.”

“You’ve done experiments?”

“Not sanctioned by any professor, of course.”

She snorts but soon reverts back to her worried expression. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says. “I’ll test this one. If you really feel bad, you can test the booster. I think we both trust that more, considering it’s from a reputable source.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “T-thanks. I really appreciate–”

“Don’t worry about it.”

—

The pair spent Saturday morning brewing the adrenaline booster and reducer. By noon, the two potions were bottled in uniformly sized vials and carefully stored in separate boxes. 

“Let’s start with testing the booster,” suggests May. “One person should have functioning vision while the other drinks it.”

“Alright.”

“We need to find a place to test them,” he says.

She smiles. “I know a place. Come with me.”

Together, the pair climb up the winding staircases all the way to the seventh floor. She leads him to the left corridor and starts pacing in front of a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. 

“...Is there something I’m supposed to be doing right now?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. 

“What are you–”

She gestures for him to be quiet while trying to keep the image in her head – a false Quidditch Pitch, a singular hoop, a Quaffle, a pair of functional broomsticks. She opens her eyes when she hears a gasp behind her. 

“I-is that a door?”

“Astute observation,” she says sarcastically, earning her a scathing glare. “Come, let’s go in.”

May grasps the handle, warm and tingling with magic, revealing a mock Quidditch Pitch inside. The ceiling is a uniform light blue – noticeably lower than the real sky but still towering over the hoop at the center of the room. The ground is covered in a plastic-like imitation of grass, and on it lays the objects she requested. 

“How did you find this place?” he asks quietly.

She remembers her first year. Her parents’ crushing expectations. Final exams. The lump stuck in her throat that wouldn’t go away. 

She remembers running to the seventh floor, looking for a place where she could hyperventilate alone because she didn’t want to see her roommates’ pitying looks, or hear their judgments spreading through the school, labeling her permanently as an oversensitive attention-seeker because what was she crying for? Wasn’t she doing just fine in class? Was she so shallow that her school finals were the most painful, tear-inducing experience she’d ever had?

She remembers wishing for a place where she could be alone. A place that would calm her down. 

That was when the door appeared. 

It led her into her childhood bedroom – the one in China. Soft afternoon sunlight filtered through the fake windows, bringing along with it the scent of cherry blossoms. She remembers lying down on the bamboo sleeping mat, letting its coolness seep through her burning skin. Wishing someone would wrap their arms around her and tell her it was okay while she shook with tears, breathing raggedly. 

In the end, it was okay. She managed on her own, like always. After all, her family wasn’t the type to wipe away tears with warm hugs and comforting smiles. 

She came back occasionally when she got homesick. When she learned Nai Nai passed. When the constant buzz of the castle filled her head with too much fuzz. 

“Lucky coincidence,” she replies to Severus. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Her first visit, her last one, all the things she’s kept locked inside herself threaten to spill out in a torrid rush of salty, crashing waves. But they’re stopped by the sudden lump in her throat and the dryness of her mouth. She can only imagine his reaction – certainly, someone who has been through what he has been through would look down at her and scoff in the way that adults scoff at the far-fetched fantasies and frivolous worries of children. 

So she leaves it at that. He is already walking around the perimeter of the field, reaching out to touch the edges of their newly-formed reality. 

She clears her throat. “I’m going to drink the enhancer.”

He’s back at her side in an instant. “You’re sure?”

She bristles. “Yes. I have faith in my brewing. And your recipe, of course.”

She ignores the shaking of her hands, her racing heart, and Severus screaming at her to wait until they have a backup plan in case something goes wrong. 

She downs the pale orange contents of the bottle in a single gulp because she knows if she hesitates for another moment, she’ll never drink it.

His hand is clutched tightly around her forearm, eyes locked in hers, looking for any reaction. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, a few seconds later. 

She closes her eyes and waits. “Excited. I can feel my pulse increasing. More energy.”

A minute later, she opens her eyes and jogs towards one of the brooms. “Use a cushioning charm if I start to fall.”

He looks like he’s about to object but thinks better of it and nods. 

Upon pushing off the ground, she notices she has more strength than usual. She swoops down and grabs the Quaffle then flies up again, moving her elbow back the way she has seen Cindy do hundreds of times, then aims for the hoop. It goes through. 

She repeats the performance a few more times – each farther from the hoop than the last – until she succeeds in scoring a goal from the end of the room. She then flies a couple of laps around the room, feeling the rush of air, hearing the clear sound of her own laughter. She leans forward, urging the broom along until she reaches a breakneck speed that would otherwise be impossible to achieve on the cheap Cleansweeps.

Under normal circumstances, she would be paralyzed with fear travelling this fast this far off the ground. But all she could feel was freedom and the enticing taste of danger. Somewhere far away, Severus is shouting her name, but it doesn’t matter because she’s filled with bottomless energy, and she’s rushing towards the endless stretch of blue in front of her, and she’s safe –

Only it does end. She hits something solid, and she vaguely remembers the idea of walls, of being in a room, of rooms being made of finite space. 

And suddenly, she’s falling, and the bottom of her stomach is dropping to some point below the fake grass, to some point suspended on the sixth floor–

Luckily, the ground feels surprisingly soft. 

It all rushes back to her at once. The cushioning charm. The potion. Severus’s shouting voice. She could make out “you fucking idiot” from his string of expletives.

He’s shaking her shoulders. “Can you hear me?”

She nods. The residual high was slowly fading. 

He waves his index and middle fingers on his left hand in front of her face. “How many fingers am I holding up.”

“Two.”

“What’s my name?”

She rolls her eyes, wincing at the dizziness the action brings her. “Severus.”

“What’s your name?”

“James Potter.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake–”

She closes her eyes, letting the world stabilize itself. After a minute or so, she sits up.

“I’m fine, Severus. It’s gone.”

“All of it?”

She shakes her head. “The urge to be unreasonably reckless. I think I recovered as fast as I did because I’m still stronger than usual.”

“Hm.”

“It’s effective,” she says with a smile. “We just have to test it after using the disillusionment charm.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want a repeat performance of that.”

“I’ve learned,” she assures him. “We’ll be more careful next time.”

He nods. “We should head down to lunch. We can test the vision inhibitor this evening, and if that fails, we’ll test the adrenaline reducer.”

Severus

He and May are sitting in the Room again. When he closes his eyes, he can still see her falling. The image would be burned into the back of eyelids forever, he thinks. Her hand is grasped around the vial containing the vision inhibitor.

She’s shaking. She’s trying to conceal it, but he can see her. Shaking. 

“Let me take it,” he says for what must be the tenth time.

She shakes her head. “It’s not your responsibility.”

“You agreed to let me take it earlier,” he argues. “And plus, I brewed it, so therefore it is.”

“It was my idea–”

“I want this as much as you do,” he reminds her, “if not more. Don’t forget everything Potter has done to make my life here a living hell.”

That seems to finally get to her. She hands it over –

At her worried expression, he sardonically adds: “I have faith in my brewing. And my recipe, of course.”

– and he downs the clear liquid in one gulp. 

The effects aren’t immediate. Every five minutes, May asks him to describe what he can see. At the thirty-minute mark, May’s face is slightly blurry, and there are two hoops in the center of the room, overlapping each other, one lighter than the other. 

At forty minutes, she says the game would have started, so he mounts a broom. Flying feels steady, but by forty-five minutes, every object has a ghostly double of itself. Anything further than half a meter away from him is blurry, and May no longer has any facial features other than a vaguely round face framed by dark hair. 

“Do you want me to throw you the Quaffle?” May calls from below.

“No, I wouldn’t be able to catch it.”

Instead, he carefully descends and tries to grab the Quaffle. It takes him at least three attempts to grasp it in his hands, what with its fuzzy edges and double image moving around.  

He flies back up with it and then attempts to throw it in one of the two hoops. He isn’t sure which is real anymore. 

May laughs from below, and he playfully tells her to shut up. 

“Sorry. Describe to me what you see.”

“Doubles of everything. Nothing really moves unless I move, but the amount of movement the objects make is not proportional to mine. Everything more than half a meter away is blurry.”

“We’ve reached the one hour and ten minutes mark,” she says. “You can come down – we can continue observations here.”

He agrees, all too relieved to feel something solid below his feet. 

It isn’t until one hour and fifty minutes later that some of the double images begin to disappear. At two hours and twenty minutes, May’s shoulders visibly relax at his announcement that the world is gradually becoming less blurry. 

“It’s fading, right?” she asks him every five minutes, eyebrows knitted together. 

“Yes.”

“No permanent vision damage?”

“We’ll find out,” he answers, but at her withering expression, he resigns to admitting that he was only joking and that of course there would be no damage. 

As promised, his vision is back to normal at the three-hour mark. May carefully folds her parchment and slides it into a compartment in her bag. 

“Do you remember how it tastes?” she asks him. 

“No.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “I don’t either. The important part is the taste after we disillusion the potion.”

He nods. “I also found a spell to test shelf life. You have to whisper exire revelio while drawing a straight line down the container of the potion.”

He watches her try it on the inhibitor. It glows emerald green. 

“It gives the potion a green aura if it’s effective and red if expired,” he explains. “ Finite incantatem will dispel it.”

She turns back towards him, a relieved smile gracing her lips. “You’re brilliant.”

“It’s not like I invented it,” he says, blushing. 

“Still, it’s perfect for us.”

He clears his throat. “Anyway, do you have the bottled potions? We should store them in my dorm because it’s cooler there.”

“Oh, yeah,” she replies, before dropping down to pull three boxes out of her bag. “You’re sure they will be safe there?”

“I have wards. And plus, my roommates don’t enjoy touching my stuff, what with the contamination from my Muggle father and all.”

She chuckles at his sardonic tone. “How lovely.” 

He stores the boxes in the bag before standing up to face her. “I guess we won’t be needing the adrenaline-reducer.”

“We have to see how the others hold up under the disillusionment charm,” she answers. “I doubt there will be any magical reaction, though.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “Should we meet here tomorrow after breakfast for our second round of testing?”

She nods. “I’ll see you then.”                   

—

Sunday morning, Severus disillusions a vial of the adrenaline booster and swallows the slightly sweet liquid. Expectedly, the charm did not affect the intrinsic properties of the potion. 

May had insisted they switch testing to ensure that the potion has the same effects on everyone, though he rather suspects that she was scared of how she would react with the booster in her system. He’s careful to only practice shooting, along with exactly twenty seconds of high-speed flying. The latter is enough to make him understand why it was so difficult for May to come down. 

In the meantime, May practices flying and shooting again, confirming that speed and strength were indeed much lower without the booster.

That evening, May tests the vision inhibitor, yielding the same results as Severus. She looks positively green by the one hour and ten minutes mark. 

“I don’t know how you did this without throwing up,” she exclaims, eyes closed and lying flat on the ground. 

He shrugs. “I don’t have motion sickness.”

She rolls her eyes, a motion that elicits a groan and a session of dry heaving. “Couldn’t have guessed that one.”

He snorts while patting her back in what he hopes is a comforting manner. 

“Summarize the notes for me,” she demands. 

“With our current doses, the adrenaline booster lasts for about three hours with effects starting one to two minutes after consumption, peaking at the hour mark, and suddenly dropping before gradually subsiding to nothing after about two hours and thirty minutes,” he begins. “The vision inhibitor functions as described in the original recipe. Booster is orange and slightly sweet, inhibitor is clear and tasteless.”

“Convenient,” she comments, eyes still closed. “Booster can go in pumpkin juice, inhibitor can go anywhere.”

“Mhm. When is the first game?”

She opens one eye to look at him. “The Saturday after the next. I’ll have a full drink-spiking plan ready by then.”

Chapter Text

Fall 1974

May

Cindy, I’m studying with Severus this morning. Don’t wait for me here – I’ll meet you by the stands, so save me a spot.

         – May

She places the note on Cindy’s nightstand, hoping it wouldn’t raise any suspicion. After all, she has been spending a lot of time with Severus these past few months, and thankfully, Cindy hasn’t given her any more trouble for it.

The clock at the back of the dorm reads 7:45. The rest of her dormmates are sound asleep, and the room is silent apart from the occasional rustling of blankets that makes May’s heart beat erratically each time she hears it. 

May deftly pulls her hair back into a ponytail while checking her appearance in the mirror one last time. She’s wearing nothing but a rather tight long-sleeve shirt, trousers, and boots – definitely not classic winter attire at Hogwarts. However, considering she couldn’t see herself while disillusioned, she decided to forgo the usual sweater or robe that could potentially brush against someone at the crowded Gryffindor table. 

She quickly grabs a cloak before heading out the door. Thankfully, the common room is empty except for a group of first-year boys who pay her no mind. After stepping out into the hall, she disillusions herself, then makes the long trek down to their classroom. By the time she gets there, her hands are clammy and her body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She drops off the cloak and sits on a desk for a few minutes, running over everything once more. 

Wait until Potter is distracted by conversation, preferably around the 9:30 mark, presuming he hasn’t left by then. Pour the entirety of the inhibitor into any drink he has. 

It should be easy enough. 

And if Cindy checks on us in our study room? I was in the library. I left my cloak there because it got too hot. 

Believable.

And if I’m caught? 

There was no point in thinking that far. If she was caught, she would probably be expelled, and her life would be both metaphorically and literally over.

The thought of expulsion almost made her sick. She felt the trail of acid making its way up her throat before swallowing it back down, thankful she hadn’t eaten anything earlier. 

A tempus charm tells her it’s 8:13. She should start heading towards the Great Hall to wait. 

Ten more minutes. 

She paces around the room several times, takes countless deep breaths, sits on the desk with her head between her hands, wonders if it is all worth it–

I should head out before I go insane. 

May disillusions herself and the potion carefully, ensuring she is neither visible nor audible. Then, she peers out of the tiny classroom window and watches a group of Hufflepuffs walk by. When she’s sure the coast is clear, she opens the door and trails the group of students into the Great Hall, but upon noticing that Potter isn’t inside, she goes to stand guard at the entrance, back pressed tauntly against the wall. 

She can feel her heart pounding against her ribcage, but it makes no sound. 

After what feels like an eternity, she spots a head of messy hair in the gradually thickening stream of students walking into the Great Hall. 

He’s accompanied by Black, looking full of himself, and Pettigrew, looking in awe at his more popular friends. Apart from the fact that Lupin is absent, the group appears normal. She waits a few minutes for the crowd to thin out before letting herself in.

The three of them are sitting in the middle of the Gryffindor table, surrounded by the Quidditch team along with other eager onlookers. She moves to stand behind Potter. 

“When d’you reckon we should leave?” asks Black. 

The clock at the end of the hall reads 8:57.

“9:30 should give us enough time to change and prepare,” James says. “Not that we need to. I could beat Hufflepuff blindfolded and wearing dress robes.”

“We’ll be cheering you on!” yells a third-year girl from the end of the table. Shouts of approval echo down. 

“Thanks, Betty,” says Black, flashing his signature smile at her. She blushes and turns away. 

At 9:04, the conversation moves to strategy, discussed in hushed whispers. 

Everyone can see me. 

She looks down. She’s invisible. But the feeling that everyone is watching – even when no one is looking her way – is impossible to shake. She prays to no God in particular that the operation will go smoothly.

At 9:11, after eating a plate filled with bacon, Potter pours himself a glass of pumpkin juice. He takes a sip.

At 9:15, May uncorks the vial. Commands her hands to stop shaking. Prays the glass won’t slip from her clammy fingers straight into Potter’s drink. 

At 9:16, Potter takes another sip. She’ll have to pour it now, or else she risks the drink becoming visibly diluted when she adds the potion. 

At 9:17, she carefully reaches her arm over Potter’s shoulder and lets the inhibitor trickle out of the vial and into the cup. She pulls her arm back after a good thirty seconds, knowing that the liquid must’ve been emptied by then. There is no reaction from anyone at the table. They continue discussing the Hufflepuff beaters. 

At 9:19, her dormmates walk in. Cindy looks tired, as usual. Nothing seems out of order. 

At 9:22, Severus walks in with his dormmates. As per her command, he sticks with the Slytherins and does not attempt to seek her out. 

At 9:24, James downs the rest of his pumpkin juice in one gulp. 

At 9:26, Black begins to get angsty. May quickly moves out of the way, sensing that the team would be leaving soon. She returns to her post at the entrance of the Great Hall. Less than a minute later, the Gryffindor Quidditch Team walks by her, oblivious to the events of the past thirty minutes. 

Severus

After breakfast, he makes a quick excuse about having to use the loo and breaks off from his group, then heads towards their classroom. May is sitting on one of the desks, staring at a point on the wall in front of her.

He shuts the door behind him. “How’d it go?”

She turns to him. ”Good.”

He allows himself a small smile. “Let’s head to the pitch, then.”

She hops off the table and shrugs on her cloak. 

Together, they walk out towards the pitch. The early November weather has yet to bring snow, but the branches were bare and there was a deep chill that would undoubtedly worsen during the winter months. 

“Ah, I bought you a biscuit,” Severus says, pulling a napkin-wrapped object out of his pocket. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

“I haven't,” she confirms, before quickly accepting the food. “Thanks so much.”

They walk the rest of the path in silence while May eats.

A crowd was already forming by the front of the pitch when they got there. Severus spots the back of Huang’s pin-straight black hair, and as if summoned by his thoughts, she turns around. Her gaze lands on May, and she smiles before waving her over. 

“I’ll see you after the game today. Our room,” whispers May. Then, she pushes her way towards Cindy. Upon entering the pitch, he spots Mulciber and Avery sitting at the front of the Slytherin stands. Severus takes his place next to them, the ghost of May’s warm breath still tickling his ear. 

—

After ten long minutes into the game, Severus is reminded why he never shows up to watch the horrid sport. The crowd – jeering, screaming, pushing incessantly – threatens to give him a migraine. He busies himself by searching for May’s familiar face in the Ravenclaw stands but fails to find her amidst the sea of blue and silver students. 

At some point, his brain blurs out the noise to keep his sanity intact. 

Unfortunately, he is jolted back into reality by Mulciber shaking his arm.

“What?” he asks sharply. 

Mulciber doesn’t sense his friend’s hostile tone over his own excitement. “Look at Potter!”

Sure enough, Potter is swerving on his broomstick. Somehow, he comes in possession of the Quaffle but misses the hoop by a good meter. 

“And James Potter misses!” announces the commentator. “He seems unsteady on his broom, too. Could it be that someone is cursing him?”

“James, what the bloody hell?” screams Black from the other side of the pitch.

“I can’t fucking see anything!” yells Potter. 

Severus doesn’t bother to hide his satisfied smirk. 

“The idiot got what he deserved,” Severus says. His friends nod in agreement, engrossed in the game. 

“And the Seekers are racing for the snitch!” screams the commentator. The two seekers veer in Potter’s direction, but the boy is still spinning helplessly in the air, trying to orient himself. In an attempt to catch the Quaffle, he bumps straight into the Gryffindor Seeker, sending the pair tumbling to the ground. Thankfully – or perhaps unthankfully – they did not fall from too high. 

“Hufflepuff has caught the snitch!” 

The commentator’s announcements are drowned out by the shouts of the crowd and a clambering off the stands to get a good look at the injured players.

Black immediately runs towards his accomplice but is stopped by Hooch. 

“All of you, out of the pitch!” Hooch screams, Madame Pomfrey in tow. “Don’t block our way!”

The crowd begins to shuffle, and Severus follows his friends off the pitch and back into the warmth of the castle. 

May

The pair manages to break away from their respective friend groups to walk with each other in Hogsmeade. Cindy had given her a raised eyebrow when she said she was planning to spend more time with Severus but agreed to meet her back in their dorm upon making May promise to let her know if anything interesting happened. 

“Where do you plan to find an enhancer?” asks Severus. 

“There’s a potions shop on the border between Hogsmeade and Knockturn Alley,” replies May. 

“Are we allowed there?”

“Think so.”

“So we’re just going to waltz in, purchase a strengthening potion, then waltz out?”

“Considering it’s us, does that sound suspicious to you?”

“I suppose not,” he grudgingly admits. “But won’t having that purchase on a record somewhere be…bad?”

“I’m sure we’re not the only Hogwarts students buying an enhanced strengthening solution. Some of the upper years get into nasty stuff,” says May. “And plus, I had my mum add it to her list. She orders from this shop pretty often, and I promised to pick things up for her this time.”

“And your mother didn’t question it?”

“Told her it was for a school experiment,” answers May. “And I told her not to tell anyone lest they steal my idea. She really doesn’t care what I buy as long as it’s related to academics.”

He shrugs. “If you’re sure.”

May pushes the door open and walks in. Severus follows behind, his jaw dropping at the sight of rows and rows of rare potions and expensive ingredients lining the wall. 

“May!” greets a slightly accented woman’s voice from inside. “How are you doing?”

“Hello, Mrs. Huang!” responds May while walking towards the counter, where a kindly middle-aged woman with slightly greying hair stands. “I’m well, and you?”

“Good, good. Here to pick up your mother’s order?”

“Yes.”

“How is she doing these days?”

May forces a strained smile onto her face, hoping Mrs. Huang wouldn’t press. “Well enough.”

Mrs. Huang turns around to pull a bag from the locked cabinet behind her. “Let me know if there’s any trouble, honey.”

“Of course,” May answers awkwardly.

Mrs. Huang turns back and takes notice of Severus, who has stopped his roaming around the shop and is hovering behind May. “And who may this young man be?”

May doesn’t turn around to see Severus blushing behind her. “He’s just a friend.”

“How nice of you two to accompany each other!” 

“Oh, uh, he’s pretty interested in potions too.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” answers Severus, stammering slightly. “Your selection here is very impressive.”

Mrs. Huang turns her kind smile on him. “Thank you. Not many young people appreciate the art of potions these days.”

He snorts softly. “I’ve noticed that trend at Hogwarts.”

“It is quite unfortunate,” agrees Mrs. Huang, pushing the bag across the table to May. 

“Thank you,” says May. “Have a good day, Mrs. Huang!”

“You too, honey. And don’t let anyone give you trouble at school.”

May nods in response, hoping her expression doesn’t convey something sour. Mrs. Huang’s well-wishes, she knew, would not be fulfilled. 

As soon as the pair walk out the door, Severus turns towards her and whispers in a hushed voice: “Was that Huang’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“She won’t…tell her daughter?”

“I rather think a family friend’s potions purchases are hardly brought up in dinner conversations between a daughter who hasn’t been home for months and her mother,” says May sardonically. “Plus, chances are she doesn’t commit these to memory.”

“S’pose you’re right.”

May hums in response. “Where do you want to go next?”

“I don’t care.”

The pair pass Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop as they walk down Hogsmeade. “Let’s go in here, then.”

“Quills?” asks Severus. “Don’t you already have a bunch?”

May rolls her eyes. “I just want to look. They’re pretty. And plus, I’m getting cold out here.”

“Sure,” he says, with little choice but to follow her as she pulls open the door. 

She heads towards the colored quills section upon entering, immediately noticing that they have released self-inking quills in new colors. There’s a new magenta color labeled cherry rose and a rose-gold, metallic pink . She leans towards the shelves, carefully considering the two options. 

Severus stands right behind her. “I thought you weren’t buying?”

“Like I said, they’re pretty.”

After a good five minutes of contemplation, she picks up a metallic pink quill and holds it up to cherry rose before turning back towards Severus. “Which one should I get?”

He makes no comment at her inconsistency, but his raised eyebrows convey all there is to be said about his judgment of her. 

“I need motivation to study, you know,” she adds. “I’m getting sick of that red I use to correct my Arithmancy homework, and this one is a perfect replacement…”

“Then get that one.”

“But metallic pink would make History of Magic notes prettier! Maybe I’d actually study for those tests ahead of time if important concepts were written in this color.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “Merlin, don’t ask me.”

She frowns slightly, then turns back to the shelves. Neither of them is incredibly expensive, so she doubts her parents would mind. They would help her with her academics , after all. 

She can feel Severus’s gaze on the back of her neck. “You’ve been staring for a while, too. What do you think?”

She turns towards him and he immediately averts his eyes, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“I wasn’t staring at them.”

“Hmm.”

“J-just get both. I don’t know.”

She shrugs, reaching to pick out two quill packages from the back of the shelves. “Alright.”

After checking out, May suggests they head to Honeydukes. 

“That place better not be swarmed with the dunderheads from our school,” Severus mutters darkly. 

“It definitely will be,” answers May, though she knows who he is specifically referring to. Personally, she also hopes that Potter and his gang are nice and far from the shop. 

Soft, powdery snow lines the cobblestone streets as the pair make their way to the other end of Hogsmeade. Out of her peripheral vision, she observes the late afternoon sunlight illuminating Severus’s side profile, turning his black eyes a dark brown. She has never quite understood why Potter and his gang make fun of his appearance – sure, he had a hooked nose, but his strong jawline and high cheekbones conveyed a sort of regality. 

At Honeydukes, May was greeted by warmth, chocolaty air, and a throng of students. She made a beeline for Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, dragging Severus by the sleeve behind her so that they wouldn’t lose each other in the crowd. 

“Surely this decision won’t take long,” remarks Severus sardonically as May reaches towards the back of the shelf and pulls out a pack of gum.

“Don’t be so dramatic. We were barely in there for fifteen minutes.”

“Sure,” he replies. She watches his gaze drift to the Honeyduke’s dark chocolate bars in the neighboring shelf.

“Is there anything you want? It’s on me.”

Severus snaps his head back and flushes a blotchy red. “No thanks.”

“Consider it a compensation for running errands with me all day.”

“I was only joking,” Severus retorts sharply. “You didn’t take that long.”

“I wasn’t offended. It was a genuine offer.”

“And it’s really fine.”

“Alright,” she says, careful to keep her voice even. She walks towards the chocolate display and grabs two bars of dark chocolate. “My mum hasn’t let me have these in a while.”

Suddenly, an obnoxious voice cuts its way through the buzz in the shop. “Hey Snivelly, got yourself a little girlfriend?”

“Got nothing better to do but harass me, Potter?” he retorts. 

May steps up close behind him, discreetly wrapping her fingers around his left forearm. Don’t pull out your wand, Severus. 

He tenses for a moment before his wrist slackens. Her message was received. 

The crowd parts for Potter as he swaggers over, still visibly limping from the seemingly inexplicable Quidditch accident of the previous month. “As a matter of fact, I’m simply doing my job ridding this nice little shop of your disgusting presence.”

“Luckily for you, we were on our way to checkout,” May responds cooly. She walks straight towards Potter towards the front counter, Severus right behind her. As expected, Potter doesn’t have the guts to hex them in public. 

“Ooh, Snivelly, she’s got you all tamed!” shouts Black.

She squeezes Severus’s hand, making sure the long sleeves of their cloaks cover the movement.

“Young man, please take your inappropriate comments out of my store!” shouts the shopkeeper over the whistling noises that soon erupted. “And the rest of you better behave. Professor McGonagall will be visiting me before heading back to Hogwarts, so I will be sure to inform her of any further issues. ”

An uneasy silence passes over the crowd. The shopkeeper – a rather round old man – turns back towards May when she places the items on the counter. 

“Will that be all?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she responds. The students had stopped paying attention to them, and the consistent murmur of voices had started up again.

“That’ll be twenty knuts.” 

May pulls the coins out of her pouch and slides them over.

“You kids alright?” the shopkeeper asks in a hushed voice while storing the money. 

May looks towards Severus, urging him to speak. She wasn’t quite sure what consequences they would face from publicly humiliating Potter as they did.

“To be frank, sir, they bother us quite a lot,” Severus says smoothly. “We’re…unsure if we will face repercussions for defying him on our way back to Hogwarts.”

The man frowns. “They sure have caused trouble in this shop before. I’ll keep them in here until Professor McGonagall arrives.”

“We appreciate it, sir,” replies Severus. 

“It’s no problem, son. I’m sorry they have been bothering you.”

“Thank you so much for understanding,” May says.

The shopkeeper smiles wearily. “It’s my job. I hope you two can enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, sir.”

As they head towards the door, May is painfully aware of Potter’s and Black’s glares boring a hole in the back of her head. But she and Severus walk with their backs straight and heads facing forward with confidence that only a promise from authority can bring.

The door opens and closes with a jingle, and the pair are thrown once more into the bitter winter air. May, using her free left hand, wraps her scarf around the lower half of her face. 

“You did well back there,” she acknowledges. 

“Thanks,” he says, and after a slight pause: “And you were right. About not resorting to magic immediately, I mean. That would’ve looked extraordinarily bad for us.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Please, don’t be smug about it.”

The corners of May’s mouth turn upwards under her scarf. “Wouldn’t dream of doing that.”

He’s silent for a moment. 

“Are you worried about retaliation back at Hogwarts?” she asks softly.

“It’s inevitable.”

“I’ll stay by your side.”

There’s an edge to his voice when he responds. “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.”

She stops abruptly, forcing him to pause and turn towards her. “If I was in danger of being attacked, would you accompany me through the halls? Would you try your best to make sure I’m safe?”

“Yes, but–”

“Well, it goes both ways,” she says with a note of finality. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I care about you.”

She attributes the deep red spreading across his cheekbones to the biting wind. 

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Okay. Let’s keep walking, then.”

The pair continue their trek back to the castle. She watches the fiery reds and pale purples crawl across the darkening winter sky, basking in the comfort of Severus’s warm, calloused hand in hers. Upon entering the castle, he lets go, and her palm feels oddly cold. She is the one who suggests they go to their classroom to leave the candy there, lest she finish them in her dorm that night. He is the one who starts a small fire in the hearth. 

The two of them end up scarfing down the chocolate bars anyway, reluctant to leave the comfort of the room and the warmth of the other’s presence. Back in her dorm, she fell asleep to the lingering taste of bittersweet chocolate, the ghost of Severus’s hand in hers, and Chopin’s Nocturne Op.9 No.2 emitting softly from Cindy’s record player.

Chapter Text

December 1974

Severus

“Baubles,” says Severus to the Fat Lady who, accustomed to but disliking his occasional visits, swings open. 

Leave it to the Gryffindors to come up with an utterly meaningless password.

When May told Lily about what went down in Hogsmeade, Lily sympathetically gave them the Gryffindor password and advised them to come find her if Potter and his gang were giving them trouble. He almost felt bad for using it for such a nefarious purpose. 

Almost. Not enough to stop him from watching the four remaining Gryffindors make their way down to the Great Hall for lunch on Christmas day. Not enough to stop him from stepping across the threshold into the empty tower.

Gaudy crimson and gold cover the walls, while fluffy armchairs and tacky throw pillows dot the common room. Grudgingly, he notes that the tower conveys a sort of homeliness that the distant, luxurious Slytherin dungeons do not. 

Ignoring the bubbling jealousy, he turns left, taking the spiral staircase up to the boys’ dorm labeled Year 4 . With a twist of the knob, the door swings open. He snorts at Hogwarts security before remembering that he and May were probably the only students who feel the urge to sneak into another House and have access to the password. 

The circular room is illuminated by the 12 o’clock light filtering through the wall-length windows, a far cry from the perpetually dark dungeons. 

It isn’t difficult to figure out which four-poster bed was Potter’s. On the nightstand next to it, the boy had placed a framed photo of himself in his Quidditch uniform, a Quaffle clutched under one arm and a broomstick in the other. 

Typical Gryffindor arrogance. 

The bed next to it is probably Black’s. Above it, pictures of slim young women clad in nothing but revealing bikinis or dresses with plunging necklines hang from the walls. Severus cringes in disgust at the choice of decor.

He walks towards Potter’s nightstand, then reaches forward to pull open the top drawer. To his delight, it is filled with Quidditch momentos – a book about broomsticks, another one about strategy, a brochure from a League Severus didn’t bother identifying, a magazine advertising some Quidditch product or another. He closes and opens the drawer a few times, ensuring that it makes no sound when sliding. 

Satisfied with the results of his search, he makes a mental note of what to tell May when she returns from the break. The top drawer would be the perfect place to plant their incriminating bottle of strengthening solution.

He’s about to make his way out of the room when, suddenly, he is greeted by the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled voices. He swiftly and silently dives under Potter’s four-poster bed, long accustomed to quickly finding a hiding spot at the slightest hint of heavy footsteps outside closed bedroom doors. 

What to do next?

He sure as hell doesn’t want to hide under the dusty bed until Christmas dinner, when the Gryffindor tower would once again empty itself of its residents. Upon hearing the sound of a door snapping closed, he decides it would be safe to disillusion himself and make his way out of the tower. There are only two doors he has to get through undetected – Year 4 and the Fat Lady. 

Carefully, he pulls himself from under Potter’s bed and dusts himself off. On one end of the dorm, there stands a mirror. He performs the disillusionment charm, watching with smug self-satisfaction as his body disappears entirely from sight. Then, he walks towards the door, avoiding the furniture. It certainly was a disorienting experience, and he found himself wondering how May consistently pulled it off undetected. 

He slowly eases the door open, glad that its hinges are well-oiled and nothing like the constantly whining one in his childhood bedroom. With well-developed featherlight steps, he makes his way back down the spiral staircase and into the common room, which is blessedly empty. 

Without a second thought, he runs towards the exit and pushes the door open, praying that the hallway will be empty. 

“Ooh-hooo, we have ourselves a student sneaking into the Gryffindor tower!” 

Severus jolts and begins running in the direction of the staircases. Peeves is not far behind, laughing and shouting profanity. 

“Filtch! Professors! I’ve found another little troublemaker!” yells Peeves. “This one might be invisible right now, but I have a little whittle inkling as to who it could be!”

Severus half-believes that Peeves can see right through his disillusionment charm. As he sprints down the halls, he prays for a room in which he could hide from his Professors and keep Peeves out. 

Filtch is probably on his bloody way already. With that bloody cat of his. 

Suddenly, a door appears on his right. 

The tapestry with the trolls. The Room. 

He skids to a stop and pulls on the handle. The door swings open, and he slams it shut before Peeves can squeeze his way in. In the meantime, Severus gets a final glimpse of the hallway, glad to find that the coast is clear. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, puts all his weight against the door, and counts to twenty, knowing Peeves would lose interest soon enough. When Peeves’s unbearable humming fades into the distance, he allows himself to slide to the floor and undo the disillusionment charm. He can still feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. 

The past five minutes replay in his head, and the stress he hadn’t allowed himself to feel comes rushing out in sickening waves. He sits with his head in between his knees for a few moments, allowing his shaky breaths and shivering body to stabilize itself. 

After a few deep breaths, he looks up to assess his surroundings. A blank blackboard lines the front wall, a couch sits in the corner, and a few desks – with four of them pushed into a small cluster – fill the rest of the space. 

The Room had created a smaller version of their classroom. 

—

January 1975

In Severus’s opinion, Quidditch games were all too frequent. It had barely been a month into the second semester, and the buzz about the upcoming Gryffindor v. Slytherin game was omnipresent in the common room. The morning of the game, his dormmates had insisted on getting up early to decorate themselves with green facepaint and boo at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. 

After donning his threadbare, hand-me-down cloak and Slytherin scarf, he trails Mulciber and Avery into the Hall, where he picks at his breakfast and stares at the Gryffindor table, knowing May is standing there, disillusioned. 

“Hey, Potter!” shouts one of the Slytherin beaters across the Great Hall. “Ready to be humiliated?”

“I was about to ask you that one, Travers!” Potter screams back.

“With that new Mudblood on your team, Gryffindor stands no chance!”

The Gryffindor team stands up with gusto, each member shouting various expressions of disapproval. 

“Take that the fuck back!”

At that moment, Dumbledore chooses to intervene. “That’s enough! Quidditch is meant to bring the houses together in a friendly competition, not divide us further.”

Someone from the Gryffindor tables mutters about not wanting to play against disgusting blood supremacists. Something along the lines of “go kill yourselves before we kill you out on the field”. Severus rolls his eyes at the juvenile threat. 

“Let us keep breakfast civil,” continues the Headmaster, expression unyielding, “lest I cancel the Quidditch match. Ten points from Slytherin for the use of discriminatory slurs.”

Potter’s gang sits down smugly, while Travers makes a move to protest. Luckily, his girlfriend pulls him back down and whispers something in his year, which brings him back to his senses. 

“The old man is fucking senile,” Muciber mutters. 

Severus refrains from mentioning that Travers was the one who started it, and he should’ve been smart enough to refrain from saying Mudblood in public. Instead, he focuses his gaze on a point across the Great Hall, on Potter’s glass of pumpkin juice. The brute downs the glass in a single gulp, and Severus prays that May has already succeeded in spiking it. 

Suddenly, something that feels distinctly like a human finger pokes his shoulder. He jolts. It pokes him again. His distracted brain takes a few moments to register that it’s probably May. 

“You alright, mate?” asks Mulciber. “You look like you’ve just seen a boggart.”

“Y-yeah,” responds Severus shakily. “I gotta use the loo. I think there was something bad in the breakfast.”

He carefully extracts himself from the Slytherin benches. 

“M’kay,” Mulciper says, already re-interested in stuffing his face with pancakes. “We’ll save you a spot on the bleachers.”

Severus gives him a nod before quickly walking out of the Great Hall. Knowing where May would want to meet him, he finds the nearest staircase and climbs up to their classroom. He awkwardly holds the door for a few moments before letting it shut behind him. May immediately appears in front of him, her hair disheveled. He jumps slightly at the sudden revelation. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Aren’t you cold?” 

She is wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt this time, along with her school skirt and tights. 

“I was pretty hot last time,” she says. 

“Even outside?”

“I brought a sweater and a cloak,” she answers, gesturing to the clothes piled on the desk behind her. “And these tights are fleece-lined.”

As she reaches behind her for the sweater, he notices the bruise on her right arm.

“What happened?” he asks, leaning in. “I have bruise paste with me.”

She sighs. “I was pouring the inhibitor into Potter’s drink when they all stood up. Y’know, after that dumb shite Travers just had to call McDonald a slur. Potter elbowed me pretty hard, but he didn’t notice in the midst of his argument.”

Severus clenches his jaw, anger rising at Potter for being so damn careless all the damn time. “I swear to Merlin–”

“It’s alright,” May placates. “He obviously didn’t know I was there, and it doesn’t hurt that much anymore. You said you had bruise paste?”

He reaches into the pocket of his trousers and hands the vial to her. 

She thanks him, then uncorks the vial and spreads a generous amount of its contents over the blackish-purple bump. “Severus, don’t do anything rash about this incident.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he mutters, simultaneously vowing to hex Potter the next time he saw him.

“I’m serious,” May says, voice hard. “I almost got discovered today. When he pushed me back, a bit of the potion spilled out of the vial and onto the table. It left the range of my disillusionment charm, then, so I saw a few droplets of it.”

He swallows. “Did anyone notice?”

“No, but now I’m scared. What if the house-elves discover some residue of a weird potion while cleaning? I don’t think they can link it to us, but I hate that we’ve left a record, and that I could be so fucking careless, and I couldn’t stay there for a moment longer, so I called you to leave, and I’m sorry if I scared you, by the way–”

Severus reaches forward and places two hands on her shoulders. “Hey, calm down. Don’t worry about it, I was only startled. And you said so yourself: they can’t trace anything to us. I doubt they’ll be testing each droplet of liquid for magical properties, especially considering how messy the tables get on a daily basis.”

She takes a shuddery breath. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He removes his hands awkwardly upon seeing that she has stopped shaking. “The only problem I can think of is the inhibitor being less effective than we planned.”

“I think it’s fine,” she says. “I didn’t spill much, and he drank it at about 9:20, so the effects should be pretty similar to those at the last game.”

“Good,” he says. “I brought you a biscuit again.”

She gives him a tired but genuine smile. “Thanks, I’m starving.”

And suddenly, it seemed as if everything would be just fine. For a moment, he forgets about the danger of the spilled potion, the dreariness of the upcoming game, and the risk of their entire operation. The world centers around the two of them in their classroom, with the warm smell of fresh biscuits and the flowery scent of May’s shampoo drifting in the air. 

May

Fifteen minutes into the game, Potter is already looking off-kilter. Watching makes her feel vaguely sick, so she leans her head against Cindy’s shoulder. 

“Are you good?” murmurs Cindy into her ear. “You’ve been looking peaky all morning.”

“Couldn’t fall asleep last night,” May whispers back. “Just tired.”

Cindy nods in understanding and wraps her arm around May’s shoulder. 

Through bleary eyes, she watches Potter miss another shot. The commentator, a sixth-year Slytherin who prances around the school, calling the muggle-born girls Mudblood whores, announces Potter’s losses all too gleefully. 

In the previous match, she had gotten lucky. After tumbling to the ground and being knocked out cold for a couple of minutes, Potter could hardly remember a single thing about the game. Meanwhile, the matron was too busy taking care of the injured players to test Potter’s system for potions, and the vision inhibitor had somehow evaded the basic diagnostic charm. Black informed Potter that his poor performance was allegedly due to his vision, so Potter was prescribed a new set of glasses, and he went around telling everyone that, what a shame , his vision had seriously deteriorated. No wonder the blackboards had been looking extra blurry these days, he had exclaimed.

Now that he was showing the exact same symptoms as last time, wouldn’t someone deduce that something – or someone – was causing this reaction? 

Not to mention the spillage of the inhibitor on the table that still made her uneasy. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the tiny, iridescent droplets mockingly reflecting light up at her. 

Not to mention the ever-present tightening of her heart when she thought about the Gryffindor Seeker, who had suffered a far worse injury than Potter and lay in the hospital wing for a whole two weeks. Not to mention the knowledge that she would be purposefully sabotaging Cindy when she spiked Potter’s drink with the strength-enhancer before the Gryffindor v. Ravenclaw game.

Cindy, who was her best friend from the moment she stepped into this foreign country with its foreign language and its foreign customs. Cindy, who knew every sordid detail about May’s family conflicts. Cindy, who had her arm wrapped around May’s shoulder now.

So, she sat there, leaning her head against Cindy’s shoulder, telling herself that Quidditch was no big deal, even if it was one of the most important things to her fourteen-year-old best friend. 

“And Slytherin catches the snitch!” screams the commentator, jolting her back into the present. “Another great display of our talent!”

The arm around May’s shoulder drops as Cindy stands up to loudly boo. In a pathetic show of house solidarity, May pushes herself upright and boos along with her, knowing that Cindy is still vexed about the Ravenclaw v. Slytherin match that Ravenclaw lost. 

She hopes Severus doesn’t see her.

—

The school was abuzz about the recent Quidditch game the entirety of the following week. Potter proclaimed that he was dizzy because he hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night and because the blood supremacist, dark-arts practitioner Slytherins were cursing him from the stands. 

Surprisingly, the professors pay his accusations little mind. She overhears McGonagall contributing his recent failures to the growing of the teenaged body that no doubt leaves young men like Potter with temporarily poor control of their limbs. 

They are much more absorbed by the progressively violent Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry. 

True to her word, she stays by Severus’s side for as long as she possibly can. Luckily, Potter seems to have long forgotten the Hogsmeade incident, choosing instead to target members of the Slytherin Quidditch team. While walking down the stairs to Slughorn’s morning Potions class, she witnesses Potter exchanging a few hexes with the younger Black brother in front of Slughorn’s door. 

“Civil blood makes civil hands unclean,” she remarks sardonically to Severus, watching as Black joins the conflict with a punch to his brother in the ribs. 

She sees the subtle tightening of the muscles in Severus’s face. 

“I won’t get hurt,” she whispers in his ear. “Don’t worry about me. You should start heading to your first class.”

At that moment, Slughorn walks out. “Enough, enough! I will not have you disrupting the peace in these hallways!”

Peace, Sluggy? When has there ever been peace?

Reluctantly, the two Gryffindors draw away. Slughorn rushes towards his prized Seeker. “Regulus, my boy…”

At that moment, Slughorn spots the two of them on the staircase and calls out to his newfound saviors. “Oh, Severus! Could you escort Regulus to the hospital wing?”

The younger Black begins to protest. “Professor, I am perfectly capable–”

Slughorn cuts him off while pulling out a hall pass for Severus. “Nonsense! You need to be in the best shape possible – Slytherin has a good chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year!”

Severus offers Regulus a hand, which Regulus petulantly ignores. Upon nearly toppling over, he grudgingly takes Severus’s arm. The pair make their way up the stairs. 

Slughorn turns on the Gryffindors. “I will be informing Professor McGonagall of this unacceptable behavior. Twenty points from Gryffindor for the use of physical violence against another student. Expect a detention soon.”

“But Professor, he hexed us too!” Black protests. “Shen, did you see him hex us?”

May surprises herself with her response, which she directs at Slughorn. “I did, Professor.”

Slughorn sighs. “Is that so? Who started it?”

Potter and Black look towards her but come to the correct conclusion that she would help them no further. “We did, sir, but–”

“Well, I suppose I should take off ten points from Slytherin. I will speak to the young Mr. Black about this, but know that violence is never an acceptable solution.”

Slughorn turns back into the room, shaking his head. 

“Um, thanks for that one, Shen,” Potter says, an expression of polite shock still lingering.

Black nods. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re not as bad as–”

“Please refrain from insulting any of my friends ,” May responds forcefully. “I just want the rivalry to end. It’s getting rather tiring for the other Houses, too.”

“Y-yeah, I’m sure,” Potter finishes awkwardly. The three of them enter the room, where Potter and Black immediately find a seat at the back and begin to speak in hushed whispers. 

As the rest of her classmates trickle in, she contemplates her choice. Was it guilt that pushed her to help them? Was it some twisted sense of righteousness the self-absorbed part of herself insisted on maintaining? Was it remorse that squeezed her heart now, thinking of Potter’s misplaced gratitude?

She tells Severus about the incident later, in the privacy of their classroom. To her astonishment, he smirks and congratulates her on the genius strategic move. Now, no one would suspect them of spiking Potter’s drink should the aspect of spiking be discovered.

She forces her lips into her trademark up-to-no-good smile and pushes the uneasiness away.

Chapter Text

Spring 1975

Severus

“Let me,” Severus insists. The penultimate match, which is between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, will begin tomorrow at ten in the morning. The pair are debating who should hide the enhanced strengthening solution they purchased in Potter’s dorm. “I’ve been there before, so I know it better.”

“Top drawer in the nightstand where there’s an obnoxious picture of Potter posing for Quidditch,” deadpans May. “I know it, too.”

“You’ve practically been running this whole operation by yourself,” he reminds her. 

“You helped me brew and test the potions, remember?”

“Hence why I said ‘practically’. You’re doing most of the work either way.”

“It was my idea, so I should take up the risks–”

“It’s our plan.”

She sighs in that dramatic way of hers, but he knows he’s won. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just hand the vial over.”

“One moment.”

She pulls an empty vial out of her bag, breaks the seal on the enhancer, and pours some of its contents into the other vial. He looks at her questioningly.

“When they search his room for evidence, an unopened and full bottle will undoubtedly look planted,” she explains. 

“I rather think he might discover it, down the rest of its contents, and destroy the evidence,” Severus remarks sardonically. “He is quite the unsavory character.”

“If there is no evidence, people would naturally assume he destroyed it.”

“What if he finds it and reports it immediately?”

“Even mentioning its presence looks suspicious for him,” she answers. “He’s on a losing streak and the Slytherins are giving him crap for it, so it would make sense that he wants to guarantee the next win by any means necessary. Just being in possession of this bottle is incriminating for someone in his position.”

“I s’pose you’re right,” he concedes. “I should get going now – it’s near dinnertime.”

She grabs his wrist before he can open the door. “Remember to slide into the common room after a student enters and slide out the same way. We can’t have someone invisible opening and closing doors. And don’t forget–”

“To knock before entering the Year 4 dorms,” he finishes. “If someone responds, make my way to the edge of the stairway. Watch and wait for them to head to the Great Hall.”

She doesn’t respond, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Change of plans,” she finally says. “How early are you willing to wake up tomorrow?”

—

At 8 AM on Saturday, Severus stands disillusioned outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for the first group of students to come out so that he can let himself in. Without touching them, of course. Somehow. 

They’d better open that door nice and wide.

In his head, he silently plays the piece May rehearsed for him the other day. Chopin’s Variations on a Theme by Rossini . Though he doesn’t understand much about music, he thought May played it perfectly, with a sort of graceful lightness he couldn’t quite describe. 

He wishes he was in that practice room right now, listening to the beautiful tone of May’s flute, watching her. With her. 

But, for her, he continues to stand next to the Fat Lady, back pressed against the wall, watching intently for any sign of movement. 

Suddenly, the tapestry slides open and he tenses, holding his breath. It is a single first-year student who slides out of a tiny opening. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long before a pair of seventh-years push the tapestry wide open, arguing with one another on the way out. He eases his way in by ducking under the extended arm of one of the Gryffindors, who holds the tapestry open. 

“Krisalyn,” says the boy, as the girl bends over to tie her boots, “hurry the fuck up, won’t you?”

She's the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, he recalls smugly. The moron who persuaded Flitwick to keep Potter on the team. Must’ve fallen off in popularity after their humiliating losses.

“S-sorry, Brad,” she answers shakily, finger fumbling as she tries to tie the lace as quickly as possible. The boy mutters something about her being good for nothing except an easy night of fun, but in cruder words that Severus filters out. Safe in the common room, he watches as she rushes after her boyfriend. The door slams forcefully behind them. 

He shudders at the blatant reminder of his parents, of his cruel father and empty mother.

Pushing his so-called home out of his mind, he heads up the left staircase to the boys’ dorms, body flush against the railing so that anyone rushing by wouldn’t bump into him. Thankfully, he doesn’t encounter anyone except a group of wide-eyed second-years, dutifully walking on their left side of the stairs.

He pauses in front of the Year 4 door, not wanting to knock, for he hears the muffled sounds of eager voices and shuffling blankets. Instead, he opts to stand at the end of the hall, waiting for the residents of the room to head out. 

After what feels like an hour of listening to chattering from right behind the door, the blasted thing finally opens, and Black waltzes out. He holds it open at a ninety-degree angle, gesturing for those on the inside to come out. 

“Ladies first,” he teases, making a swooping gesture with his free hand. 

“Practicing for the girls that’ll be coming for you after the game?” says a voice from the inside. 

“They’re already coming after me in hordes,” responds Black cockily. Severus easily slides into the room, his body pressed tightly against the doorframe. 

Idiot. 

Lupin walks through, rubbing his eyes. “Should we wake James?”

“Nah,” says Sirius, a worried expression briefly overtaking his arrogant features. “Let him sleep. He was up all night stressing.”

“Alright.”

Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and their other two dormmates make their way out of the room. When the door closes behind them, Severus slowly walks away from his place against the wall and towards Potter’s bed. The boy was sound asleep, a small puddle of drool on the pillow next to him. Perhaps four months ago, Severus would’ve felt the irrepressible urge to hex him, but now, he is well-practiced in executing the virtue of patience. 

He smirks in anticipation of the humiliation that is to soon befall the unsuspecting sleeper.

Silently, he crouches down and slowly slides open the upper drawer of the nightstand. After lifting a corner of the brochure, he conceals the bottle of the store-brought strengthening solution under it. He is about to slowly slide the drawer back closed, when–

Shhhh . 

Severus pushes the drawer closed with a snap, only to realize that Potter had simply rolled over in his sleep, resulting in the shuffling of blankets.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He doesn’t dare move. Suddenly, Potter’s body begins to shift again, and before Severus can react–

Thwack.

Potter’s forearm hits Severus square in the head. He belatedly flattens himself on the ground, shifting under Black’s bed.

Meanwhile, Potter awakens with a jolt. He groans, rubbing his forearm, then flips around and lies face-first in bed. Severus watches, listening to the impossibly loud sound of his heart beating against his ribcage, bouncing off the ground, and echoing in the small space that is the region under Black’s bed. 

After a few moments, Potter finds it in himself to pull his lazy arse into a seating position, He fumbles for his glasses, then realizes that the room is devoid of its residents. 

“Goddammit. I told Sirius to wake me,” he mutters to himself. Then, after casting a tempus : “Merlin's bloody balls!”

9:07 floats in the air. Severus hopes May isn’t getting too angsty waiting in the Great Hall. Potter, unaware that the object his forearm hit was, in fact, not an object, quickly pulls off his nightshirt. Severus closes his eyes and listens to the sound of rustling clothes, hoping they muffle those of his beating heart.

He cracks an eye open again when he hears the sliding of a drawer. Potter has the brochure in his hands and is flipping through it reverently. He stops on the page that Severus assumes belongs to his favorite player and whispers a silent prayer. 

Potter pauses upon looking in the drawer again, and Severus’s heart jumps into his throat. The boy pulls out the bottle of strengthening solution, an expression of confusion settling into his face. He looks around the room wildly, as if some entity would reveal itself and give him instructions. Severus watches his idiotic reaction with bated breath. 

After turning the bottle around a few times, Potter seems to remember how to read. His eyes pause on the block of text on the label.

Severus knows by heart what it says: 

Drink on an empty stomach to enhance muscle strength and endurance. Effects will start about thirty minutes post-digestion and last for four hours. Seek a medical professional if symptoms continue beyond the five-hour mark. 1 serving is half a bottle. 

The boy turns it around again, and this time, he seems to recognize the brand. He opens the bottle, takes a sniff, and to Severus’s shock, downs its contents in one gulp. 

Does this dunderhead have no sense of self-preservation? Who the bloody hell would drink out of an unsealed bottle?

Potter – in another extraordinary display of brainlessness – places the bottle back in his drawer, then covers it with the brochure. He flexes his fingers, then his biceps, and shrugs, finding his strength unchanged. 

Severus cringes. Did he not even read the whole label before taking that thing?

Potter slides the drawer shut, stands up, and then stretches, joints cracking. Another tempus flashes 9:16 against the blank wall behind him, which sends Potter running towards the door. It closes behind him in a gust of wind.

May

The clock at the end of the Hall reads 9:19. 

Where the bloody hell is this idiot?

As if on cue, Potter comes rushing in. She barely scurries out of the way in time when he barrels through and squeezes himself into the space between Black and Lupin. 

“I was about to wake you, mate,” says Black, pushing a platter of food toward Potter. “Got you a loaded meal here.”

Potter thanks him distractedly. Considering that he isn’t dragging an unconscious Severus behind him, May assumes Severus’s end of the operation went smoothly. Potter scarfs down a few bites of bacon before pausing, remembering his drink. 

May is at his side in an instant. As he grabs a glass and pours in the pumpkin juice, she reaches over his shoulder, uncorks the vial, and empties the disillusioned enhancer into his drink. The two of them finish pouring the respective liquids simultaneously, and May quickly withdraws her arm and shrinks back into her position against the wall. As she expects, Potter immediately gulps down half the glass.

“Woah there, James,” says one of the girls on the Quidditch team. May recognizes her as one of Bones’s old cronies. “Slow down, or you’ll be throwing up out there.”

He nods and begins clearing his plate at a slightly reduced rate. 

At 9:31, the Gryffindor team stands up. When Potter moves out of the way, May notices – with immense relief – that Potter has finished the entire glass of pumpkin juice.

—

At 9:40, May is in the Ravenclaw girls’ changing rooms on the Quidditch Pitch, talking to Cindy. The night before, she and Severus had agreed to not meet before the match because she wanted to be there for her best friend.

A cheap apology for the injustice she committed.

“I got your note this morning,” says Cindy. “Are you feeling better?” 

She had told – or written to – Cindy that she was homesick and would be down in the kitchens getting some of her favorite baos that Mama always made. True to her word, she made a quick stop at the kitchens before heading to the Great Hall. 

“Yeah,” May replies, reaching into the pocket of her cloak. “I got you one too.”

Cindy accepts the wrapped food with a nervous smile. “Thanks. I’ll eat it after the match.”

Sensing her friend's agitation, May moves in to hug Cindy. “You’ll do just fine.”

“We haven’t won a single match this season,” Cindy whispers into her ear, voice cracking. 

“Then this will be the first,” May forces out as Cindy’s familiar citrusy scent floods her senses, bringing with it a throbbing, suffocating pulse in her chest. 

“C’mon Huang, it’s time to head out,” interrupts the Ravenclaw captain. 

May gives Cindy one last squeeze before letting her go. “Good luck. I’ll be cheering you on.”

After Cindy leaves, May stands in the changing room alone for a moment, blinking back tears. Then, after taking a deep breath, she drags herself towards the Ravenclaw stands, where she sits next to Genevieve. 

“How does Cindy seem?” shout-whispers the other girl over the noise of the crowd. “I heard her tossing and turning all night.”

“She’s nervous.”

Genevieve nods. “I hope Gryffindor is destroyed out there.”

“Me too,” May responds, ignoring the constricting of her chest. 

Their conversation is cut off by Hooch’s whistle and the commentator's announcement: “And the players are in the air!”

May watches the match intently. Before this year, she hardly watched any, except maybe the first match of her first year – looking at people throwing balls in hoops and at each other simply wasn’t the most interesting pastime. This year, she showed up to every game, and not just to check on Potter. 

For Potter, she wouldn’t learn every single rule. 

The old jealousy that plagued her back in September hardly lingered, for she knew she would be moving out of Britain and never turning back. From then on, the little things like a half-point difference in grades and impressive non-academic accomplishments seemed irrelevant. 

All she needs, now, is her ticket out of Britain. And her revenge. 

Then, the old memories came rushing back; Cindy, at eight, teaching her the alphabet; Cindy, at nine, holding her hand as they walked through the halls of their neighborhood elementary school; Cindy, at ten, using magic to sneak into her bedroom during the sweltering heat and endless parent-assigned work of the summer; Cindy, at eleven, talking about their futures on the Hogwarts Express; Cindy, at twelve, patting her back as she cried about her splintering family; Cindy, at thirteen, staying with her in the castle over Christmas because her parents had a horrible row at home…

So, when Potter flies across the field at breakneck speed and throws the Quaffle with impossible strength – when Cindy fails to block every shot from him – she screams her lungs out, booing at the Gryffindor team. 

When it is announced that Ravenclaw committed a foul and Gryffindor would get a penalty shot, May screams her lungs out, swearing at the commentator.

When Potter rears his arm back and throws harder than any wizard possibly can, when Cindy reaches out to stop the Quaffle, when the force of it against her hand sends her tumbling back through the hoop and down fifteen meters onto the icy ground, May doesn’t have it in her to scream anymore. 

She remembers pushing her way through the throngs of people on the Ravenclaw stands. She remembers running across the field at the twisted mannequin and puddle of red that is supposedly her friend. She remembers two hands pulling her back, and a harsh, Scottish accent hissing in her ear to not disrupt the emergency medical procedures that were necessary to save her best friend’s life. She remembers a pair of warm, calloused hands wrapping around her cold ones, dragging her away from the scene as she stared ahead with empty eyes. 

But really, she doesn’t remember any of that. She remembers whispering to the boy with black hair who dragged her away that she would do anything to turn back time and dump the blasted potion down the drain, or shatter the glass vial in the middle of the Great Hall, or – hell – just leave the whole thing unbrewed. 

She remembers the crushing in her chest, the shortness of breath, and the false promise of calm down, everything will be okay.

—

Summer 1972

Cindy and I were on the swings in the park, the one with the blue play structure and red mulch, in front of their neighborhood elementary school. 

“Do you miss this place?” I asked. “Y’know, school before Hogwarts?”

“A little,” Cindy responded. “It’s always hard for me to move on. I don’t like change, much.”

“Mhm.”

The two of us sat in familiar silence for a while, watching the green leaves of the surrounding trees flutter in the pale blue sky, sweating in the hot summer wind and scorching sun. 

“Did you want to talk about something?” Cindy asked, breaking the oppressive tranquility.

I hesitated. 

“You can tell me anything,” she added. Then, in a hushed whisper: “Is it your parents?”

I nodded.

Cindy frowned. “They’re fighting?”

Another nod. 

“It’s getting worse?”

I took a shuddering breath. “My mum broke a plate yesterday. She…she accused my dad of poisoning her again because dinner tasted bad.”

Cindy kept quiet, sensing that the story was far from over.

“She does that a lot these days. He cooked chicken for us, and it was pretty disgusting, and she went on and on about how chicken is the easiest meat to cook, so why did it taste so bad? She also said chicken is the healthiest meat, so she concluded he was making it taste bad on purpose so that I refused to eat it, and he would have an excuse to cook unhealthier meats, which would make her die earlier.

“And, I don’t know, I tried to defend him. I think he might’ve been sad because he spent quite a while cooking the chicken for us, and I would be sad if I were him. But she has a point because every time he cooks chicken, it’s horribly unseasoned, while all his other meats taste fine. She asked me how else I would explain it, and I really didn’t know, so I couldn’t solve anything. 

“Then he scoffed at her and pulled out his newspaper while she went to cry in the corner, and he kept trying to make eye contact with me, the way he always does when he wants to mock her behind her back. I looked down at my plate the whole time and finished all the chicken, and I told him it tasted fine to me.

“And I thought the fight was over because she was silent for a little while. The screaming started soon enough, though. I went up to my room after that, and I heard a plate shattering downstairs. He wasn’t home this morning when I went down for breakfast.”

Cindy swallowed, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. “I’m sorry.”

“I-it’s fine,” I stuttered, choking on my words. Then, quieter: “It’s normal, right? Families are just like that sometimes, aren’t they?”

Cindy shook her head before getting up and wrapping her arms around me. She whispered that we would be going back to Hogwarts soon, and that my parents would make up in those ten months, and that married couples always made up because they vowed to love each other.

For the first time in four years, I cried into someone else’s shoulder until my tears ran dry. We sat next to each other on the swingset until the sun began to set on the horizon.

Spring 1975

Severus

Huang stayed in the hospital wing for two days before being transported to St. Mungo’s. Due to her critical condition, Pomfrey permitted no one to visit, so May stayed locked up in their classroom with Cindy’s school bag, flipping through the girl’s old notes and unfinished essays. Severus sat with her in tense silence, hoping she wouldn’t break down in tears. 

In the week following the incident, they talked only about schoolwork and their project. Occasionally, May would venture out of their room and into the library, dully scanning through books filled with failed potions’ experiments.

Neither of them went to the Slytherin v. Hufflepuff match. 

May buried herself in exam revision. Severus, when not accompanying her, buried himself in investigating Potter’s fate. 

The Monday after the match, Potter walked around the school, shoulders slumped and alone. Black cast him dirty looks from across the Transfiguration classroom, while Lupin and Pettigrew sat next to Black, hesitant to reach out now that their once-popular friend had fallen from the prized pedestal upon which he had been raised. 

Two Saturdays after the match, Travers starts their morning by discussing Potter at the Slytherin table. 

“Slughorn informed his Prefects that Pomfrey’s diagnostic charm revealed an unhealthy amount of strength-enhancing potion in Potter’s system,” he mock-whispers self-importantly. He leans in as if sharing a secret. “They searched Potter’s dorm after that, and they found an empty bottle of that potion in his possession.”

Avery gasps. “And he’s not expelled?”

“Of course not – typical Gryffindor favoritism. Ol’ Sluggy did say that we would be getting a lecture about safely consuming potions and good sportsmanship, though.”

“He really got away scot-free for nearly killing that Ravenclaw?” asks another voice down the table. 

“Dunno. Think he has detention for the rest of the year, but that’s practically a slap on the wrist.”

“On the bright side, he’s not waltzing around like he owns this place anymore,” the younger Black pipes in. “I, for one, am glad that my idiot brother no longer wishes to associate with him.”

They’re talking loud enough for the entirety of the Great Hall to hear every word, but not a single person leaps to Potter’s defense. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus watches May get up, leaving her unfinished breakfast on the table. He puts his fork down. 

“I think I’m gonna start heading to class,” Severus whispers to Mulciber. 

“M’kay,” Mulciber responds through a mouthful of food. Then, to Avery, when he thinks Severus is out of earshot: “Nerd.”

Once outside of the Hall, he begins running in the direction of May’s figure. She stops and turns around at the sound of his footsteps echoing on marble.

“You alright?” he asks as soon as he catches up. 

“Fine,” she says. “I just don’t want to hear them talking about it.”

He is scrutinizing her, trying to figure out what to say next, when she jerks him to the side. Upon glancing up, he realizes that he nearly bumped straight into Potter. He happily notes that Potter looks unrecognizable; his eyes are dull, his hair is tamed, and for once in his Hogwarts career, the arrogant boy seems positively dejected. 

He stares at them blankly for a moment, and Severus contemplates hexing him. What would the teachers do, anyway? James Potter was no longer their Golden Boy. 

Before he can pull out his wand, Potter addresses May. “H-how is um, Cindy Huang doing?”

“Hospitalized,” May responds flatly. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter mumbles into the floor after an awkward pause. 

May’s mouth forms a small O before an expression of confusion settles into her face. “U-um, I’m sure she wouldn’t blame you. You were under the influence of a potion, right?”

“Yeah, well, I voluntarily took the potion,” he says. 

“O-oh.” 

“Bugger off, Potter,” Severus interrupts smugly, a hand placed on May’s shoulder. “If you’re searching for sympathy, you won’t find it here.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Severus shuffles the immobile May in the other direction, and when he turns back, Potter is already gone. 

It takes a few seconds for May to come back to her senses, but as soon as she does, she practically runs up the stairs to their classroom, dragging Severus along. Once the door closes behind them, she rounds on him. 

“Is Potter delusional? What did he mean? Does he know his drink was spiked?”

Between Huang’s tragic incident and May’s moping, he hasn’t had the chance to tell her about what went down in Potter’s dorm. 

No better time than now, I suppose . 

“Ah, well, he was still asleep when I went into his dorm,” Severus starts. “The rest of his dormmates had left, which is probably why you saw them in the Great Hall before him that day. Anyway, I snuck the potion into his Quidditch drawer but didn’t have a chance to leave the room before he woke up.

“He opened the drawer before heading out and saw the potion in there. The dunderhead downed the whole thing without even reading the instructions."

May sighs, then throws herself down into a chair. “I shouldn’t have asked you to sneak that thing into his dorm.”

“Well, it was risky, but I didn’t get caught, did I? And plus, it worked out perfectly for us–”

She bristles. “Perfectly? Cindy might die!”

“We couldn’t have predicted that!”

“You should’ve told me that he already drank a serving of that potion! I would’ve added less into his drink – I wouldn’t have added anything into his drink, and Cindy would probably be fine!” she rants. “No wonder his throw was strong enough to knock her back like that!”

“How the bloody hell was I supposed to inform you? You weren’t in the Great Hall by the time I got there!” 

She ignores him, looking thoroughly defeated. “We shouldn’t have done any of this in the first place.”

“What do you mean? Potter will never bother us again!”

She meets his eyes. Searches. Implores. “Didn’t you see him in the hall? He’s consumed by guilt.”

“Damn right, as he should be!”

“As he should be? Did you forget that we were the ones who caused this whole mess? He wouldn’t even have had access to the potion if it weren’t for us–”

“So? Someone had to put him in his place,” Severus says, scoffing.

“Well, maybe it shouldn’t have been us!” she responds. For the first time in weeks, something ignites in May’s eyes. “We’re not God. We don’t get to decide his fate.”

“Unfortunately, the people who are supposed to function as God in this bloody school were unwilling to do anything about his tyranny!”

“So we can?” she screams. “Open your eyes! Cindy is fucking hospitalized because of us, and all you can think about is some twisted justice we served to Potter!”

“Perhaps,” he says dryly, “Cindy was a necessary sacrifice for the sanctity of this school. And think on the bright side – isn’t your competition eliminated?”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could swallow them back down, bury them into the darkest crevices of his mind where they belong. 

But May is already at the threshold, the door half-open before her.

“I didn’t know you were so selfish, Snape.”

It slams shut with a gust of cold wind. 

—

They don’t talk, not after that. Finals season comes and goes in a whirlwind of cramming and stressing. In the post-finals loneliness, he almost thinks about joining Mulciber and Avery in their games. But then, he thinks about Huang, and Huang’s injury, and his future, and the certain dullness of his future in England no matter who would rule the blasted country in the coming years. 

So, he stays away and locks himself in the library, continuing the work that he and May would’ve done together. She stops showing up to Saturday morning potions. Slughorn asks them about it once after class but drops the issue upon seeing their mutual discomfort. 

That must’ve been the only time they interacted before school was out.

She’s with her Ravenclaw dormmates most of the time. They walk in a group, all saddened to various degrees by their missing member’s injury.

Lily comes to find him after their last final. 

“It’s been a while,” she says as they walk out of Transfiguration. “Where have you been?”

“Studying my arse off.”

She laughs weakly. “How’d finals go?”

“Good. And yours?”

“Well, I don’t know, I can’t help myself from stressing sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

The dreaded question comes sooner than he expected. “So…what happened between you and May?”

“Nothing.”

Lily sighs. “I’m not stupid.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“We studied in our classroom together,” Lily replies. “Talked about some mundane things. She clearly didn’t want to breach the topic, so I didn’t try.”

Ah. He hadn’t been in that room since their fight. “I clearly don’t want to breach the topic, yet here you are.”

 “Well, that’s because you’re my best friend.”

He hesitates, but knowing Lily, he has no way out of the conversation. “We fought.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“It was about Huang. It’s a touchy topic. I don’t know if she wants me to tell anyone else.”

Lily frowns sympathetically. “Alright, I understand.”

“I’m not going back to Mulciber and his gang, if you’re still wondering,” Severus adds, sensing her potential concerns. 

She links his arm through his, then offers him a small smile. “I’m glad to hear.”

—

On the train back home, he shares a compartment with Lily. She laments about being liberated from Potter’s endless pursuit and, in her newfound freedom, a fifth-year Ravenclaw boy who has caught her eye. 

Perhaps a year ago, he would’ve felt the slowly suffocating jealousy rising. A year ago, he would’ve demanded details, found one thing to criticize, one flaw to magnify. Now, he sits drowsily with his head against the windowsill, listening to Lily go on and on about the boy’s perfect hair and perfect face and perfect intelligence, his mind wandering to another Ravenclaw. 

“So, Sev, what do you think?” she asks after launching into an explanation about how good her object of interest looked playing piano in a three-piece suit.

Fuck. I missed May’s end-of-the-year performance. 

He tells himself she wouldn’t have wanted him there, which was probably true, which actually does nothing to comfort him. So he tries to think about Lily’s Ravenclaw. 

“Lovely,” he deadpans. 

“C’mon, what should I do about this?” 

“Do you have his mailing address?”

“No…”

“Well, you can think about a perfect way to ask him out all summer,” he says. “I suggest you propose during the Welcoming Feast so we can all get a show with dinner.”

“Goddammit, you’re no help!”

He snorts. “Don’t worry too much, Lils. Chances are that he’ll like you back. And if you wanted good advice, you should’ve asked McKinnon.”

“If I tell the girls about it, they’ll start laughing whenever we pass him in the halls!”

“Who says I won’t?” 

She throws a boxed Chocolate Frog at his face, and he ducks just in time. “You twat…”

Lily falls asleep soon after, having stayed up to pack while blasting loud music with her dormmates. Severus stares out at the grey sky and barren wilderness flying by. Soon, a light rain begins to patter against the windows. 

He thinks back to selfish , a topic his mind drifted to all too often after her accusation. He had long come to the conclusion that he would never feel sorry about Potter. 

He remembers being eleven and shyly stepping into his first Transfiguration class. Potter screamed “hey, Snivellus”, the moment he walked in, and everyone erupted in laughter. He cast the stinging jinx right as McGonagall entered the classroom. She immediately assigned him detention, and – upon hearing that Potter had called him a rude nickname – pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaled a long sigh, and told him that magic was not an appropriate response to simple name-calling. 

Snivellus stuck from then on. 

He remembers being twelve and rushing down the stairs to Potions class. Potter hit him with Petrificus Totalus from behind, and he tumbled down the stone steps, hitting his head hard against the floor several meters below. After a class period of lying in his own blood, he was discovered and sent to the Hospital Wing, where he told Pomfrey that it was Potter who hurt him. Pomfrey, ever-loyal to injured students, attempted to convince McGonagall and Slughorn of the perpetrator’s identity, but both Professors maintained that students were innocent until proven guilty. 

Potter was never proven guilty, of course. His invisibility cloak ensured that.

He remembers being thirteen and returning from Hogsmeade. Potter, invisible, expelliarmused his wand, while Black muffled his screams with a hand. Eyes filled with fury, Potter struck him again and again with his fist, telling him to keep his disgusting, greasy, blood-supremacist hand away from nice girls like Lily. He put up a good fight, of course, leaving bloody scratches on Potter’s neck and face. McGonagall witnessed the incident and assigned them both detention, her crimson-and-gold-tinted vision turning the sight of a two-on-one beating into an episode of brawling between equally powerful teenage boys. 

Slughorn gave him a long lecture about restraining his brilliant mind from violence. 

He remembers being fourteen and walking through the courtyard alone. Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew blocked his path. He reached for his wand about to utter an incantation, but–

Too slow. 

Potter scourgified his mouth. He remembers choking on bubbles, his wrists bound by ropes behind his back. He remembers his defenselessness and the derision from the ever-growing crowd of onlookers. Potter and Black walked away leisurely while he sputtered on the cobblestone ground, surrounded by jeers of “serves him right” and “disgusting bloody snakes” and “vigilante Potter” and Snivellus. 

He was friends with May, then. But he didn’t tell anyone – not her, not Lily, not the useless Professors. The embarrassing tale of Snivellus in the courtyard died out by dinnertime because Severus Snape’s public humiliation was an all-too-common occurrence. 

And now, Potter’s flame was annihilated. He was degraded by Black, by Lupin, by Pettigrew, by the Gryffindor Quidditch team, by the entirety of the student body. He was reduced to something less than human – a fair price for the classroom, the stairs, the halls, the courtyard, and all the places that bore witness to his thorough dehumanization of Severus. 

No, he would never feel sorry for Potter. 

And if his catharsis comes at the price of a privileged little girl, one who murmurs friendly greetings to his face and detestable words behind his back, so be it. 

It was a pity that said girl happened to be best friends with his savior. 

He couldn’t justify hurting May, who warded off the relentless bullying, who showed him a different future: one that didn’t involve living in the oppressive confines of the current society that detested him, one that didn’t involve forging a new society through carnal murder and supremacist violence. 

For May – for whatever virtuous delusions she had of him that he unequivocally shattered – he was sorry.

Chapter Text

Summer 1975

May

She doesn’t know what happened with her parents over the school year, and she doesn’t want to find out.

Mama ignores him. And he ignores her. The first night back, she sets the table and calls May down. They have zha jian mian for dinner. Baba ’s least favorite dish.

They eat. Baba doesn’t. 

After that, Mama cleans the bowls with a flick of her wand and floats them back onto the rack. She doesn’t storm into Baba’ s office after, demanding he cook the next meal to make it up to her. There are no broken plates, no passionate fights, no angry tears. 

Only cold, empty silence.

May is about to go up to her room when her mother stops her. 

“I thought you should know that your father and I are getting divorced after graduation. We decided that would be the best outcome,” she says.

It takes longer than it should’ve for the words to reach May’s mind, for her to process them. “Oh. Isn’t that frowned upon?”

“It’s legal. I don’t care what others will say,” Mama replies. “Don’t think about it. It won’t affect you.”

“Okay.”

Her mother stands there for a while, staring at her, as if she is trying to gauge May’s reaction.

Are you expecting tears? May almost asks. Comfort? Do you think that divorce will break our family? Do you not know that once something has been fractured into infinitesimal fragments, it cannot be broken any further? We broke when I was eight, when we moved away with no hope of ever contacting my grandparents again. We broke when I was eleven, when I left for Hogwarts, when you and Baba no longer had to pretend to hold together a splintering marriage.

We shattered when you fought every damn week last summer, when you smashed all our silverware along with the remnants of the “love” you once shared with him. 

The divorce was just a formality.

“He doesn’t love me,” she says. “He never loved me. If he loved me, he would’ve cared when I cried after our fights. He would’ve hurt when he saw me hurting. But you see how he acts. When I’m drowning in misery, he gives me the cold shoulder, pretends to be angry with me, and then laughs at the jokes he sees in the newspaper.”

She chokes on a sob but keeps going. “I loved him. I loved him because we pushed through the hard times together. I loved him because we had such a beautiful daughter together. They say love and connection can be built with time, but not with your father. Seventeen years under the same roof, taking care of each other, and he can laugh at my pain. I can’t spend the rest of my life with a cold-blooded person like him.”

Only the end of Mama ’s rant catches her attention.

“Doesn’t he love me? You promised he loved me, ” whispers May, voice cracking. 

Mama smiles sadly. “Of course he does. You’re his daughter, his blood. What father doesn’t love his child?”

She thinks of Severus’s father. 

Mama reaches forward, smoothing the crease between her eyebrows. “I love you too, bao bei . Don’t worry yourself so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

May thinks back to the explosion of blood when Cindy fell. James Potter’s uncharacteristic silence. The absence of the satisfaction she usually feels after pulling off a plan so convoluted. 

I love you sounds alien to her ears. 

Then, there is the ever-burning question: Why did I do it? Why does it matter if I’m moving to America? 

May’s mother wraps her in a hug. May stands there, arms hanging limply by her sides.

—

Mama comes into her room one summer evening while May stares blankly at her wall, too tired to finish her summer homework. 

“Bao bei, are you busy?” she asks. 

“No.”

“Do you want to come with me for a walk?”

A change of scenery would be nice . “Okay.”

She accompanies her mother downstairs and out the door into the cool evening air. 

“I haven’t asked you how school has been going recently,” Mama says. May understands the question as her twisted way of apologizing. 

“Fine.”

“Hmm, Cindy’s mum told me you went to pick up the potions with a boy during your Hogsmeade trip.”

The thought of Severus makes her eyes water again. The two days following their fight, she cried herself to sleep – cried for their broken friendship, for her own patheticism, and for the boy she once thought he was.

Mama frowns. “Did something happen with him?”

Normally, she would tell Cindy about this. But Cindy is hospitalized, and nothing is normal. 

“You know how Cindy got hurt at the end of the year?” 

Mama nods. 

“Well, it was this boy – Potter – who used a strength-enhancing potion and injured her during a Quidditch match. He’s the same one who sabotaged me during the Welcoming Concert. This time, Potter got caught red-handed, and he faced some serious repercussions. Potter…well, he bullied the boy Huang a-yi saw me with at her potions shop. His name is Severus – my friend, I mean.

“Anyway, Severus was delighted that Potter got injured and couldn’t understand what I was so upset about. I mean, my best friend is in an indefinite coma, and all he can muster is ‘look on the bright side – at least Potter got taken down’. I must’ve lost my temper, then, because I asked him how he could be so selfish as to feel gleeful when my best friend could die.

“Then, he got all mad. He insists that Potter deserved to be punished, and since no one else was willing to do it, we had to. When I told him Cindy’s death was too high a price for taking down a scumbag like Potter, he had the goddamn audacity to imply that I was jealous of her. And maybe I was a little bit jealous – so what? I wasn’t jealous anymore, and he should know that because…why would I go to every single one of Cindy’s games if I was jealous?

“Potter was pretty depressed after that. I think he felt guilty, probably for the first time in his life. I really hated him, but seeing him moping around made me feel bad. Severus just laughed it off, though, like the value of a human life meant nothing to him.”

Her mom softly interrupts as May stops her agitated rant to take a breath. “Why do you think you were so mad at him?”

“Because he said all those horrible things,” she answers, and after a moment: “Because I didn’t expect him to say all those horrible things.”

The Severus who brought her biscuits before each match, who held her hand when she was nervous, who sat with her in the library researching until curfew, was an empathetic, caring boy. A boy who had a conscience. A boy who wouldn’t laugh soullessly at someone who was stripped so completely of their light, who wouldn’t describe Cindy’s comatose state as “a necessary sacrifice for the sanctity of this school”. 

“Bao bei , try to think about this from your friend’s perspective,” Mama says. May turns away. “He was bullied badly by this other boy, and you weren’t. Now, you can feel sympathy for the bully because he hasn’t hurt you. But if someone tormented you for many years, would you feel happy if they were gone? And now, if your friend calls you selfish for prioritizing your safety, would you be upset?”

She thinks back to Severus. The taunting of his hand-me-down robes in the halls, his paranoia at Hogsmeade, his constant fear of being attacked, his countless scars and bruises. She really wanted him to be the bigger person, to be the ever-understanding presence in her life, to be different from her and her mother and her father and everyone else she’s ever known. 

But she couldn’t restrain herself from thoroughly ruining Potter’s life, could she? Yes, he humiliated her. Yes, if she could redo the past few months, she would execute her plan the exact same way, as long as she ensured Cindy wouldn’t get hurt. And, yes, she feels sorry, now, because no one remembers the Welcoming Concert but everyone remembers the Quidditch match. She feels sorry, now, because she had promised an eye for an eye, but he was beheaded and she was only half-blind. 

She feels sorry now, not because Potter had fallen from fame, but because he felt guilty for hurting a girl he didn’t actually hurt. May is the culprit, and Cindy is – has been – the victim of her actions for as long as she could remember.

So, she hates him for being more decent than her. She pities him, too, for taking on the responsibility that should’ve been her own.

Yet, she doesn’t take her rightful burden off his shoulders. 

What right does she have to expect selflessness from Severus?

“You’re never on my side,” May mutters, banishing the unwelcome self-assessment. Back in May’s elementary school days, Mama always talked her through the conflicts she had with her classmates. She never acknowledged the advice, of course, not on the outside. Yet, despite May’s scornful facade, Mama seemed so wise. May had always assumed Baba was at fault for the increasingly frequent fighting between them. 

Bitterly, she adds: “Why don’t you ever think about it from Baba’ s perspective?”

She half-expects Mama to launch into another rant about how Baba has always been plotting her downfall, to churn out a carefully concealed argument filled with slippery slopes and straw men. Instead, Mama just tells her that it’s easy in theory and difficult in practice. 

“Don’t look up to me as an example, Xiao Mei . Our family isn’t normal.”

—

On their way home, May and her mother talk about the weather, the summer breeze, the nice house at the end of the roundabout, and an entire assortment of mundane and unprovocative things. They empty their mailbox before entering their house, finding an envelope with a Hogwarts seal. They open it together on the kitchen table. 

It contains her school report card – all O’s – along with her long-awaited Prefect letter. 

She stares at it blankly, then responds to Mama’ s gleeful congratulations and stifling hug with an empty smile. 

At midnight, back in her room, May begins to draft her own letter:

Dear Severus…

Severus

Dear Severus, 

I received my Prefect letter. I got all O’s, too – top of the class this time. It comes as no surprise, considering the only other legitimate candidate is in an indefinite coma. I thought I would be happier about it, but I don’t feel much of anything. My parents are planning to get divorced after I graduate, so I guess that’s good. There’s finally some peace and quiet around here. 

Anyway, how has your summer been? You got our book list, right? How did you do on your finals? Are you a Prefect? I sure hope so, though I wouldn’t be surprised if Slughorn decided to butter up one of the rich Pureblood families. Do you want to go shopping with me in Diagon Alley? I can pick you up at Lily’s address. 

Maybe you can sneak out if your parents don’t let you. We don’t have to buy anything, either. I just want to see you again. 

Love, 

May

He made a quick stop at the Evans’s house this morning on his way back from the grocer’s, where Lily quickly handed the letter to him with a hopeful smile before Petunia shooed him away.

May’s letter brings immediate relief. Between his father’s drunk episodes and his mother’s ever-increasing coldness, he’s been thinking about apologizing. The problem was that he didn’t know how, and he had no one to ask. 

Lily was too good to commit a crime of such a large scale, so she wouldn’t be able to formulate an appropriate apology. 

His father was too horrible, so he has never made an apology in his life. 

His mother was…well, Mum’s apologies were simply never enough: neither enough to stop her husband from beating her, nor enough – in her passionate moments – to make her son forgive her for the cool distance and covert neglect. 

So, if May wants to act like the past two months never happened, he is more than happy to play pretend.  What worries him is her strangely detached tone. Perhaps the divorce was affecting her more than she was willing to admit. 

He feels his heart beating a little faster at the prospect of seeing her again. And at the prospect of her wanting to see him. 

He writes a response immediately. 

Dear May, 

Congratulations. Perhaps you aren’t as happy as you expected because the victory was guaranteed. You always have this strange sense of guilt after getting something you want when you believe you haven’t worked hard enough, though I don’t understand why. I know you deserved everything you got, though. You spent every spare minute studying. 

I’m glad to hear you aren’t unhappy about your parents’ divorce. 

My summer has been dreadfully boring. I finished all the assigned homework, so I’ve been browsing through some of my mother’s old potions books for inspiration. I will write if I find anything interesting.

I got my book list and report card. All O’s except for one E in Arithmancy, second in our year. I already know I messed up the last question because I skipped a couple of review sessions with you. Slughorn made me Prefect, thankfully. I must say that the pin looks quite nice on my robes. 

I would like to go shopping. Let me know when you’re available and give me at least two weeks from now.

I miss you too. 

– Severus

—

“Three more pounds,” the grocer says gruffly as Severus desperately fumbles in his empty wallet for the requested money. His father had come home drunk two nights ago, and  – upon waking up with a hangover and an insatiable hunger – ate most of the week’s provisions. Tobias went to live at a friend’s house after that, leaving Severus and his mother to pay the bills and suffer the consequences. 

Severus is grimly considering pulling out his wand to cast a confusion hex when another hand slides three pounds across the counter. He turns and finds himself face-to-face with Mr. Evans. 

“T-thank you, sir, but I really don’t need–”

Lily’s father cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense.”

Before he can object further, the grocer has already bagged his items and pushed them towards him. 

“Oh, thank you,” he mumbles awkwardly. “Have a good day.”

He exits the shop and stands outside – half-thankful, half-resentful – waiting for Lily’s father to come out so that he can offer some sort of explanation for his poverty and poor manners. All too soon, the door dings , and out walks Mr. Evans. 

“O-oh, um,” Severus starts.

“Don’t worry about it, son,” Mr. Evans says kindly. Even though Severus has only seen the man a handful of times, it is evident that Lily takes after her father – her fiery red hair, her bright green eyes, and her selfless desire to help those less fortunate than her. 

Severus swallows, trying his hardest to think of what one says in such situations. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay you back with cash, Mr. Evans, but my summer is free if you ever need an extra hand.”

“Well, my firm is doing some reconstruction down at the East end of Cokeworth if you’re not opposed to physical work,” Mr. Evans suggests. “It would earn you some pocket money, too.”

The prospect of a second source of income in the dreary summer is so appealing that Severus would’ve agreed to it if the work involved following Flitch around the empty castle all day to unclog toilets without magic. 

“I-I would really like that sir,” he replies quickly. “When would I start?”

Mr. Evans laughs good-naturedly. “I love an eager employee! Oh, and you can just call me Lance, by the way. Ah, yes, what was I saying? …You could start next Monday morning at 8 AM sharp if you wish; we’re located at the intersection between…

—

Dear Severus,

Are you free anytime during the first week of August? Perhaps, the 2nd or the 3rd? Those are weekends, by the way. My mom is willing to side-along-apparate us to Diagon Alley if you’re okay with that. She wants to do some shopping too, but she said she’ll let us walk around on our own as long as we meet her at the rendezvous before it gets dark out. 

I appreciate your character analysis of me (read: sarcastic), though I suppose I should say thank you for the compliments. Congrats on Prefect! We’ll have a great time taking away points from misbehaving students next year. Good job on your finals, too.

Thanks for looking through potions – sorry I haven’t been pulling my weight with that. I’ve spent a lot of time in and out of St. Mungo’s these days visiting Cindy, but she hasn’t woken up yet, and the healer doesn’t seem to know when she will. 

See you soon, 

May

Cindy’s name is crossed out and rewritten above the dark, uniform scratches. Under the black marks, he sees splotches of grey, remnants of the once-running but long-dried ink blurred with saltwater. 

—

He knows his father is home from the obnoxious snoring emitting from the downstairs couch, but considering he heard workboots stomping by his room at around 2 AM, he doubts the man would be up this early. Quietly, he picks out his most respectable outfit – a pair of dark trousers and a white short-sleeved button-up he bought with his new work money – and makes his way down the stairs. In his excitement, he forgets to skip the one that creaks. 

He freezes as the dark figure below sits up. “Where are ya goin’ at this ungodly hour?”

Severus swallows. “To work, sir.”

“Work? Where?”

“Construction. Down at the East end.”

“Respect’ble,” Tobias Snape slurs. “Good thing that the freak school ya go to has tau’cha something important ‘bout the value of a real man’s labor.”

He nods, biting back a comment about how a “real man” would not ditch his family for two weeks only to come back half-drunk, half-hungover at 8 AM on a Saturday. He’d rather not have May see him with a black eye and a bloody nose. 

Tobias squints at his son. “What’cha goin’ to work for, dressed up like ya goin’ to church?”

“I’m meeting my employer before work,” he replies smoothly, knowing the statement is half-true. “I’ll be changing before going out on site.”

Tobias mumbles something about his employer being a prissy who couldn’t even stand to see his workers in a real man’s clothes, then promptly lies back down. Severus stays rooted in the spot until his father’s snores begin once more. 

Silently, he makes his way down the stairs and exits the front door, his heart beating erratically in his throat. Once he’s out on the street, he says a silent prayer for making it past his drunken father and another one for his mother, who would undoubtedly have to deal with the man alone. 

He walks at a leisurely pace to Lily’s house, knowing that he left with an hour to spare. Upon arriving, he notices Mr. Evans already outside, mowing the lawn. 

“Morning, Severus!” he greets cheerily. “Lily is out on a ‘girl’s trip’ with her mum and sister, so if you’re looking for her, I’m afraid you’ll have to find a ride to London.”

“Good morning, Mr. Evans,” he responds, having never taken up the offer to call the man Lance. Having been instructed to call his own father “sir” from a young age, using an adult man’s first name felt oddly sinful. “I’m here waiting for May, a friend from Hogwarts.”

“Oh, yes! Lily did mention that. Silly me, my memory has been getting worse and worse these days,” Mr. Evans says. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

Severus is about to nod, but a growl from his stomach gives him away. 

The older man chuckles. “Come in, come in! My wife baked a bunch of biscuits before she left.”

Mr. Evans steers Severus into the house and pulls out a tin from under the kitchen counter. He takes a chocolate-covered one for himself before offering the tin to Severus who, too hungry to reject the heavenly smell of baked goods, reaches in for one too. 

Severus silently admires the pale green wallpaper, polished hardwood floors, and happy family photos – a far cry for the hovel that is Spinner’s End. Mr. Evans asks him about Hogwarts' life and listens, enraptured, to Severus’s descriptions of magic. At nine o’clock sharp, there is a knock on the door, and Mr. Evans rushes to open it. 

A middle-aged East-Asian woman whom Severus assumes to be May’s mother stands by the entrance. May is behind her, on the other side of the threshold, her once waist-length, pin-straight black hair cut to her shoulders and styled with face-framing bangs and a slight wave. She is wearing a burgundy skirt and a fitted white shirt; with a start, he realizes that he has hardly ever seen her outside of her school uniform. He supposes she looks nice and that he should tell her as much, but he finds himself blinking dumbly next to Mr. Evans, who graciously welcomes the women inside. 

“N-no thank you,” stammers the woman in accented English. She looks imploring towards her daughter. 

“Thank you, sir, but we have an appointment down at Diagon quite soon, so we’ll have to pick up Severus and go,” she says in the sweet, cheery tone he has heard her use countless times with their Professors. 

“Oh, that’s a pity!” responds Mr. Evans. “When will you be back tonight?” 

“We’re planning to dine out tonight, so it might be quite late.”

He smiles. “Sounds fun!”

The group says their goodbyes as Severus steps out of the doorway. After they’re out on the street, May asks him if there’s a good spot to apparate. He leads them to the bushes behind the house, hidden from the view of potential passersby. May gestures for him to take her mother’s left arm while she takes the right one, and a moment of suffocation later, the three of them are in the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. 

May

Mama gives Severus an awkward smile, extending her hand. “It is nice to meet you.”

“You too, ma’am,” responds Severus. 

She turns towards May and speaks in Mandarin. “Will you two be okay on your own?”

“Yes, Mama .”

“Good. Meet me back here by 7 PM,” she says. “And tell your friend that I’m sorry for not being able to speak English.”

“Yes , Mama. ”

Mama’ s eyebrows furrow for a moment as if questioning her choice to let her daughter go gallivanting in wizarding London. Ultimately, she settles on a stiff nod and a command, given in English: “Be safe.”

“We will,” assures May, a promise that Severus echoes. 

“She wanted to excuse herself for her poor English,” says May after her mother leaves. 

“Ah, uhm, don’t worry about it. I mean, tell her that it’s fine.”

“So, how was your summer?”

“Fine. Yours?”

“As good as it can be.”

“Erm, it’s very impressive that your mother can side-along apparate two people,” he finally says in a flimsy attempt to keep their conversation from stagnating.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

As they stand across from each other in awkward silence, May notices that Severus has changed – he’s taller, his clothes newer, and his arms covered in wirey muscle rather than skin on jutting bones. Even his manner of speaking is different, his accent more posh. 

She’s hit with a strange sense of unfamiliarity, of mild discomfort, of the realization – now, and three months ago – that he was not a carbon copy of the picture she painted of him in her head. 

“So–”

“I–”

“Y-you go first,” May says quickly. 

He swallows. “I-I suppose I should…I mean, I know I should, uhm, apologize. I’m sorry for what I said about Huang – uhm, Cindy – and, ah, implying that you would somehow benefit from, well, everything that happened. Everything we did. I’m sorry she’s hospitalized now, and I know that it probably hurts because I would be hurt if you or Lily were hospitalized. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for being so insensitive. And that the outcome had to be this.”

Her jaw drops for a few seconds before she collects her composure, before her brain processes his words. She isn’t used to accepting apologies – not from Cindy, who never wronged her, not from Baba , who never reflected upon his faults, and not from Mama , whose tearful sorry was meant to relieve her own conscience.

“Ah, it’s…” 

May wants to tell him “ it’s okay ”, the way she sees people say on television, the way she responds when her dormmates accidentally knock over a pile of her books. But she remembers the nights spent blinking back tears, wondering how she allowed herself to get so attached, wondering how everything had devolved so quickly, wondering if he was just another haunting, shattered illusion.

“Thanks,” she murmurs instead. “I suppose I owe you one too. I’m sorry for calling you selfish. Potter was…horrible. I understand why you would want him gone – I mean, I think it’s justified. Your reaction, that is. If I were you, I would be happy about it too.”

Severus exhales a long breath. “Thank you, too.”

For the first time since hearing of her parents’ divorce, May feels something stirring in her chest again. The grey haze around the world – around Severus – lifts, and she sees the boy who held her hand at Hogsmeade and spent countless hours with her in the library, their heads bent together over a potions book. Sure, he dresses nicer, and sure, he’s grown up a bit, but the person standing across from her is unmistakably him . 

She reaches out and wraps her arms around his waist, burying her head into the crook of his neck. He stands – stiff in shock – for a split second, before tentatively returning the hug, then squeezing tighter. 

“I missed you,” she whispers into his ear. 

“I missed you, too.”

—

After a morning spent walking around in Flourish and Blotts – only to leave with nothing but the required reading materials they had found within the first five minutes of entering the bookstore – May drags Severus to Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. 

“I’m starving,” she laments as soon as they are back out on the sun-scorched street. “And it’s so bloody hot.”

“I hardly think ice cream is an appropriate lunch.”

“Neither does my mum,” remarks May. “Make sure to tell her we had salads.”

Unfortunately, everyone at Diagon Alley has the same idea. The line at Fortescue’s snakes out through the door and around the oddly-shaped shops next to it. 

Severus groans. 

“Let’s cut,” says May without preamble. 

“Need I remind you that we would be offending wizards and witches who are permitted to use magic during the summer months?”

“No,” she replies, eyes already scanning the line. “Need I remind you that I’m crafty enough to avoid such obstacles?”

Sure enough, May slides into the line just as a mother, preoccupied with her screaming toddler, is about to turn the corner. After shushing him and receiving several glares from the people nearby, who are all focused on the shrill noises emitting from the imp-like creature, the woman hardly notices that she is one person further from her toddler’s much-desired ice cream.

Satisfied, May gives him a lopsided grin that soon turns into a frown when she squints up at the menu inside the ice cream parlour. 

“I don’t know what to get,” she says. 

He sighs. “You’re the last person I would expect to be indecisive, but you’re somehow always like this when we go out.”

“If I’m gonna spend half a sickle on ice cream, it’d better be perfect.”

Suddenly, she remembers Severus’s financial plight and feels herself flushing with embarrassment at her inconsideration. 

To her surprise, he pokes her on the arm and says: “Pick faster – it’s on me. We’re almost at the front of the line.”

“W-what? It’s fine, I was only joking…”

At her worried expression, he explains that he got a well-paying construction job over the summer thanks to Lily’s father. She supposes his newfound employment is also what accounts for his physical changes.

“Consider it a reimbursement for the chocolate you bought me at Honeydukes.”

“I didn’t–”

“Well, I ate it, didn’t I?”

She’s about to start a half-polite brawl to confiscate his wallet so that he can’t pay for it. However, she manages to restrain herself with the vague memory of her father coming back from a company dinner, face beet red, complaining that the British did not share the same honorable tradition of fighting for the bill. 

“Alright, but I’ll be paying next time.”

“Deal.” 

At the counter, he orders a two-scoop raspberry tart-and-dark chocolate for himself and a two-scoop guava-and-pistachio for May. 

“It’s nice to see that you young boys are still paying for your girlfriends,” Fortescue says kindly as he hands the pair their ice cream. May feels her face heat up but gathers her wits in time to drag Severus away before he stammers something along the lines of “it’s not like that”, embarrassing both them and the poor old man in the process. 

“Interesting combination,” he observes as the two find a bench under the shade.

She goes silent for a moment. “I usually get dark chocolate and pistachio.”

Cindy liked guava, though. She remembers lying on Cindy’s bed in the Ravenclaw common room the night after one Christmas vacation, listening to her talk about the beautiful stretches of beach and warm turquoise waters of Hawaii. It was there that the girl developed a taste for tropical fruits and raw fish. 

Severus seems to read her thoughts. “You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”

She nods numbly. The guava ice cream left an odd aftertaste in her mouth, one that bled into the scoop of pistachio. She never liked guava much, but the glaring red NEW! next to Guava called out to her, urging her to try again, urging her to learn to swallow the unsettling tartness melded with a sort of sickly sweet.

They sit under a weeping willow, one with tiny, pale green leaves that flutter in the humid wind. When she looks up, she’s hit with the startling realization that she sat with Cindy in this exact spot some summers ago. The two of them had ordered the same ice cream flavors – May’s favorite – even though Cindy hated dark chocolate and all things not sweet. May remembered believing that best friends were supposed to have the same favorite ice cream flavor, the same way best friends were supposed to hold hands, the same way best friends were supposed to always know what the other wanted. 

“You can talk about it, too, if it’s weighing on your mind,” Severus says quietly. “No guarantee I’ll be of any comfort, though.”

With Cindy’s new injury, her guilt felt more like it was compressing her mind, crushing the air out of her lungs. There are some things about her and Cindy’s friendship that would remain untold, that would be repressed, that would not even resurface as a passing thought. 

When words burn her throat and claw away at the roof of her mouth, May decides she can let some of them trickle out and be absorbed by the summer heat. “Cindy was the first friend I made when I moved to England. Back in China, I didn’t have many peers my age, at least not ones I remember. My parents’ endless fighting started soon after we settled here, which is around the time Cindy and I began to spend every waking moment with each other.

“I got…upset over small things almost every day. I remember that Cindy once tore the dress of my favorite doll by accident. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with magic. I burst out in tears and, well, I was mean about it. I don’t remember what I said.”

What is wrong with you? echoes nine-year-old May in her head. That was my favorite! You broke it on purpose, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You were jealous, right? Do you know how much you hurt me? This was from my grandma! Why are you always so clumsy?

Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… whispers memory-Cindy.

May dispels them with a shake of her head. 

“I don’t remember what I said,” she repeats firmly. “I think – I tell myself – that I behaved like that because that was how my mother talked to my father. She threw fits when he didn’t understand her half-communicated expectations. She made him apologize again and again until his apologies lost their meaning, until he stopped apologizing because, even when he actually did something horrifyingly wrong, he was so lost in himself – so disillusioned in her words – that he didn’t believe he could commit wrong against her. 

“But that all came later. At nine, I thought my mum loved my dad, and in my twisted relationship with Cindy, I fancied myself as her. I thought forcing the person you valued the most to adhere to some unspoken, one-sided standard was love. I think I had my epiphany when I was ten. I don’t remember if it was gradual, or sudden, or…”

She trails off, swallows the bump in her throat, then restarts. “I taught myself to be human. Or, perhaps, that’s what I like to think. The thing I know for a fact is that my parents – in the way they treated each other, at least – were less than human. I could sense Cindy’s nervousness around me, then. It was uncomfortable, but addressing it – verbalizing all the things I did, saying sorry – was worse. 

“We fight occasionally now. You know, the kinds of rows normal people have with their best friends. Except she’s always quick to forgive, and I’m quick to say the unforgivable,” she finishes, breathing shakily. “And now, I don’t know if I can ever say sorry. Part of me hopes she’ll forget it all when she wakes up. If she wakes up.”

Severus

“We all do horrible things at that age without quite realizing,” he suggests awkwardly when it is clear she is done with her story.

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry I ruined the mood.”

“It’s alright,” he says. In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, he snakes his arm behind her to pat her on the shoulder, the way he often does when Lily is upset. Naturally, in the same way Lily does, she places her head on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” she murmurs into his ear. The weight of her head, the scent of lavender, and the light brushing of her soft hair against his arm trigger a fluttery feeling and an odd lightheadedness, two symptoms that were most definitely not present when Lily leaned against him in the train compartment from Hogwarts to London.

He supposes he should be somewhat disturbed by her confession. Lily, with her moral compass always pointing true North – with that pitying, disappointed look in her eyes – would certainly tell May to apologize. He supposes apologizing would be the right thing to do in this sort of situation, even if the transgression has long passed and the perpetrator has long changed. 

But, quite frankly, he doesn’t care what May does. 

To him, she is still the brilliant girl who saved him, who brought him joy, who swiftly eliminated his problems as if they were her own, who accepted and returned his apology. And, sitting in Diagon Alley, leisurely eating their ice cream, he knows he would’ve forgiven her no matter what.

The comfort of her head against his shoulder is withdrawn all too soon when she stands up, finished with her ice cream. 

“Where to next?” she asks, stretching. 

“How about Madame Malkins?” he suggests, ready to permanently shed himself of his secondhand robes.

—

After purchasing all the required school materials, May suggests they head to Muggle London for dinner. 

“Will your mother be fine with that?” he asks. 

May shrugs. “She doesn’t have to know.”

He reluctantly agrees and follows her out through the Leaky Cauldron. In Severus’s experience, Muggles were a gamble. In the case of his father, they are horrible, simple-minded, violent drunkards. In the rarer case of Mr. Evans, they are genuinely kind-hearted people. He says as much to May. 

“Wizards and witches are the same, aren’t they?” she replies, an edge of judgment evident in her voice. “Take Black and Lily, for instance.”

“Well, it’s different for wizards and witches. Loathe as I am to admit, Black possesses magic, so he does have some inherent worth.”

“Humans possess inherent worth.”

He scoffs. “Can you say that about men like my father?”

“He’s more parasite than human, no?”

Severus can’t argue with that. 

“If a wizard were like your father, I would argue, too, that he is a parasite,” continues May. “Although there are always people who fall on extreme ends of the spectrum, most of us are beings with complex thoughts and complex personalities. The only difference between Muggles and magical folk is our magic. Would you say someone who is born, say, unable to walk is less than human?”

He doesn’t quite agree, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. An argument with her isn’t one he has a chance at winning. 

“Anway,” May says, “the restaurant we’re going to is owned by a witch.”

Muggle London is a stark contrast to its eccentric and colorful wizarding counterpart. He looks in disgust at a large billboard advertising beer and cigarettes, a combination largely responsible for his family’s bankruptcy.

The only benefit , Severus supposes, is that our clothes blend in better. 

May quickly leads him down two streets before coming to an abrupt stop in front of a tiny shop. Through the foggy window, he can see a woman with greying hair standing behind a small counter, shrouded in steam. The rest of the cramped space appears to be devoid of people. When May pushes the door open, he is hit with a savory but unfamiliar aroma. 

Upon hearing the chime of the door, the woman looks up. Her face breaks into a wide smile, and she says something in Chinese to which May similarly responds. 

Moments later, she notices Severus hovering behind May. “Oh, dear, excuse my manners!”

“No worries.”

She shuffles her hand under the counter, then pulls out a menu and hands it to Severus. “You can ask me for help if you don’t know any of these dishes.”

“Thanks.”

The woman turns to May. “Will you be getting the usual?”

“Yes, please.”

“I-I’ll have whatever she’s getting, please,” he quickly adds. The menu, it turns out, did not contain a single dish with which he was familiar. 

The woman hums sympathetically. “I’m sure you will like it. May has good taste.”

The woman disappears into what he assumes is a smaller kitchen hidden behind a plaid cloth curtain. 

“Where is all the steam coming from?” he quietly asks May.

“Steamed baos ,” she replies. “They’re like buns with filling, but…different. The buns themselves have no taste but are very fluffy.”

He hums in response, unsure of what to do with himself in the new environment. 

“What did we order?” 

“Liangpi and rou jia mo . Basically, these flat, translucent, chewy noodles and a sort of thin bread filled with shredded pork.”

“Oh.”

“We like to come here because the mo she makes is similar to what my mum grew up with,” she explains. “It’s slightly unconventional, but…ah, you’ll see soon enough.”

As May predicted, the woman quickly returns with their food, exactly as May described. He carefully imitates her, picking up the sandwich-like thing and taking a bite. His mouth is immediately flooded with a myriad of new textures and flavors: savory, soft meat and a crunchy flatbread covered in a spiral of what he can only describe as crust. It leaves his hands slightly oily but tastes delicious. 

“How do you like it?” inquires the woman in an accent nearly identical to that of May’s mother.

“It’s very good.”

She smiles. “I’m glad.”

“Have you been getting a lot of customers lately, Auntie?” May asks. 

“Some weekdays around dinnertime. It’s mostly young people who come here. They say it’s good and affordable.”

May’s eyebrows furrow in concern. “My mum says that the prices here haven’t been quite keeping up with inflation.”

The woman waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry yourself. Between me and Jia-he , we’re making plenty enough. How is your mother doing these days?”

Severus glances at May through his peripheral vision, knowing that the question is loaded. May’s expression remains neutral as she gives her one-word response: “Better.”

“Good,” says the woman emphatically. “Let her know she’s always welcome here. She doesn’t come by as often as she used to.”

May nods.

“Anyway, how are you two doing in school?” continues the woman. “And May, you have yet to introduce me to your new friend!”

“Oh, right,” says May, blushing slightly. “Severus, this is Mrs. Lu. Mrs. Lu, this is Severus, my friend from school.”

“So not a boyfriend,” teases Mrs. Lu with an air of mock seriousness. At May and Severus’s sputtering refutation, she adds: “I’m only joking. It’s nice to meet you, Severus.”

“You too, Mrs. Lu.”

“My son graduated the year before May started going to Hogwarts. Perhaps you know him, Severus? His name was…well, his English name was Jim.”

“No, ma’am. I’m in the same year as May.”

“I see,” she responds, finger tapping her chin. “Has May given you a glimpse into her life? Any culture shocks?”

He is about to respond with a no but then considers the shop itself. “I suppose it’s surprising that you own a shop in Muggle London. May told me you were a witch – I-I mean no offense of course–”

She chuckles. “I understand. You know, when I first moved here, I was surprised at how segregated society is. Back at home, I ran a stand that sold street food to everyone in town. Got a good mix of non-magical and magical folk, and I made quite the bank because magic ensured I could cook faster than my competition. I hoped to open something similar here, but Diagon Alley is unimaginably restrictive. They like to keep it solely for magical businesses, and my little food stand wasn’t quite ‘magical’ enough for them.”

What a ridiculous rule. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “I like my job here, too. Customers are customers, and these ‘Muggle’ folk as you call them come to me with interesting stories and cash. I couldn’t ask for more.”

He thinks back to May’s assertion about Muggles. Perhaps their difference in views regarding the topic could simply be chalked up to a difference in culture, but that would also mean blood supremacy was a cultural thing.

He has to admit that persecuting people for their ancestry and attributing it to “British culture” is pretty fucked up.

“Anyway, tell me about how school is going for you two!” says Mrs. Lu, breaking him out of his reverie. 

“Good,” May answers smoothly, though Severus knows her well enough to hear the underlying tension.

“Oh yes, your mother told me you were made a Prefect. Congratulations!”

May offers her a weak smile. “Thanks, Auntie. Severus here was too– oh, crap! Is it already 6:35?”

A glance at the clock on the wall behind him confirms that it is, in fact, 6:35, and they are about to be late to meet May’s mother if they don’t hurry. 

“Do you two need to leave?”

“Yes! I’m meeting mum at 7 in Diagon Alley…”

Mrs. Lu is already emptying their plate of noodles into cardboard boxes before May can finish her thought. Meanwhile, May begins taking coins out of her purse. When Severus reaches into his pocket to do the same, May stops him. 

“I said it’d be on me, remember?”

Hesitantly, he stows his wallet. Mrs. Lu slides the takeaway over the counter just as May hands her – or, more accurately, attempts to hand her – the money. 

“Consider it a gift for your mother!” she insists. “We’ve been friends for how long, May? One meal is the least I can do for you guys during these difficult times.”

May rapidly retorts in Chinese, and the two proceed to bicker. Severus taps his finger on the counter impatiently, watching the hands on the clock tick. 

6:37 and 50 seconds…6:37 and 55 seconds…6:38…

Finally, Mrs. Lu accepts the money with an eon-containing sigh. “Bye, you two! May, tell you mum that old Mrs. Lu says hello – ah, nevermind, you came here without her permission.”

“ A-yi , please don’t tell–”

“Your secret is safe with me,” responds Mrs. Lu with a grin. “Take care at school and don’t get into trouble, you two!”

Severus and May say their hasty goodbyes before rushing out onto the street, covered in long shadows cast by the setting sun. As they run back towards Diagon Alley, May grabs his hand. To ensure you don’t get lost, she yells into the summer wind.

Chapter Text

Fall 1975

May

Cindy’s empty four-poster bed is the black hole of the fifth-year Ravenclaw girls’ dorm room. Go too near, and one risks being sucked into a spiral of wispy memories. The girls leave it where it always has been – sandwiched between May and Genevieve, the middle bed of the West wall. 

To better participate in the first-night-back discussion, Genevieve sprawls on May’s bed while May props herself up with the fluffy Hogwarts pillows. Cindy’s absence has made her sorely aware of their dependency on each other – or, more accurately, her dependency on Cindy. Thankfully, Gen extended an olive branch to May soon after Cindy’s accident, and the two girls quickly grew from dormmate-acquaintances to what May can only describe as close friends. 

In all honesty, Gen – the rare combination of top-ten student and attractive-popular-girl archetype – used to intimidate her. To May, Gen was nothing but a perfect representation of conventional beauty: wavy light-brown hair, hazel eyes, and defined features. May is embarrassed to admit her old belief in the dumb-and-pretty stereotype – so she doesn’t, not even to herself. 

She chalks up her old hostilities to shallow adolescent jealousy. 

The rest of her dormmates turned out to be just fine, too. Rhea, daughter of the wealthy British-Indian pureblood family that was never included in the all-white ranks of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, is a Transfiguration enthusiast and not at all the female version of the overindulged Potter. Abby, the only Muggle-born of the group, is well-versed in the Muggle sciences and never hesitant to swiftly correct blood supremacist misconceptions. 

And Cindy, of course.

Gen, having finished recounting her romantic encounter with a handsome stranger in Paris, turns to May. 

“How’s Cindy doing?” she asks softly.

“Comatose, still.” 

Gen crawls across the bed to hug May around the shoulders. May leans into the girl’s arms, inhaling her citrus perfume. She wonders if it was something Gen purchased in Paris to remind herself of Cindy. 

“We should all visit her sometime,” she murmurs. The other girls echo her sentiment. 

May shakes her head. “It won’t…she won’t be comatose until Christmas.”

“No, she won’t,” Gen agrees. “But Dumbledore might let us go on a weekend. I’ve heard he’s quite sympathetic.”

May thinks back to her last visit. Cindy’s face, once tanned from hours playing Quidditch under the sun, now sickly pale. Cindy’s eyelids, softly shut, bluish veins in a sharp contrast to the white underneath. She wasn’t the type to speak to unconscious people, especially when opening her mouth would also mean opening the trapdoor to the emotions that slowly gurgled under the surface.

So, she sat in the rigid plastic chair next to Cindy’s bed, not touching, not talking. And yet, some nauseating force draws her to the green, sterile, distorted hospital room once a week like clockwork. 

Sensing her discomfort, Gen changes the topic. “I saw you and Snape on the train together. How’s it going between you two?”

May’s shoulders relax at the mention of Severus. “Well. We made up over the summer.”

“I heard he’s still hanging around that gang,” Abby comments distastefully.

“He can’t exactly openly oppose his dormmates – I’m sure you’re familiar with their violent tendencies,” May explains. “I wouldn’t befriend a blood supremacist.”

She’s reminded of Severus’s unbridled disdain towards Muggles but quickly swallows the bitter aftertaste of her half-lie. 

Abby frowns. “Why won’t Dumbledore intervene? In that sort of environment, there’s bound to be other neutral Slytherins who are pushed to join the wrong side of the war.”

“Because he, like much of Wizarding Britain’s authorities, are prejudiced old coots,” Rhea drawls sourly, sitting up from her lounging position.

“He’s a good man,” Gen says.

“Good men can be blind, especially in their pursuit of righteousness.”

Gen shrugs. Abby nods vehemently in agreement. May privately believes that men like Albus Dumbledore – men who denounce a quarter of the school as irreparably evil, who turn a blind eye to the cruel reign of his Golden Boys, who dogmatically enforce their ideals of right and wrong – can do good things but are most definitely not good men. 

—

Gen and May stay up talking long after Rhea and Abby fall asleep.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gen starts, “if there is something between you and Snape.”

May thinks back to the fluttery feeling of her hands in his. “How am I even supposed to tell?”

“Butterflies in the stomach,” Gen answers easily. 

May shrugs. She gets butterflies during chair auditions, too, and she sure as hell doesn’t fancy Flitwick.

Gen scratches her chin, contemplating. “Okay. Close your eyes. Imagine you guys are holding hands, and he’s taking you someplace nice. Maybe a restaurant or your favorite shop in Hogsmeade. You’re both dressed up, and he’s telling you how much he likes you, and you’re smiling back. How do you feel?”

Excited. Elated. Butterflies.

“I suppose I…” 

She hesitates, thinking of Cindy. She supposes some part of her has known for a long time, at least since that Hogsmeade trip last year. Cindy’s never confessed to having feelings like that, so amongst all their spilled secrets, she’s never broached this topic. Out of embarrassment , May thinks. 

But for Gen, for the girl she’s really only known for a couple of months – for Gen, who is so open about her feelings, so convincing in the drunk darkness past midnight – she feels the timid words on the tip of her tongue. Guiltily, she acknowledges that her confession is neither a testament to their closeness nor an insult to her and Cindy’s long-standing friendship.

It’s a testament to May’s disillusionment, a product of knowing that there are far worse secrets to confess.

“I suppose I do like him that way,” she whispers, letting the electrifying admission wash over her. 

“Ooh, I knew it!” 

May hushes her. “What do I do?”

“Nothing,” responds Gen. “You guys seem close now. Keep spending time with him one-on-one, and he’s bound to fall for you.”

“I think he likes someone else.”

“Who?”

“Lily Evans,” she says. Lily, with her fierce personality and fiery red hair and magnetic smile. Who wouldn’t love Lily?

Gen scoffs lightly. “Rite of passage. Every guy in our year has fallen for Lily Evans at some point, but it’s nothing more than puppy love. Plus, I hardly saw him around her last year. He was always with you.”

“Hm.”

Gen flips around, staring up at the ceiling. “So, tell me, what do you like about him?”

“He’s smart,” she responds quickly. 

“Couldn’t have guessed,” the other girl says dryly. “I’m not surprised that’s your type, though.”

“And he cares about me in little ways, like bringing me food when he knows I skipped breakfast and letting me drag him around Hogsmeade and Diagon,” she recalls out loud, face heating at the memories. “He apologized too, for our breakup last year. We were both at fault, but he apologized first.”

“Ooh, cute,” Gen remarks, voice giddy. 

“And, uhm, I like his side profile. I know it’s probably not conventionally attractive here, but…”

Gen turns to May, grinning in the half-darkness. “Don’t worry, girl. I don’t judge.”

So, with the illicit exhilaration of early-morning divulgences, she tells Gen about it all – Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, Severus’s new summer job, and the feeling of his wirey arms wrapped around her waist.

Severus

“You look terrible,” Severus remarks as May shows up to their rendezvous. “And you’re three minutes late.”

May rolls her eyes. “Please tell me something I don’t know.”

They volunteered to do rounds together every Tuesday and Thursday, the former of which happened to fall on the first day of class this year. The two of them have patrol duty until midnight, while the older Prefects and Professors would take over for the later – or perhaps, earlier – shifts.

“Don’t tell me you’re already pulling late nights,” Severus says. 

“Gen is good company,” May mutters defensively.

“Levesque? Didn’t know you two are close.”

“I’ve gotten to know my dormmates better since, you know…”

“Oh.”

The pair make their way around the Dungeon silently, scanning the halls for misbehaving students. 

“I think this level’s empty,” May says, after checking their way through the popular hiding spots. “Let’s move up.”

He agrees, and they begin to climb the stairs to the basement. As expected, the comparatively small space – home to rule-abiding Hufflepuffs – is free of students. 

“How are you and Lily?” she asks suddenly. 

She’s never asked me about us . “Good. Why?”

May shrugs. “Well, you guys are close, right?”

“You’ve known us for two years, now,” he replies, perplexed. “We’re all pretty close, but yes, Lily and I have known each other since we were nine.”

“Oh. I was just wondering.”

“Uhm, okay.”

They make their way through the first floor, shoes clacking loudly in the marble corridors. 

“We should use a muffling charm,” she suggests. “Students can hear us from a mile away.”

He agrees, and they proceed with silent footsteps.

They walk through the middle floors without incident. By the seventh floor, a drowsy boredom threatens to submerge him. To his right, May yawns approximately every sixty seconds. 

“Dumbledore needs to come up with a more efficient way of keeping the dunderheads here in check,” Severus mutters darkly. 

May yawns again. “There’s this old Chinese idiom: kill the chicken to show the monkeys .”

“I’m not sure the monkeys care about a dead chicken.”

“No, silly. They’re scared of being killed.”

“As much as I hate most of the kids in this blasted school, I don’t think murder is the answer.”

“Gosh, Sev, never heard of an idiom? I just mean we make an example out of someone to scare everyone else into obedience.”

Sev . 

Only Lily calls him that nickname. Truth be told, he’s always found it a little childish, but Lily’s allowed to call him that because, well, she is the inventor. Last year, he would’ve lashed out at May for using something so deeply personal. 

Now, he smiles at the sound of Sev escaping sleepily from her lips.

He clears his throat, banishing the unfamiliar sentiments. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

“Murder.”

He rolls his eyes. “How incredibly thoughtful.”

“Too tired. Can’t think,” she intones flatly. 

“Clearly,” he responds dryly. “Perhaps the better course of action would be to give Prefects their own rooms because—”

She cuts him off. 

“Listen.”

Sure enough, the sound of soft footsteps permeates the thick tension in the air. Considering that they were nearing the Gryffindor common room, he wasn’t surprised that the so-called brave lions were out roaming. 

The corners of his lips draw into a sadistic smirk at the thought of catching a detestable student clad in sickly crimson-and-gold out of bed. 

As the noise draws closer, he recognizes a head of messy hair. 

He grabs May’s wrist and pulls her around the corner. Second year flashes through his head. He was talking to Lily on the seventh floor, near the Gryffindor common rooms – perhaps in this exact spot. Suddenly, they heard the chime of 10 PM emitting from the clock tower several floors below, and Lily jumped up, said a hasty goodbye, and ran in the direction of the safety of her House’s tower.

The lights extinguished mere minutes later, leaving twelve-year-old Severus in the dim glow of the torches that lined the hall. As he wandered back to the staircases, a stinging hex hit him from behind. He turned around, wide-eyed, to find himself face-to-face with Potter and Black, both a head taller than him at the time. 

Black twisted his arms behind his back before Severus had the time to hex them. Potter walked around him, like a predator circling his prey.

“Not so strong, now, are we?” Potter taunted. “The little stunt you pulled in potions has consequences, and I’m here to teach you that because Slughorn clearly didn’t.”

Now is not the time.

He shivers, shoves the memory back into the unreachable box to which it belonged, wills his erratic heartbeat to slow down. 

I’m in power, now. I will be the one to teach him that his actions have consequences because McGonagall clearly didn’t.

“You alright?” May murmurs into his ear.

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Let’s go catch him.”

She nods, and the two of them step out of the shadows. Upon spotting them, Potter tenses like a deer in headlights. 

“Don’t try to run,” snarls Severus, pointing his wand at his opponent’s chest. Upon closer examination, he notices that neither the dark circles around Potter’s eyes nor his posture has improved since the end of the last school year – a surprise, considering how much the boy is pampered at home. Severus straightens up, pleased to realize that he is now taller than his old tormentor. 

Potter holds his hands up defeatedly. “Wasn’t going to.”

“Fifteen points from Gryffindor for being out after curfew,” he says. “Tsk, tsk, Potter. A fifth-year like you should be familiar with the rules, shouldn’t you?”

“Are you going to hit me with a spell?” Potter hisses, abruptly growing agitated. “Do it! I’d like to see you do it!”

May sighs beside him, evidently too tired to deal with the boys’ budding argument. “That’s enough. Potter, we’ll escort you back to your common room.”

Severus jumps at the sound of a deep voice behind him. 

“You’d do well to listen to Miss Shen, Snape,” Kingsley announces, Head Boy badge glittering under the torchlight. “For future reference, pointing your wand at students without a good reason is a violation of Prefect policy.”

“After being constantly attacked by Potter for the past four years, I would say I have a good reason to be vigilant,” Severus bites back. 

“Which is why I will let it slide, this time,” Kingsley responds cooly. “Don’t do it again.”

Kingsley turns to May. “I believe your shift is over. I will take care of Mr. Potter from here.”

She bows her head slightly. “Alright, thank you.”

At a sharp jab from May to his hips, Severus manages to echo a forced expression of gratitude. 

—

On a Saturday in early November, the two of them are back in the familiarity of Slughorn’s rooms together, combing through a stack of Potions magazines from the library. 

May groans and rubs her hands down her face.

“Nothing in your magazine?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “It’s been, Merlin, how many Saturdays that we have sat here?”

“Well, there were four in September, four in October…”

“That was rhetorical!”

He laughs bleakly as she throws the flimsy packet of papers on the desk. She picks up the next magazine, and he forces himself to focus on the dense group of words in front of him. 

…MacDuff then attempted to remove Pearl Dust from the equation entirely, but that only resulted in a violent explosion. After his many unsuccessful attempts at creating an Amortentia perfume, he simply advertised the unmodified love potion as perfume. Approximately two hundred ignorant wizards fell for the scam. He was ultimately exposed after a witch to whom he sold it fell in love with him, for she sprayed copious amounts of the potent liquid on herself.

“May, I think I’ve found something.”

She immediately perks up and leans over his desk.

“We could modify Amortentia so that it only retains the property of smelling like the things that one loves,” he explains. “That way, it could be sold as a perfume. It’s pretty marketable, too.”

She turns back towards him, smiling widely. “This is actually really good! There are a limited number of substitutions we can make, and considering the last guy who tried this did so a hundred years ago, we probably have access to new information that could be helpful…”

She trails off, and Severus can see the wheels in her head spinning rapidly behind her faraway eyes. 

May

She’s standing alongside Gen, Rhea, and Abby in front of the intimidating phoenix that guards the Headmaster’s office. She had written to Mrs. Huang a month ago, expressing her and her dormmates wish to visit Cindy in the hospital. In the long administrative process that followed, Mrs. Huang and her husband obtained permission from Cindy’s Healer, Flitwick and Dumbledore, and the girls’ parents for a Sunday morning visit. 

This Friday, May received a note from the Headmaster, delivered by a reverent old house elf, instructing them to meet him in his office at ten o’clock in the morning on Sunday. The password, the house elf said, would be “dairy milk”.

“I’ve never been in there,” Abby whispers. 

“Me neither,” Gen says, voice filled with awe.

Rhea stands silently, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“D-dairy Milk,” stammers May. “What an odd password. Of course milk is dairy.”

“It’s a Muggle chocolate bar,” Abby explains as the phoenix begrudgingly rotates, revealing the stairway behind it. 

The other girls look towards May, their unspoken leader in the endeavor of visiting Cindy. After taking a deep breath to steel herself, she steps onto the staircase. Gen, Rhea, and Abby follow close behind. 

Tentatively, she knocks on the door at the top of the stairway. 

“You would think a door is unnecessary if there is already a password-protected stairwell,” Rhea mutters. 

At that moment, the door swings open. “Well, Miss Patil, you’d be surprised at how quickly passwords spread around this school.”

Rhea jolts upwards, startled. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to criticize–”

Dumbledore smiles kindly. “No need to apologize for questioning the world around you. It is a good habit.”

Rhea nods, flushing, partly from embarrassment and partly from the unexpected compliment.

“Come in, girls,” he continues. He leads the four Ravenclaws into his office – a cluttered, glowing space filled with delicate gold contraptions and a mess of legal papers. “St. Mungos should be ready to receive you in a few minutes.”

May nods. “Thank you for permitting this visit, Headmaster.”

“It was no problem at all, Miss Shen,” Dumbledore replies. “I am always glad to see the strong friendships that form between our students. They are especially important in times like these.”

“Of course, sir,” May says, thoughts drifting to Cindy’s unconscious form in the hospital. She shivers despite the warmth of the sun filtering through the tall windows behind the Headmaster’s desk. 

“I am no medical professional, but I believe Miss Huang’s chances of recovering are relatively high,” consoles Dumbledore as if he can read her thoughts. “We had a similar incident a few decades ago, and the student woke up a few months later. Wizards and witches have incredibly resilient bodies.”

“That’s good to hear, sir.”

“Ah, I believe Healer Wright is ready to have you now,” Dumbledore announces. “Does everyone know how to use the floo?”

Abby shakes her head. 

“The first person will throw a handful of powder into the fireplace. When the flames rise and turn green, step into the fireplace and clearly enunciate the location to which you wish to be transported. You will be transported to the new location,” Dumbledore explains. At Abby’s uneasy expression, he adds: “It does not hurt, though you may feel slightly disoriented upon stepping out. The flames are completely safe.”

Abby nods nervously. 

The girls look towards each other, and after a moment, Gen whispers: “May, you first.”

So, with more confidence than she feels, May steps towards the fireplace, throws a handful of the sparkly powder inside, and watches the fire rise, glowing emerald. She takes a deep breath and walks into the flames. 

—

Healer Wright greets her on the other side. Rhea is the next one to arrive, stepping through gracefully. Gen follows, and after about two minutes, Abby stumbles through, dusted in ash. 

“‘ Slightly disoriented’ my arse,” she mutters. She stammers out a quick apology for her language upon seeing Healer Wright’s disapproving scowl. 

It’s May’s eighth – or perhaps ninth, maybe even tenth – time encountering Cindy’s Healer but he is no less intimidating. Despite his youth, Wright’s face is fixed into a permanent frown, and he speaks sharply to everyone except his patients – to whom he is clinical – and, allegedly, the head Healer – to whom he is cooly respectful.

However, he has been working tirelessly to investigate Cindy’s ailment, so May tolerates his attitude.

“Follow me,” he says. Healer Wright leads the four girls through the pale green halls and up three sets of stairs to the fourth floor. Next to her, Abby gawks at the assortment of little boys vomiting rainbows and old women with teacups for ears with what can only be described as an almost perverse interest. May keeps her eyes forward, all too familiar with the route to Cindy’s room.

They reach the Janus Thickey Ward. May begins counting the rooms as their footsteps echo through the empty halls. 

500, 501, 502…

“Cindy’s injury isn’t…irreversible, is it?” asks Gen quietly.

Before May can open her mouth, Wright replies impatiently: “No. She has suffered a critical brain injury, so we do not want to risk using magic to heal her quickly.”

“I see, sir.”

513, 514, 515…

Healer Wright stops in front of Room 516. “We have arrived. You have forty-five minutes here, starting now.”

He unlocks the door before pausing and turning back towards them. 

“We determined that your friend has locked-in syndrome,” he says. “This means that she is fully conscious but completely paralyzed. She can hear and will likely remember your interactions in that room.”

What?

Wright briskly walks away without another word.

May twists the knob and pushes the door open. They are greeted by the sight of Chloe Huang sitting next to her sister’s bed, murmuring something in Mandarin. Upon hearing the creaking of the hinges, she looks up. With a start, May notices that her eyes – once perpetually vivid with emotion – are now tired and faded.

She stands, wincing slightly. “Hey, girls. Cindy is – would be…be very glad you’re all here. We appreciate it.”

“Of course,” May says. With a pang of shame, she is reminded of the hours upon hours of Chloe’s impromptu flute lessons before rehearsal, of the dim practice rooms and croaky vibratos, of the secondhand étude books that lie in her dorm, Property of Chloe Huang scrawled in childish handwriting on the inside cover. 

“I think I’m gonna get some breakfast,” Chloe mumbles. “I’ll be in the lobby.”

“O-okay.”

On her way to the exit, Chloe places a hand on May’s shoulder. Chloe’s weak smile, likely intended to bring her comfort, only emphasizes the horrible compression in May’s lungs. 

“W-wait, Chloe!” Gen calls out as the older girl turns the doorknob. “Sorry, is she – are they – completing any sort of, erm, treatments? You know, for–”

“Yes,” Chloe responds wearily. “They are trying. Every day.”

After the door shuts softly behind him, the girls surround the bed. 

“Cindy, can you hear us?” Gen says tentatively. “Sorry, what a silly question. W-we’re visiting you from Hogwarts. The dorm feels really empty these days, though I suppose we can’t complain because your room is pretty tiny, and there’s no one else, no other patients…”

The last time May visited, an old, unconscious woman occupied the bed across from Cindy’s. Now, it lay bare – devoid of personal mementos, sheer white curtains removed. 

“W-we brought a card,” Gen whispers, voice cracking. She places their canary yellow card on the nightstand next to her bed, its surface already covered in wilting flowers and dusty gift boxes. May remembers that she drew a picture of a guava fruit on the inside cover, next to her hollow paragraph of well-wishes and life updates and I miss you s. “You can read it in a month. You will wake up before Christmas, right?”

Gen laughs weakly, looking around at her friends. “We agreed on that, didn’t we?”

Everyone nods solemnly.

“I’ve read about locked-in syndrome before,” Abby murmurs, breaking the tense silence. “It was discovered pretty recently. 1966. It’s a rare neurological disorder characterized by complete paralysis of voluntary muscles. Healer Wright must’ve diagnosed you with it because he noticed some eye movements. I think you’re able to move your eyes in response to commands or questions, but you can’t open your eyelids. I can only imagine how horrific it is, being trapped while completely aware…I’m sorry; I’m rambling. You already know all this.”

Rhea squeezes Abby’s hand as a tear rolls down the other girl’s cheek. 

“We miss you,” Rhea adds softly. “We have all our notes saved up, so you’ll be ready for OWLs when you get back. So we can all stay in the same dorm until we graduate.”

May briefly wonders if her dormmates would be so emotional had it been her in Cindy’s position. Surprisingly, there is no jealousy in her conclusion that, no, they wouldn’t .

There was only emptiness. Emptiness, and hazy disbelief that a girl – once so full of life, once a conductor of love – now lay in the greenish-grey hospital room, surrounded by decaying gifts and the ghosts of its old residents. 

—

1969

My parents were fighting at home, so Cindy snuck me into her bedroom. 

I commenced by flopping down on Cindy’s bed and telling her all about my day. In a moment of uncharacteristic benevolence, I asked Cindy how she was doing after finishing my story. 

“Good.”

I frowned. “That’s all? I’m always the one talking. My mum hates it when she’s the only one talking. I get what she means, now.”

“S-sorry…”

I turned around the bed, then glared at the distasteful choice of blankets. 

“What color is this?”

“The lady selling it called it canary yellow,” Cindy said, her face breaking into a smile. 

“It’s so ugly!”

I glanced at Cindy before she was able to restrain her excitement. 

“I thought we agreed that lavender was our favorite color,” I said. “What’s this?”

“Sorry, sorry, my parents – my parents made me change it!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I-I still really like lavender.”

I sighed. “And the Quidditch posters! I told you I hate that sport.”

“They were expensive,” she retorted weakly. “And, I was thinking – well, I went to one of my sister’s games, and it seemed really fun, so maybe we could–”

“You’re never on my side, are you?” I asked accusingly, sitting up on the bed. “Mr. Smith at school told me that I needed to fix my Chink accent, and everyone in class started laughing. I told you that yesterday, didn’t I? When I told my mum, she said he had a point, and if I didn’t want to be made fun of, I needed to toughen up and take the insults or fix what was wrong with me. And now, you’re going against me, too? I thought we were best friends! You’re supposed to be on my side – I don’t have anyone else on my side!”

Cindy grabbed my hand, clutched it tightly. “I’m sorry! I really am. I’ll take the posters down, and I’ll change the blankets…”

—

Fall 1975

She feels the wet streaks of tears on her face before she can register that she is crying; feels the hitching of her breath in her throat before she realizes the pathetic, gasping noises are emitting from her own mouth.

She feels Gen’s soft hair tickling the nape of her neck, feels the weight of someone else’s arms around her shoulders, feels the warm air on the shell of her ear before she understands the words. 

“Do you want us to leave you alone for a moment?” Gen murmurs. 

“Yes, please,” she forces out, voice hoarse.

She listens to the footsteps exiting the room. Stares at Cindy’s lifeless face. Waits for the door to close. Only once she’s sure that her dormmates are out in the hall does she start speaking in a hushed whisper.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Cindy doesn’t stir. May has a hard time believing that the girl, lying before her now, can hear a single word. The conscious Cindy would have watered the flowers, opened the gifts, read the card, cried at her friends’ words. 

The conscious Cindy would be telling her that everything is fine.

“It was my fault. I wanted James Potter to be destroyed after everything he did to me. To Severus,” she confesses, the words stumbling out of her, one after the other. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know. I mean, I knew you might – you would – lose the game, but it’s just a game. I mean, I know the game is important to you, but there are tons of other games that you’ll play. That you’ll win. If you were awake, that is.”

But she’s not awake, is she?

“I’m sorry. That was insensitive. And I’ve said a lot of insensitive things before. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of them.”

When she looks down at Cindy again, she swears she can see her best friend’s condemning stare, her muted disappointment, her reluctant but inevitable forgiveness. Suddenly, May feels the irrepressible urge to justify herself – not to her own conscience, but to Cindy. 

The lie slips comfortably through her lips in the way lies have a tendency to do. “I gave Potter that potion – snuck it into his dorm. I…part of me didn’t think he would drink it because everyone thought he was a knight in shining armor under his cruel facade, but I thought, I…I don’t know what I thought. He drank it of his own volition, so I suppose it was his fault, but…

“I suppose it’s for you to decide whose fault it is.”

Cindy doesn’t stir. The flowers wilt. The boxes, adorned with perfect little bows, collect dust. Only the canary yellow card, glaring at May through the ugly greyness of its surroundings, bears witness to her shame.

Chapter Text

December 1975

Severus

A day spent reading about potions in the quiet castle should be a dream. Unfortunately, that day happened to be Christmas day, and finding an Amortentia substitution seems hopelessly impossible. So, while the few students who chose to remain go off about their unproductive festivities, Severus sits with his head in his hands, contemplating his unproductive research.

It takes him a while to register that the incessant tapping was, in fact, not a hallucination created by his frustrated, sleep-deprived mind. Upon looking up, he sees a grey owl staring back at him, its yellow eyes filled with impatience. 

Hurriedly, he makes his way across the room and lets the animal in. The pretentious thing turns its head up to his treat, so Severus unties the parcel from its leg with a sigh. Immediately, he recognizes May’s well-practiced calligraphy on the envelope and eagerly opens the letter.

Dear Severus,

Thanks so much for the gift! The planner is perfect for making an OWLs study plan (can you believe it’s only in six months? I’ve hardly thought about it with everything that’s been going on), and I’ll definitely be using the gift card to splurge at Scrivenshaft’s. I’ve attached your gift in a little box under the letter – sorry it’s a couple of hours late.

With a small smile, he slides out a small package from under the string and peels off the snowmen-covered wrapping paper, careful to leave it intact. He immediately recognizes the sparkly gold lettering on black paper: it’s the newest edition of America’s famed potions’ journal. He regards it, heart beating frantically at her thoughtfulness until his inner realist tells him that it is a reasonable gift considering his love for potions and didn’t – couldn’t – mean anything else. So, while resisting the urge to crack open the thin paperback’s elaborate cover and inhale it in one night, he continues reading her letter:

Cindy woke up late last night. I thought everything would magically go back to normal the moment she opened her eyes, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Her magic is volatile at best, and she’s rather withdrawn. She has nothing much to do in the hospital, so she’s developed a new hobby of fixing broken things, sewing, etc. You know, just doing stuff with her hands. I think she’s happy to be able to move them the same way she could before the coma, considering she needs some physical therapy to regain mobility in the rest of her limbs. 

I suppose I should just be grateful that Gen’s prediction of her waking before Christmas came true.

How’s Christmas at Hogwarts?

Love, 

May

As with most of her letters, May’s prosaic recounting of events is a crude attempt at masking her unhappiness, leaving him stressed at the prospect of writing back. Reluctantly, he dips his quill in ink and painstakingly formulates what he hopes is an appropriate response: 

Dear May,

I love–

Was “love” too strong? It was the truth, he did love it, but…

I thoroughly enjoyed–

No, he sounds too much like Lucius. He settles on his first choice of words. 

I loved the gift, and I’m glad you liked mine. 

You’ve (unfortunately) made me start thinking about OWLs. Although I’m sure we’re both sorely overqualified to take the test, we might have to put a pause on the project for a few months so that: one, you don’t implode from stress; two, you have time to both overstudy and get a healthy amount of sleep; and three, I ensure an O in Arithmancy. 

I’m glad Cindy is awake. She’ll recover in due time – magical folk are especially resilient – though I understand your worry. 

He cringes at the lack of warmth but leaves the sentence as is; if she wanted comfort, she would probably seek out her dormmates. 

Christmas at Hogwarts is terribly boring, as usual. The only bright side is that the House Elves are good cooks, I suppose. I’ve been in the lab these days but have made virtually no progress. I miss you. 

He almost crosses out the last three words. Almost. Quill hovering a centimeter above the paper, he decides that the least he can do for her is express some basic human emotion, some sympathetic – albeit embarrassing – sentiment.

Happy early new year, in case we don’t exchange letters before then. 

Best, 

Severus

Before he can obsessively re-read his sorry excuse for a letter and crumple the blasted thing up, he seals it in an envelope and ties it to the owl’s leg. Without a backwards look, it flies out of the window, beginning the long trip southwards to St. Mungos. 

—

January 1976

“Snape,” mutters Mulciber with a rough elbow to his ribs, “look at the Ravenclaw table!”

“I’m looking,” Severus responds dryly, eyes on his food. It was much too early in the morning to deal with Mulciber’s dramatics, but then again, when was it ever a good time to deal with his equal parts cruel and moronic dormmate?

“You twat, just look – that Huang girl is back!”

With that, his head snaps up. Sure enough, Cindy Huang is sandwiched between May and Levesque while Patil and Clarke lean over the table. He feels a rare rush of sympathy for the girl, who looks like a deer in headlights surrounded by what must be a stifling crowd that radiates anxiety. 

“She’s no longer pretty,” remarks Rosier. “Look at her, all pale and sickly. I rather liked her slim build, but she’s all skin-and-bones now.”

“That’s generally what happens to people who come out of a long coma,” Severus says dryly.

“And? Can I not express my opinion on a woman’s appearance?”

Severus doesn’t dignify the ridiculous statement with a response, but Mulciber – unfortunately – takes the chance to express more of his own inane thoughts.

“Honestly, it’s so difficult to find decent girls these days. I mean, any proper pureblood female would know to fully recover in the privacy of her own home before showing up in public. Coming back in such a state is practically begging for judgment.”

Severus doesn’t know whether to scoff or throw up at the open misogyny, so he opts to stuff his mouth with food to avoid starting an argument. When the five Ravenclaw girls begin to rise, he throws his fork down and escapes the crowd of Slytherins, who – absorbed in their pseudo-intellectual discussion about the benefits of sexism and reactionary politics – hardly notice his absence.

Once outside of the Hall, he spots the girls walking down the corridor, five in a row. Unwilling to intrude, he’s about to turn around when Levesque turns back first and spots him. They make eye contact for a brief moment, and she – though he doesn’t know what possessed her to do so – calls him out with a smirk: 

“Morning, Snape.”

“Morning,” he says as the girls all turn towards him. Clarke’s eyes narrow in distrust, Patil fixes him with a look of polite disinterest, Huang stares ahead blankly, and May’s initial surprise blossoms into a smile. 

“I-I have to use the loo. You guys head to class without me,” Huang mumbles, disengaging herself from her friends’ linked arms. At May’s every sign of objection, she adds: “Please.”

The five of them watch awkwardly as Huang quickly limps down the hallway and turns the corner. Once Huang is out of sight, Levesque’s concern morphs back into a mischievous grin. She grabs Clarke and Patil’s hands. 

“We’ll be out of your hair,” she says, and before anyone can object, she drags the two girls away.

“Sorry for…interrupting,” he offers awkwardly, once he’s sure the three girls are out of earshot. 

“No worries,” she replies. “So, erm, how was your break?”

“Unproductive, honestly.”

“Mine too.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, considering…”

“Yeah. Cindy woke up. I didn’t do much, though, apart from sitting with her. And even then, I sensed she didn’t really want to talk.”

“Well, she must be drained, considering all that she went through the past couple months.”

May’s gaze is fixed at a point in the far distance. “Maybe. C’mon, let’s start walking to class.” 

He obliges, then casts a privacy charm around them. “Did something else happen?”

She turns his head towards him, eyes darting around furtively. “No one can hear us, right?”

“No,” he affirms.

“Well, I said some things, uhm, the last time I visited Cindy. No, not the last time – I mean, the last time I visited with the girls,” she rambles, pausing only to chew anxiously on her lower lip. “The girls didn’t hear, so that’s not a problem. They were outside of the room, and I spoke to Cindy alone, and…”

“She was comatose,” he says. “She wouldn’t have heard anything you said.”

“Ah, right, I forgot to tell you. Cindy had something called locked-in syndrome, which means she was paralyzed but fully conscious.”

He swallows uncomfortably. He probably would’ve died of either fear or boredom in such a situation, whichever came first. “So, she could hear everything?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?” he asks softly.

“I…I told her I snuck an enhancer into Potter’s dorm and that he drank it of his own volition.”

“What?” he hisses, stopping in his tracks. “And you’re just mentioning this?”

“That’s all I told her,” she adds hurriedly. “I didn’t implicate you, I didn’t tell her about the inhibitor, I didn’t mention the drink-spiking.”

He sighs. “Well, it could be worse.”

“Worse? She’s my best friend, and she probably hates me now!”

“Listen – chances are, she wasn’t awake. These paralyzed people probably have normal cycles of sleep and consciousness like we do. And plus, no one would believe her if she told anyone what she’s heard from you.”

“I’m not worried about that,” May murmurs. “I know she won’t tell because part of her must still care about me after all we’ve been through together. And because telling does nothing for anyone. Because she’s not vengeful like I was. But I think she heard, which is why she’s so reclusive. Things will never be the same between us again.”

March 1976

May

“Lumos!” Cindy whispers, face scrunched in concentration. A weak light briefly appears on the tip of her wand, though it is not nearly enough to penetrate the darkness of the midnight dorm room. 

“It’s getting better,” May says with a comforting pat to the other girl’s shoulder. 

“We should call it a night, or we’ll risk falling asleep during Transfiguration tomorrow,” Gen pipes up with a yawn.

Cindy sighs wearily. “Yes, let’s.”

“Speaking of Transfiguration,” Abby starts, “are you all free for an OWL study session this weekend?”

Gen groans. “Are we already thinking about that?”

“It’s in three months!” 

“Anytime but Saturday morning,” May agrees. She was planning to study with Severus, but perhaps some bonding time with her dormmates was the least she could do after all their support during the past months.

“I don’t even know if I’ll be able to take the exams,” Cindy murmurs. 

“It’s three months away,” May assures. “I’m sure you’ll recover.”

“And if I don’t?” 

A weighted silence settles over the dorm.

“Let’s not worry about what hasn’t yet happened,” Rhea finally says.

Cindy buries her head in her hands. “I hate Potter.”

Gen had been the one to tell Cindy about what happened, from Potter drinking a prohibited enhancer to his new status as a social pariah. May hadn’t apologized, not since that nauseating day in the hospital room.

All she said was that Potter felt guilty. Cindy replied that she hoped the guilt stuck forever. 

“We all do,” Rhea responds. 

“Want to do something about it?” Gen offers. “I can put some ageing potion in his morning drink.”

“No,” Cindy says. “I just wish he didn’t exist.”

“There are ways to make that happen, too,” Rhea remarks.

Cindy laughs weakly. “Honestly, I won’t go seeking him out unless he aggravates me. I might just lose it, then.”

“Define ‘aggravate,’” Gen asks.

“If he approaches me at all. I can hardly even stand seeing him around in class. It’s too strong of a reminder.”

May intertwines her fingers with Cindy’s, softly squeezing her hand. “Just promise to let us know if you need anything.”

“I promise,” Cindy whispers back. It’s an empty promise, for they both know that Cindy is not one to ask for help, to become another’s burden. 

She is all too used to contorting herself to please another. To please May. 

“We should really sleep,” Gen finally says. The other girls agree through the echoed goodnights and dimmed lamps. May stays on Cindy’s bed. 

“Are you staying tonight?” the other girl asks quietly. 

“Yes, if you want me to.”

“Okay.”

The blankets shuffle as Cindy lies down, airing her citrusy perfume into the warm space enclosed by the canopy. May turns to the side, staying as close to the edge of the bed as possible. She’s reminded of being eleven and waking up after a nightmare, of crawling into Cindy’s bed, of warm arms and entangled legs. 

Now, a brushing of limbs elicits a string of awkward apologies. 

Soon, the soothing, rhythmic breathing of sleep settles over the eerie silence that once enveloped the room. However, the other side of Cindy’s bed remains still.

“Are you still awake?” Cindy asks, breaking the illusion of tranquility.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

A pause.

“I just…poke me if I’m not awake by seven,” Cindy instructs. “And if…if I don’t respond, open my eyelids, and ask me to move my eyes. Ask me to move them up and down if I can hear you.”

May swallows – the wet, uncomfortable sound jarringly loud. “Yeah, yeah. But that won’t happen.”

“I know, I know. I’m just…I never want to go through that again. Hearing other people talk and not being able to say anything or do anything. Just passively waiting until someone notices.”

“I-I get it,” May murmurs, the all-too-familiar tightness in her chest resurfacing. “I mean, I don’t get it, but I…I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

What a lie.

“I’m still itching to find things to fix,” Cindy continues. “It feels good to move my fingers after so long, and…I don’t know. It sounds messed up, but I wasn’t able to fix myself, lying there all those months, wondering what was broken. Each time I came back into consciousness, I just wished I could take my brain apart and make the missing part click in place. I always visualized it like that – a little splinter in the machinery that disconnected my body and my mind.”

“O-oh…I–”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to talk about it. Say it out loud.”

“Yeah.”

“That clock in our study room is still broken, right?” 

Cindy doesn’t go there much anymore, though May never asked why. Perhaps it was too painful of a reminder of the old days, of practicing charms before Quidditch practice, of being top-of-the-class and full of vivid potential.

“Yeah.”

“Would you mind if I tinkered around with it?”

May cringes at her best friend’s tentative request, at the lingering compliancy that would always haunt their relationship like an ugly, dark stain. 

“Of course not.”

“Thanks,” Cindy whispers, stifling a yawn. “Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime.”

Minutes later, Cindy’s deep, even breathing is added to the choir of soft inhales and exhales. May lies stiffly – swallowing her sharp, erratic breaths – feeling the cold trickle of tears drip down her face and onto the pillow beneath.

—

Instead of eating dinner in the Great Hall, May and Severus snatch a couple sandwiches from the kitchen, then make the trek up to their classroom.

“We should revise History of Magic today,” May says with a groan. “I’ve put it off for too long.”

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you feel the urge to study for that, considering how absolutely useless it is.”

“Getting a bad grade might lower my ranking. What if a D in History and Os in everything else puts me behind some kid with three Es?”

“First off, you’re not going to get a D,” he responds, exasperated. “Second, there’s hardly any students with only Es and Os, let alone—”

Severus jolts to a sudden stop in front of her, and May’s vision goes black. She feels his calloused hand on her eyelids. 

“Don’t look in,” he whispers into her ear, voice cracking. 

May doesn’t need to look. She can smell coppery blood wafting through the door. She can hear Severus’s ragged breathing. She can feel his erratic heartbeat when he pulls her closer to his chest in an attempt to shield her from whatever massacre lay waiting behind the stone walls. 

“We should find a professor immediately,” she says. 

The edges of his hair tickle her neck as he shakes his head. “No. We can’t prove our innocence in such a situation, and if we were implicated, the whole sequence of what we’ve done might be dragged out…”

May doesn’t need to look to know that there is a victim. And that the victim is human. And that the human is someone whose identity she could now pinpoint with near certainty.

His grip on her loosens slightly, and she takes the opportunity to rip his hand off her face. Through the blurry window, she glimpses a messy head of black hair surrounded by a steadily growing pool of something dark, fed by a stream of blood flowing from an abdomen. 

Severus wastes no time in sliding through the door. Rooted to the spot – throat shriveled up, head filled with a painful buzzing – May watches as he walks towards James Potter’s body, kneels down, and pulls out his wand. 

After what feels like an eternity stuck in limbo, she forces her right foot to move forward, then her left one, then right again, until she’s inside the classroom. Carefully, she closes the door behind her.

The first thing she notices is the stench of blood and how it makes her want to gag. The second is the disassembled clock lying on the edge of the table and how its bright red second hand drips crimson onto the floor beneath. 

The buzzing in her head is replaced with Severus’s song-like whisper, and she watches – half-conscious, half-trancelike – as Potter’s stab wound closes, as the color begins returning to his ghostly face. 

“What are you doing?” she forces out. 

“Healing him,” Severus responds. With another wave of his wand, the floor is once again pristine. “What are people going to think if they found his body in our classroom?” 

“Fuck. What do we do now?”

Severus rubs a hand down his face, leaving an ugly red smear in its wake. “I don’t know. We can memory-charm him as soon as he wakes up to ensure his silence.”

She swallows the bile, focusing on the feeling of acid burning her throat, letting it overpower the omnipresent coppery odor that would now permanently tint her senses. She closes her eyes, wishing for nothing more but to reverse the spinning of the clock hands – to force it to rotate backwards twelve-hour period by twelve-hour period – until she is back in a time when everything was fine.

So, she walks towards the broken clock. 

Cleans off the dried blood with a wave of her wand. 

Puts the second hand back in. 

Pulls on it desperately. 

She sees bright red droplets splattering across the white clock face but doesn’t feel the sting of the hand’s sharp edges. She hears Severus calling her somewhere in the far distance, but her consciousness is already trapped in the past. 

In the beginning, the promise she made at eight. 

In the end, Mama ’s easy relinquishing of the unconditional love she so yearned for. 

What was it all for, all the suffering of the in-between?

She feels a hand on her shoulder, hears a voice repeating her name with a panicked urgency. So, she forces herself to focus on the scene before her, on the pain in her right palm, on the broken clock, on the unconscious body before her. 

“I know who did it,” she whispers to Severus.

“Tell me later,” he grunts. “We have more pressing issues. What do we do with Potter now?”

“Nothing. We wait for him to wake up.”

“So he can do what? Blame this whole bloody thing on us?”

“He can’t. You healed him, so there’s no sign that he was attacked. If he wants to pin it on us, he’d have to show someone his memories, which would reveal the identity of the true assailant.”

Severus furrows his eyebrows, as if desperately trying to find a flaw in her reasoning. “I suppose you’re right, but why are we waiting for him to wake up?”

“So I can get the full story.”

As if on cue, Potter begins to stir. Severus moves to restrain him, but May holds Severus back. 

Potter sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes in confusion. He turns around to find May and Severus staring straight at him. “Agh! Where am I?”

“This is the classroom we use to study,” May answers. “Though I was hoping you would be able to tell us how you got here.”

Potter massages his temples as if he has a massive headache. Suddenly, he looks up, realization dawning in his widened eyes. “O-oh, I…I should…”

He presses his hand to his abdomen. “I’m healed?”

“Obviously,” Severus drawls. 

“Why would you do that?” Potter asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

“Because it wouldn't look good for us if you were found dead in a classroom that contains our belongings,” Severus responds dryly. 

“Oh,” says Potter. “I-I have to go–”

May grabs his arm as the boy stands up, in part to prevent his escape and in part to steady him should he topple over and undo all of Severus’s work. Sure enough, Potter sways for a moment before taking a seat on the chair behind the table with the clock.

“You’ve just woken up after losing a lot of blood,” May explains. “It’s best if you sit for a few minutes. In the meantime, we have a few questions for you.”

Potter gulps nervously but nods in understanding, seeing no way out of the situation. 

May stares at him for a moment, debating whether or not he would tell the truth. Had it been the old Potter, her answer would have been a resounding no . But the ashen boy before her, drained of his roguish blaze and fierce vitality, had neither reason nor spirit to lie. 

So, without a preamble, she asks: “Who stabbed you?”

“I-I, erm…”

“Don’t bother lying to me,” May says. “I already have a good guess as to who it is.”

I just want to see if you’ll lie.

“Why do you need me to tell you, then?”

“Because I want confirmation, and I want to know exactly how it happened.”

I can already picture exactly how it happened. I just want to hear it. Hear that I’m wrong.

“Frankly, I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Potter says quietly, head down.

“What was that?” Severus hisses. “Listen here, Potter , you nearly got killed in our classroom, so this is clearly our business. Someone could be trying to implicate us. Hell, was it you who stabbed yourself? I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you would stoop to such lows—”

“What he’s trying to say,” May interrupts, casting a warning glance in Severus’s direction, “is that we will not be letting you go until you tell us what happened.”

“Fine. Snape got it. I stabbed myself to implicate you two because I have absolutely nothing better to do,” Potter responds, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Tell me the truth,” May says calmly. “Severus here is a Legilimens, so don’t test us.”

Severus told her once that his mother taught him the basics of Legilimency and Occlumency at a young age – whether he could break into Potter’s mind, she was not sure, but she hoped he would play long should worse come to worst. 

Potter sighs and looks up at the dark ceiling, as if contemplating his nonexistent options. When he speaks again, he confirms her dreaded theory: “Fine. It was Cindy Huang.”

Next to her, Severus’s impassive expression shifts to one of poorly-contained shock. “Don’t fucking lie to us, Potter.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Everything that comes out of my mouth is a lie, isn’t it?” the boy retorts. “Well since I have all the time in the world, you guys can keep me here indefinitely.”

“Shut the hell up, the two of you!” May yells. “Severus – and don’t argue with me – he’s telling the truth. Potter, please stay cooperative.”

Severus scoffs, while Potter lets out a resigned sigh.

“Why were you in this room?” she asks.

“I saw her in here alone, so I came in,” he replies. Under her disapproving stare, he adds: “I just wanted to apologize, but she was always with someone.”

“What was she doing when you entered?”

He gestures to the mess in front of him. “Disassembling this clock.”

“Who spoke first, and what did they say?”

“I did. I stated my intentions right away, and…” 

Potter trails off, lost once more in a reverie of guilt. 

“What did she say in response?” prompts May. 

“She told me she didn’t want to hear my apology. Thought I was only doing it to ‘delude myself into believing I was the golden boy everyone thought I was,’” Potter says dejectedly, putting what must’ve been Cindy’s words in air-quotes.

“And you weren't?” Severus asks accusingly. 

Potter bristles, pushing himself upright in the chair. “Listen here mate, I know I’ve done some bad – some unforgivable – things, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change—”

May holds up a hand to stop him. “Your intentions are irrelevant. How did you respond to Cindy’s rejection?”

“I told her I was really sorry,” says Potter, collapsing back into his hunched position over the desk. “Asked her to hear me out.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She told me to see myself out, or she would hex me.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t heed her warning.”

“I-I…I knew her magic wasn’t working properly,” Potter mumbles. 

“So you stayed in her room, against her will?”

“Well, it’s not like I was going to harm her!” Potter responds defensively. 

May rolls her eyes. “Did she try to hex you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“What did you say after?”

“Something I probably shouldn’t have.”

“No shite, Sherlock,” Severus spits out. “Answer the damn question, would you?”

For the first time, Potter doesn’t bite back with an acberic retort. “I told her I was sorry her magic wasn’t working because of me, and that it must be hard feeling defenseless.”

“Always nice to rub some salt in the wound,” May remarks sardonically.

Potter glares at her half-heartedly. “I was going to let her know she could come find me if anyone was bothering her. Or if she needed any help.”

“How kind of you. It’s almost like she doesn’t have an entire friend group for that,” May retorts. She swallows her shame at the reminder that it was the closest member of said friend group who was at fault for Cindy’s helplessness in the first place. “I’m guessing you didn’t actually get to say the last part.”

“No.”

“So she…got up and stabbed you?” Severus asks incredulously.

“No. She got really upset, really fast. I could see it in her eyes for a split second,” Potter answers. “She was taking the hands off the clock when I said that, and she just…threw one at me and told me to fuck off.”

A suffocating pause.

“I don’t think she expected it to hit me,” Potter continues. “It was more of a reactionary decision. Honestly, I didn’t expect it to hit me either, and it all happened too fast for me to react anyway. She still has good Quidditch reflexes.”

“What did she do after?” asks May softly. 

“I think she was kind of shocked at it all,” Potter replies. “There were a few seconds of silence before I heard the chair scraping against the floor and footsteps running out of the room. I blacked out right after.”

“I see,” May says cooly, her horror submerged layer beneath layer of well-practiced apathy. 

“Can I go?”

“Don’t tell anyone else what happened.”

Potter scoffs. “They wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“That’s not an answer. Do you promise to not tell anyone else what happened?”

“Yes.”

“You can go. Don’t come back to this room ever again.”

Potter nods curtly before pushing himself out of the chair. It scrapes against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. 

His footsteps echo through the eerie silence.

The door clicks shut behind him. 

May vanishes the splintered clock. “We need to find a new room.”

Chapter Text

March 1976

Severus

Severus looks back as the door to Classroom 3E clicks shut for the last time. Bag slung over his shoulder, arms filled with textbooks, he forces himself to forget. Forget the way the light filtered through the translucent windows, illuminating May’s features as she healed his wounds. Forget the hours they spent locked together: studying, researching, plotting. Forget their cluster of desks, their handy blackboard, their broken clock. 

Forget Potter’s broken form, irreparably soaking his haven in blood. 

He doesn’t look back again. 

As he trails behind May, he recognizes the familiar path to the library. Like him, May walks with her head obstinately facing forwards. He wonders if she is imagining it, too – she must be, for why else would she be so stiff? – but he doesn’t ask. He’s not sure he would be able to maintain his composure if he does. 

A flash of dark red hair draws him out of his rumination. 

“Sev! May!” Lily yells, waving at them from down the corridor. In front of him, May breathes a sigh of relief upon noticing that the girl is alone. The two of them quicken their pace.

“Hey,” he greets. 

“Where are you guys off to?” she asks.

“Something happened in our classroom,” May answers stiffly. 

Lily furrows her brows. “What? When?”

May glances at him, and he gives her an almost imperceptible nod. 

“Potter was injured,” May says. 

“He– James Potter?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“R-right, sorry,” Lily whispers, shock still written across her features. “Merlin, I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start. Are you guys alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, waiting for May to give more details. He trusts Lily completely, but he isn’t sure how much May wants to divulge. 

“We don’t know who did it, if that’s what you’re wondering,” May says. His lips thin at the lie, but he can’t blame her for protecting her best friend. He would do the same, had the culprit been Lily.

“Well, was he badly injured?”

“No, only stunned,” she lies. “We renervated him. He wouldn’t say what happened, and we didn’t want to get involved in some mess, so we just let him go.”

Lily nods. “That’s probably the best course of action.”

“Mhm. Anyway, we don’t think it’s a good idea to keep using that classroom,” May says. “Chances are, the culprit chose the room randomly, but we shouldn’t risk it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lily agrees. “It’s a shame, though. I don’t know if I can go back to the library after studying in a private space with a blackboard.”

“Let’s find a new room, then,” he suggests. 

May casts a knowing glance in his direction. “I think I know a place.”

Together, the three of them make a trek up the stairs. Only when they’re on the sixth floor does he realize that she is leading them to the Room. 

“Are we almost there?” Lily asks, breathing labored from their quick climb. 

“Yes,” he answers without thinking. 

Lily raises her eyebrows. “You know where we’re going?”

“Uhm, yeah,” he says nervously, avoiding May’s glare. “I mean, I just realized.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

Their conversation comes to an abrupt stop when May points at the familiar tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and announces: “We’re here.”

Without hesitation, May begins her ritualistic walk in front of the painting, eyes closed. Lily stares at the other girl, mouth agape. 

“You’ll see in a second,” he whispers to Lily. As if on cue, Barnabas the Barmy morphs into a majestic brown door, stretching floor to ceiling. May grabs its handle and pushes it open. 

“Hurry up,” May calls to them from ahead. “We don’t want anyone to see us.”

Lily, unfortunately, is still rooted to the spot, stunned. He grabs her hand and pushes her forward before stepping through the entryway himself. In front of them lies an exact replica of their classroom: the four desks arranged in a group; the dull, translucent windows; the blackboard, its right side still covered in their latest Arithmancy graph.

The clock is gone. 

“How is this possible?” Lily murmurs, still in awe. 

“Magic,” May responds. “Never fails to be surprising, does it?”

After a few more moments of Lily’s open gawking – and his inward admiration, once more, for the sheer power of the castle – the three of them drop their bags on their old desks. 

After sitting down, Lily’s eyes continue swerving from left to right, taking in every detail. “How’d you two know about this?”

“I found it while exploring the castle in my second year,” May says. “I think I took Severus here once during exam season. It’s a good place to unwind.”

He nods – mind replaying their dangerous experiments on the mock Quidditch pitch – afraid he’ll betray May’s lie with a shaky voice. 

“I’ll bet it is. How does it work?”

“You walk in front of the door and think of what you want from the room. You have to repeat that thought in your head three times. Make sure to be real specific, too, or you might get something odd.”

“I see,” Lily says, running her fingers along the edge of the wooden desk. “Merlin, it’s solid .”

May chuckles. “Yeah. I was shocked the first time I found this. You can explore, if you want, though I’m pretty sure it’s the same as our old classroom.”

Eyes bright with excitement, Lily pushes her chair back and stands up. She walks towards the blackboard and picks up one of the half-used pieces of chalk, then draws a big A. Then a 5. Then a crooked head of a lion. 

“It really works!” she exclaims. He smiles at her, bemused, much to Lily’s embarrassment. “Sorry, I must sound pretty childish to—”

“You’re good,” interrupts May. “Actually, if you didn’t react like this, I might be a little concerned.”

Confidence restored, Lily bounds towards the window and places her hand against the glass. Severus follows her walk around the classroom with his eyes, taking in their old floor, their old walls, their old ceiling. 

May clears her throat awkwardly. “Uhm, Lily, I was actually wondering if I could ask you something about…”

“Yes?” Lily prompts, now facing the back wall.

“Potter.”

A pool of crimson flashes in front of him. The desk under his palms goes soft. Flesh-like . With a swallow, he refocuses his gaze on May’s straight, dark hair and the slight curve of her nose. 

Lily turns around. “Oh. Yeah, go ahead.”

“Is he, y’know, on good terms with the rest of his dormmates? And the Gryffindors?”

Lily bites her lip, contemplating her response. “It’s been improving, I think. I mean, Remus has stuck by his side for the most part – not a surprise, considering he’s really sympathetic.”

Severus barely restrains a scoff.

“Black was hostile the first couple months. They’re speaking more now, though Potter still seems to walk on eggshells around him. Pettigrew is, well, Pettigrew.”

“Claimed Black as his new master, hasn’t he?” he remarks.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it so crudely…” Lily says, barely restraining a huff of laughter. “As with the rest of the House, people have mostly moved on. He’s rather unpopular, and he gets glares from the rest of the Quidditch team – he’s banned from joining, as I’m sure you’ve noticed – but the endless taunting and open hatred died down after the summer.”

May nods. “I see.”

“Why’d you ask?”

“Just trying to find an obvious culprit,” she lies smoothly.

“To— oh, right. Well, I can’t think of anyone,” Lily answers. “Maybe Black, but he doesn’t seem like the type to do something so…horrible.”

Black? Not horrible? Had he not known the true perpetrator, he would have objected.

Lily returns to her seat, while May fidgets with the strap of her bag. He watches, hypnotized, as her long fingers grasp the strap. Twist, release, grasp again. Though the three of them are sitting in silence, he swears he can hear the telltale clicking of a clock behind him.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock .

The click of a hand being removed. The squelch of a sharp point through flesh. A hoarse cry.

He cringes.

“So, what are you guys doing this summer?” Lily asks, quiet voice cutting through the palpable tension.

May abruptly drops the strap, as if relieved by the change in topic. 

“Dunno yet. My dad might take me to France if I score well on OWLs.”

“Ooh, fun! Which city?”

“Nice, maybe, to get away from the usual British climate. You went there last summer, right?”

Lily launches into a tangent about their yearly family trip. Something about the pretty beaches, about her annoying sister who wouldn’t get her feet wet, about the amazing food – oh! You just have to try the socca…

He keeps still and silent – eyes trained on the distorted chalk figures on the blackboard – heart clenching at the reminder finding Potter’s bloody form lying sprawled across the last row. 

May

The trio headed back to their respective dorms near curfew. The first thing May did was step into the showers and scrub the lingering stench of copper off her body until her skin was raw. 

She wondered, not for the first time, how Severus felt sitting in their mock classroom, expression haunted. He took the brunt of the hit, having been the one to enter alone and heal his former bully’s wounds. She probably should’ve asked him how he was holding up. Asked him if he wanted to talk. 

But she’d rather never speak of Room 3E again, so she didn’t ask.

As May stumbles into her bed, limbs burning, she resolves to create a new classroom next time. One that bears absolutely no resemblance to their old one.

“You good?” Gen murmurs sleepily from the bed next to her.

“Yeah. OWL prep has been kicking my arse.”

“Tell me about it,” the girl grunts.

May lies down on her bed, staring at the royal blue canopy above. It’s good I’m not a Gryffindor , she thinks. A common room drowning in that horrible crimson. How would one even escape?

Did Potter see his own blood? Does he see it now, in the drooping cloth above his bed?

“Have you seen Cindy?” asks Rhea. “I need to return the Potions notes she let me borrow.”

Gen laughs. “How do you always get away with cutting class?” 

“Ol’ Sluggy lets you do just about anything if you ask nicely.”

“And if your family is influential,” Abby interjects vexedly.

“That, too,” Rhea agrees. “May, have you seen her?”

“No. Has she not been back since this morning?”

“Haven’t seen her since Potions,” Gen answers. 

“Me neither,” says Abby.

She hasn’t been seen since stab— since meeting Potter.

May swings her legs off the bed and fumbles for her robe on the nightstand. In a swift motion, she pulls it on and stands up, Prefect badge glittering bronze.

“Hey, where are you going?” Gen shouts after her as she opens the door. “It’s past curfew!”

“To find Cindy.”

“May, she’ll probably come back on her own in a few minutes.”

“I just have to check one place.”

“You might get in trouble!” Abby objects.

“I’m a Prefect, remember?”

“You don’t even have patrol duty tonight!”

“I’ll be fine. I’m going.”

With her final statement, she lets the door snap shut behind her, ignoring Abby’s cries of protest and Gen and Rhea’s reminders to stay safe. 

She will venture back into Room 3E, no matter what – or who – she found inside. 

—

With her well-practiced disillusionment charm, she makes it to the third-floor classroom without incident. Through the blurry glass of the window on the door, she sees the lone figure of a girl with long, black hair, face ghostly under the pale moonlight.

She wants to go back. 

It’s unlikely that someone would come into the classroom, anyway. On the off-chance that someone did, they would find her best friend sitting on a chair – magic dysfunctional, no sharp clock hands in sight. But it was really, really unlikely, so she could walk back up to her dorm. She could tell her dormmates that Cindy was nowhere to be found. She could lie awake in bed and let herself drown in the harrowing, familiar guilt. She knows she would bear it fine, for she has, time and time again. 

But she’s taken only what she wants – done only what is easy – for far too long. 

She reverses the disillusionment charm and opens the door. Cindy looks up at the noise, gaze piercing.

“What are you doing here?” May asks, legs threatening to give in beneath her. 

“I was looking for our old clock. It’s not here anymore.”

She takes the seat next to Cindy’s. “No, it’s not.”

“I see.”

For the following moments, all that could be heard was the quiet hum of magic, a sound audible only in the dead of the night. Perhaps even that, she was imagining.

May swallows, though her saliva does nothing to ease the painful dryness in her throat. “Did you hear me that day in the hospital?”

Silence. A loud, buzzing silence.

“Yes.”

Yes.

That’s it, isn’t it? Cindy knows everything. 

Well, not everything. 

Not the spiking.

“I’m not angry with you, May.”

Cindy’s words echo around the room. They don’t quite reach May’s head in their soft, distorted state.

“You’re not?”

Cindy chuckles weakly. “We’ve been hanging out since January. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

Part of me foolishly believed you hadn’t heard.

“Why?”

You have every right to be upset. Why did you forgive me, time and time again? Why aren’t you angry? 

“Because it’s not your fault Potter drank the potion.”

“I put it there. In his nightstand drawer.”

Cindy sighs. “I was angry, at first. Angry at you, at Potter, at fate for leaving me paralyzed on that hospital bed. I hated the smell of the place, and the non-stop noises, and the feeling of blankets against my skin. But after seven months alone with nothing but my thoughts, I learned to come to terms with it.”

“Oh.”

The buzzing starts again. The tension in her chest.

“I’m sorry, Cindy. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I—”

Cindy leans her head against May’s shoulder, citrusy strands tickling the back of her neck. “I mean it, truly. I forgive you, I suppose, but there’s nothing to forgive. It’s objectively not your fault. Plus, Potter had it coming, after what he did to you during that performance.”

May breathes out. 

The loosening of her shoulders isn’t quite relief, no. Relief would mean turning back time and smacking the adrenaline-booster out of her hand. Relief would mean erasing the seven months in Hell out of Cindy’s memory. 

Would relief mean telling the whole truth? 

She doesn’t think so. She thinks she will live with the weight of it, forever embedded in her heart. Perhaps she will convince herself that what she told Cindy was the truth. Perhaps she will convince Severus, too, or perhaps he will forever split the burden with her. 

Severus. She will forever cherish what they shared – what could never be replicated with another – no matter how sordid the origin of their bond. She will have to come to terms with keeping the secret, in its ugly entirety, between only them, for Cindy’s promise of forgiveness is too beautiful to tarnish. 

With it, she will start afresh. Cindy will never again have to forgive.

“I stabbed James Potter this afternoon,” Cindy confesses, voice loud against May’s eardrum.

“I know.”

“I thought you would. This place is all cleaned up.”

“Severus did that.”

Cindy shifts her head slightly, the sound of rustling cloth overcoming the incessant buzzing. “Oh?”

“Don’t worry, he approves.”

Cindy laughs, filling the hollow room with a familiar warmth. 

“You weren’t angry with Potter?” May asks tentatively.

Cindy returns her head to its resting position against May’s shoulder. “I was, at that moment. Seeing him again – hearing him bring up what happened – brought me back to that hospital room. My magic failing to work was just another form of paralysis. I wanted to be able to do something , so I grabbed the nearest object that could hurt him.”

The silent buzzing returns. 

“I didn’t expect it to hit him.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know if I regret it.”

“You don’t have to. We don’t ever have to speak of it again.”

“Good. I’d rather not.”

May breathes out, stiff posture deflating. “Anyway, we decided to switch rooms. Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah. I’d prefer it, actually.”

“Want to get out of here? I’ll show you the place right now. We’ll never have to come back.”

“Let’s go.”

May pulls the two of them up, intertwining her fingers with Cindy’s. Together, they push open the door, cringing at the creak of the hinges. 

Cindy pokes her head out. “Coast is clear.”

Carefully, the girls squeeze out into the hallway and let the door click shut behind them. Their hard-soled shoes clack and ring against the marble floors, but May does nothing to disillusion the noise. 

She’s tired. Tired of sneaking around, tired of lying. 

Her last lie would be forever locked behind the door to their old classroom.

So, the two of them continue down the hall and up the winding stairs, giggling at their clumsy loudness.

Right as they step onto the seventh floor, May spots a dark figure walking down the hallway, heading directly towards them. Quickly, she drags Cindy behind a pillar, heart thumping against her ribcage, laugh compressed in her lungs. As the figure draws nearer, she recognizes the glittering badge of Head Boy.

“You and your friend can come out from behind there, May.”

Smothering Cindy’s chortle with her free hand, May steps into the candlelit corridor. 

“Good evening, Kingsley.”

“It’s more like morning, at this hour.”

“My bad.”

Kingsley lets out an eon-containing sigh. “It isn’t your night to patrol.”

Cindy steps out, peering shyly over May’s shoulder. “She was looking for me, Mr. Shacklebolt.”

“And what were you doing out past curfew?”

“Studying for OWLs. I fell asleep by accident.”

“The library has long closed.”

“I wasn’t in the library.”

“We’ve been using an empty classroom to study,” May adds quickly. “She didn’t show up to the dorm, and I got worried, so I went to check there.”

Kingsley raises an eyebrow. “Which room?”

“Classroom 3E. It’s on the third floor – you’ll find Arithmancy equations written on the blackboard.”

For once, she is glad that she did a horrible job of cleaning the scene of crime.

“As much as I’m glad that you were loyal enough to look for your friend, I must ask you to leave the task to the person on night patrol.”

“Right. I’m sorry.”

“I won’t take any points this time—”

May and Cindy exchange a broad smile.

“—but you won’t be so lucky if I catch you again,” Kingsley finishes. “I’m only letting you off the hook because you’re one of our few competent Prefects, Shen. And in the future, keep out of empty classrooms. You never know what you’ll find in them.”

Chapter Text

May 1976

Severus

Severus drops his bag loudly on the hardwood floor of their fully-refurbished Room. “You won’t believe what Black just told me.”

May doesn’t look up from the ink-covered parchment in front of her. “One moment. I’m almost done with this essay.”

He leans back on his chair and crosses his arms, taking in his surroundings. Between studying for OWLs and mulling over their Amortentia recipe, he has spent most of his time in the library, avoiding the carbon copy of their old classroom that the Room had inconveniently created; avoiding the feeling of healing magic coursing through his wand into the body of a boy he so detested; avoiding the warmth of blood seeping through the leg of his pants, pressing against his knees; avoiding the softness of another’s raw flesh under his fingertips. 

They haven’t talked about it, him and May. He doesn’t quite want to, either. 

He is so close to forgetting.

But they know everything, implicitly. He knows May told Huang, for the once-frigid girl casts him grateful glances when she thinks he isn’t looking. She knows he can’t ever again walk into Classroom 3E, for she offered to design a new space that would be its polar opposite.

He busies himself by admiring the glistening whiteboard, nailed where the blackboard used to stand. May dragged him to Scrivenshaft’s during their last Hogsmeade trip, where she managed to spend an hour picking out markers. Now, their OWL revision schedule stares back at him, colour-coded in Strawberry, Jade, and Periwinkle.

“Done,” May announces, drawing him out of his observation. “What were you saying?”

At the reminder of his intended topic of conversation, he feels his face heat with anger. “Black, that fucking moron.”

“What’d the dunderhead do this time?”

He scoffs. “He tried to hex me during Transfiguration again!”

“Merlin, I wish the Professors would do something about him,” May says with a sigh. “You’d think he’d tone it down after everything that happened.”

“He was tamer this year, but he seems to be getting all angsty again.”

“Wonderful. Just before exam season.”

“He started running his mouth after I deflected his hex, which is to be expected. He called me that stupid name again, then said—”

Black told him that his “little girlfriend” would “leave his ugly arse” as soon as OWLs were over. He flushes – irritated at the implication that May was using him, heart fluttering at the thought of May as his girlfriend.

Embarrassed, above it all. Embarrassed by the classroom humiliation, embarrassed by what must be unrequited feelings. 

“—some other rude things.”

“Did you escalate anything in front of McGonagall?”

“No. She took five points from Gryffindor for disrupting her class.”

“Good.”

“I did wish Lupin a happy transformation once she was out of earshot.”

“You— what?”

He’s about to reassure her of McGonagall’s ignorance to his comment, but he realises that her expression is one of genuine shock. “Don’t tell me you don’t know that Lupin’s a werewolf.”

“Is this supposed to be common knowledge?” she retorts sardonically.

Lily had the same reaction. “He disappears once every month and comes back sick!”

“Sounds like an average menstrual cycle experience.”

“A what— he’s a boy! Plus, it just so happens that each of his absences fall on the full moon.”

“Why are you watching him so closely?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, considering how his mates have been persecuting me these past few years.”

“Alright, yeah,” May agrees. “I’m guessing neither Black nor Lupin were happy about your comment.”

He flashes her a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a full moon tonight. Lupin wasn’t in class.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay.”

“Black told me something interesting, though.”

He pauses, hoping she would ask him to share his golden tidbit of information. May, however, is pulling out her Arithmancy homework.

“He told me where to find Lupin tonight.”

“Mhm.”

“I can follow him through a passageway under the Whomping Willow.”

She scoffs. “Good look getting past those branches.”

“All I have to do is prod the knob on the trunk with a long stick.”

“He’s probably lying.”

“I just tried,” he reveals. “It works.”

She drops her quill and fixes him with a warning look. “Don’t tell me you’re actually planning to go.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So what if I am?”

“We have two weeks before OWLs! Are you trying to fail the most important exams of our lives?”

“This is just the opportunity we need to get rid of Potter’s horrible gang once and for all.”

“Yeah, for sure. Because Black would just drop that in your lap on a casual Tuesday.”

Why doesn’t she understand? This is the perfect chance to get them expelled!

“I know that Lupin’s a werewolf,” he begins, careful to keep his voice even. “Now that I know where he transforms each month, I can collect proof and expose him to the rest of the school – there’s no way they’ll let him stay after that!”

“Merlin, Severus, you can be so dense sometimes!” she exclaims, exasperated. “You think the Professors here aren’t aware? If he really is a werewolf, Pomfrey would see his wounds in the Hospital Wing each month. The Professors would accomodate for his full-moon scheduling conflicts. Hell, Dumbledore probably built that secret entrance in the Whomping Willow himself!”

“This is exactly why we need to expose him! Dumbledore is allowing dangerous creatures in this school, and he just gets away with it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that meek Gryffindor boy is a hazard to our safety,” she retorts. “Last time I checked, he hadn’t hurt anyone.”

“He stood by all those times his mates played their cruel little tricks and beat me bloody.”

She breaks eye contact, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I know. He isn’t a good person, but his cowardice has nothing to do with his condition.”

“Either way, his expulsion would have a net positive effect on this school.”

“Black would probably become even more aggressive than he is now.”

“The others wouldn’t let him,” Severus says, grinning. “Black was able to tell me where to find Lupin because he knows his friend is a werewolf. The student body won’t take kindly to someone who kept such a dangerous secret for all those years.”

“You talk as if exposing this will have Lupin expelled.”

“Because it will! Dumbledore may want to keep his Golden Boys around, but some Ministry higher-up must have the power to override that decision.”

May sighs. “Dumbledore is clearly trying very hard to keep this under the wraps. If you start making these accusations – which look baseless, by the way – he will no doubt assure the public of its falseness, then expel you.”

“They aren’t baseless.”

“And what are you planning to bring on your little expedition tonight?” she asks sarcastically. “Do you have a camera for photo proof? Oh – small problem with that. It will get absolutely demolished by a living werewolf, who will then proceed to rip you to shreds!”

Well, he supposes she has a point about his lack of a plan. Luckily, they have a couple hours to make one. They , provided he convinces her to support him. 

“I can go research some werewolf-taming spells right now. I have a few hours—”

“How will you even know what works and what doesn’t? Most of them are probably mythical speculation and haven’t actually been tested on werewolves,” she interrupts. “And did you even listen to a single word I said before this? Finding out that he’s a werewolf will do absolutely nothing. No one will believe you, and even if someone initially does, Dumbledore would be quick to convince them otherwise. If the Headmaster of Hogwarts – if someone as powerful as Dumbledore – doesn’t want Lupin expelled, he won’t be getting expelled. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Well, she’s right, whispers the traitorous voice in his head. But it was never only about getting Lupin expelled. It is his morbid curiosity – his insatiable need to be correct, even if his correctness does him no good – that draws him to the swinging branches of the Whomping Willow.

He knows Lupin is always absent around the full moon. He knows Lupin spends most of that time in the Hospital Wing. With May meeting his pleading stare with her incredulous one, he realises he wants her to know, too – to really know, without a doubt.

“Fine, I won’t tell anyone,” he concedes. “But I’m still going. ”

“Why the bloody hell —” 

“I just need to see it for myself, okay? I need to know – I need you to know – that I’m right.”

She groans. “Oh, for fucks sake. He’s a werewolf, okay? I believe you. Just stay in your dorm tonight.”

“Doesn’t sound like you believe me.”

“There’s two possibilities here, Severus,” she starts. When he opens his mouth to object that there is only one – he will find a werewolf tonight – she gestures for him to stop. “The first is that the whole thing is a prank, and you get ambushed and seriously injured. Personally, I find this more likely, but for the sake of the argument, let’s move on to the second: Lupin is a werewolf. You also get seriously injured. You might even be turned into a werewolf yourself. Do either of these options sound appealing?”

He crosses his arms, unwilling to surrender. “I need to go.”

“Fine,” she says. “Fine. If you want to know so badly, we’ll go tomorrow night. If he really is a werewolf, we’ll find evidence in whatever’s down there. And it will be safe .”

—

That’s exactly how he finds himself walking through a claustrophobic tunnel on a Wednesday evening, holding his breath at the musky smell. 

May coughs behind him. “It’s so dusty in here.”

He doesn’t respond. The thin spacing between the walls, which appear to be slowly closing in, make his heart rate accelerate uncomfortably. Though he would never admit it out loud, he is glad that he didn’t come alone. 

After what feels like thirty minutes of walking but is probably less than ten, they reach a trapdoor at the end of the tunnel. He breathes a sigh of relief as he places his hand against the rough wooden surface. The old thing opens with a hard push and an ominous creak.

He is hit with a familiar, coppery scent.

“Holy shite,” he whispers. May peers over his shoulder, then grips forearm tightly. The room before them is dilapidated, complete with spiderwebbed walls and boarded-up windows. Its entire surface is covered in deep scratches, bloodstains – ranging from blackish-brown to dark red – and fur. 

Patches of grey fur strewn about the cracked floorboards. 

Like the bloodstains, some of them are clearly much older than others. Though he isn’t an expert at werewolf shedding, the piece lying right before his feet has a fresh quality that most of the others lack. He bends down to pick it up, but May grabs the edge of his shirt and pulls him back up.

“Don’t touch it. It’s dirty.”

“Only werewolf bites can infect someone.”

“I know,” May says. “But I still don’t like the thought of you touching that.”

“Fine.”

He extracts himself from her iron-tight grip and tentatively takes a step into the room. Despite its dishevelled appearance, the floor is surprisingly sturdy. He supposes it was built to be indestructible, considering it supports a raging werewolf each month. Upon examining the other patches of fur, which appear to be trampled upon and covered in dust, he decides that the sample near the trapdoor is indeed much newer. On the far wall, there is a paw-shaped indent, nearly twice the size of his own hand. As he draws closer, he notices a sharp, yellow claw stuck at the tip of the thumb imprint, protruding several centimetres outwards. 

He feels himself shiver involuntarily. It was good May stopped him from facing this creature alone yesterday, in the dead of the night. 

Click.

His shoulders tense. He spins around to find May, holding a camera up to her face, finger on the trigger. 

“Merlin’s bloody balls!” he swears. “I thought someone closed the trapdoor.”

“Sorry.”

“You didn’t get my face in the frame, did you?”

“No, but it really doesn’t matter. We probably won’t be showing this to anyone.”

“I know. I just don’t like being photographed.”

“Oh,” she says. “You should probably come out now. It’s almost curfew.”

“In a second,” he replies. “Come in and take a look at this.”

With a grimace, she steps through the entryway. He snickers as she tiptoes across the room, careful to avoid the large bloodstains that cover the wood.

“Stop laughing! I’m wearing my new shoes.”

She comes to a halt right behind him, eyes fixed on the yellow claw, shock written across her features. 

“Still doubting me?”

“No.”

“You look surprised.”

“I am. I have been since you opened that door.”

He flashes her an arrogant grin. 

“If you say ‘I told you so’, I will find a way to lock you in here overnight.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he lies, a smirk still plastered on his face. “Are we leaving?”

“Wait,” she says, bringing her camera up to her face. “I need a picture of this.”

“Look who’s obsessed with evidence now.”

“Shut up.”

Click .

“Done. Let’s go.”

Together, they make their way back to the trapdoor and into the tunnel. 

“Where’d you get that camera?” he asks, voice echoing around the tiny space. 

“It’s Gen’s. She got a new one for Christmas.”

“Does she know you have it?”

“Yeah, but I just told her I was taking some pictures. I’ll just tell her they turned out ugly, and I deleted them.”

He laughs. “Why’d you want photos, anyway?”

“Dunno. To prove to myself this wasn’t all a fever dream, I guess. I mean, can you believe Dumbledore is letting a werewolf stay here? How did no one notice?”

“Speak for yourself,” he says. “Didn’t you say Lupin isn’t dangerous?”

“And he isn’t, as long he’s locked in here during full moons,” she replies, cringing at the reminder of the bloodied room. “It must be horrible. Anyway, I’m surprised because there is heavy prejudice around them in Britain. It makes me wonder if Dumbledore is just progressive, or if he is planning something.”

Severus shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

“Has your curiosity been successfully satiated?”

“It has,” he responds with a smile.

June 9, 1976

May

“Have you seen Sev?” Lily asks, pulling her socks off and folding them neatly in her shoes.

May shivers as she dips her feet into the ice-cold lake below. “He was walking out with his face buried in our exam booklet, so I let him be.”

Lily snorts. “I’m surprised you don’t want to talk about it this year.”

“Me too, honestly,” May says, recalling her frantic quests to find out who put what answer for what question. “I think I’m just tired. Plus, it’s not like I can change anything anymore.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Lily agrees, cringing as someone screams loudly behind them. “How d’you feel about Transfiguration tomorrow?”

“I have to keep telling myself—”

There’s another stream of curse words, followed by what sounds like: “Wash your mouth!”

May snaps her head around. “Which idiots are making so much noise during exam week?”

There’s something – no, someone – dangling from a tree. When she squints, she can make out a green-and-silver tie and black hair. 

“That’s Sev!” Lily exclaims, staggering to her feet.

“I’ll take care of it,” May says as she quickly pulls on her shoes and socks. 

Lily follows suit. “I’m coming with you.”

The two of them run in the direction of the growing crowd. May elbows her way through the thicket of students, anger simmering.

“Let him down!” Lily shouts from behind her. Black turns around, sporting a wide smirk despite the deep cut on his face that drips blood onto his white collar. Pettigrew stands next to him, expression gleeful. Lupin sits under a tree in the background, book open in his lap, eyes cast surreptitiously upward. Potter is nowhere to be found. 

“Make me, Evans.”

May points her wand at him. “ Levicorpus .”

Having focused all his attention on Lily, Black has no time to deflect the spell. In an instant, he is hanging upside-down from the highest branch of the tree, wand dropped on the ground beneath. 

Lily grabs her wrist, pulling her close. “May, we shouldn’t—”

May walks towards the base of the tree, cutting Lily off. She picks up the familiar black wand.

“Catch,” she commands, tossing it upwards at Severus’s dangling hand. 

Just as Severus frees himself from his place on the tree, Lupin emerges from his observation point ten metres away.

“That’s enough,” he says. “We’re all Prefects. We should be setting an example—”

“Then why didn’t you intervene?” May hisses. 

Lupin looks down, face flushed red in shame. “Snape gave Black that nasty cut.”

May meets Lily’s eyes, giving the girl a subtle nod. 

“A word, Remus,” Lily says, dragging him by the edge of his sleeve out of the circle of onlookers. 

“Wormtail!” Black shouts from above. “Get your arse moving and let me down!”

Pettigrew fidgets with his wand as if desperately trying to remember the countercurse. 

“ Stupefy ,” Severus casts lazily. The mousy boy tumbles to the ground in a flash of red light. 

Severus walks towards Black’s hanging form, then lowers him until his ear is at the same height as Severus’s mouth.

“We know about your friend’s secret ,” he whispers. “We saw the scratches with our own eyes.”

Severus is a quick learner.

“Wha— when?” Black stammers.

“That is none of your business.”

“You! You—”

“Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours,” May says with a cruel smirk. “We aren't planning to tell anyone, as long as you leave us alone.”

Black sneers. “Nobody will believe you.”

“We have photo evidence of that shack,” Severus responds.

“So? It’s not his.”

“When we tell the school all about it,” Severhs says slowly, “we’ll make sure to inform Lupin of how we came to discover his furry little secret. He will know that it was you who told me how to find him, who instructed me to walk to my own death on the full moon.”

“It was your choice to go,” Black hisses. “And clearly, you didn’t.”

“You expected me to, didn’t you?” Severus asks softly. “You expected me to get mauled to death by a werewolf. Can you imagine how much it would hurt, knowing your best friend planned to use you – in your most vulnerable state – as a tool for murder?”

Black turns his head away, an emotion akin to guilt written across his handsome features. May grabs his hair, forcing him to meet their eyes. 

He sighs in resignation. “What do you want?”

“What do we want? How kind of you to ask,” Severus remarks sardonically.

Black’s jaw tightens. “I’ll do whatever you fucking ask, okay? Just don’t tell anyone.”

“You’re not in a position to make demands, but I’m feeling generous today,” Severus responds, mouth twisted into a grin. “Never bother us again. Don’t speak to us unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’m sure you can guess what will happen if you violate these terms.”

“Fine.”

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement,” May says, voice glazed sickly sweet.

Black’s face is beet red. “Are you gonna let me down?” 

May looks towards Seveurs. “Are we?”

“If you ask politely, perhaps.”

“Could you please let me down?”

Severus undoes the hex with a sharp flick of his wand, and Black’s head hits the ground with a thud . 

—

June 12, 1976

“I’m sorry,” she says to Severus at the Hogwarts gates. 

“Don’t be,” he replies. “It’s only a couple hours.”

She feels guilty leaving him behind on their last Hogsmeade trip of the year; she needs to spend it with her dormmates, and Lily is going with her new Ravenclaw boyfriend. Severus, she imagines, must be rather upset about the latter. 

At her worried expression, he adds: “I have the Potions lab all to myself. That’s better than wandering aimlessly in Hogsmeade, if you ask me.”

 “Okay.”

“You seem to have something else on your mind.”

Taking a deep breath, she decides it would be best to speak her mind. “You can talk to me, y’know. ‘Cause we’re friends.”

He furrows his brows in confusion. “Talk? About what?”

“Well, uhm, don’t get offended, but I noticed you like Lily,” she says quickly, words stumbling out of her mouth. “And she’s going with someone else today, so it would be understandable if you…”

Her hesitant observation is broken by Severus’s laughter. “Like her, as in romantically? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hey, I was trying to be considerate!” she hisses in his ear, defensiveness rising. “You would blush whenever she was around, back in our third year!”

“That was a long time ago,” he says, awkwardly running his hands through his hair. “I did fancy her then, but not anymore. It’s a bit embarrassing you noticed, actually.”

“Oh, good,” she mumbles, focusing her gaze on the cobblestones beneath her feet. “I mean, good, because you wouldn’t be upset about…you know what I mean.”

He still has that amused smirk written across his face. “Mhm.”

Still reeling from embarrassment, she jumps at the sudden tap on her back. Turning around, she finds Gen standing behind her, brows raised. 

“Are you almost done speaking with your petit ami over here?” Gen asks, sliding her arm over May’s shoulder.

“Y-yes,” she stammers, glaring at the girl’s mischievous grin. “I have to go, Severus.”

He nods. “Enjoy your day at Hogsmeade.”

When she’s sure Severus is out of earshot, she shrugs off Gen’s arm. “He’s not my boyfriend! And what if he understands French?”

“I was watching his reaction,” Gen responds, unfazed. “He seemed confused, so I’m sure he has no idea what I said.”

She rolls her eyes. “Still, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“A heart attack? What were you two talking about?”

“Oh, quit it.”

“I heard something about someone fancying someone.”

“I was just clearing something up,” she reluctantly explains. “Turns out he doesn’t fancy Lily anymore.”

Gen slaps May’s shoulder. “What’d I tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s everyone else?”

“Right up ahead.”

Following Gen’s outstretched finger, she spots three girls standing in the distance. Flanked by Rhea on the left and Abby on the right, Cindy stands: slightly slumped, smiling weakly.

—

June 11, 1976

“Mind if I join you?” asked Cindy, voice muffled by the velvet canopy between us. 

“Come in.”

My invitation was followed by the movement of thick curtains and the creak of the mattress under Cindy’s weight. Next to me, I could see the dark outline of her figure against the white sheets. 

“How’d OWLs go?” she whispered. 

“Good, I think,” I responded. “But who knows? I might’ve made fatal errors I didn’t catch.”

Cindy laughed softly. “You say that every time, but it never happens.”

“I hope it stays that way. How’d they go for you?”

Cindy looked away. “I could hardly perform the Charms and Transfiguration practicals.”

My breath hitched. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don’t feel bad on my account. I already knew it would happen.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Maybe we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know my own magic,” Cindy replied, tilting her head upwards at the dark ceiling above. “There was nothing we could’ve done, and I didn’t want to put extra stress on you before OWLs.”

I felt the water welling in my eyes, thick droplets pushing against my lower lashes. “What are you going to do?” 

The mattress creaked, and the blankets ruffled. Cindy’s arm brushed against mine. “I’m moving to Hong Kong.”

When I blinked, the tears slid out of my eyes and down my cheeks, leaving warm trails in their wake. It left me with two choices: hope that the wet streaks wouldn’t glisten in the darkness of the room, or hope that Cindy wouldn’t notice the movement of my arm if I wiped them away. With my hands tightly gripping the blankets, I chose the former. 

“Is there no other way?” I murmured into the thick silence. 

“I wish there was. But without my practicals, the highest score I can obtain is an Acceptable. McGonagall wouldn’t accept me into her NEWT class, and you know Transfiguration is a requirement for Healer training.”

Cindy has set her eyes on becoming a Healer since her own injury. With her capabilities, it was only fair she pursued that path. 

“They won’t let you retake?”

“No.”

“How is that fair?”

“The Board of Governors said that my injury impacted my magical abilities, and that was the reality,” Cindy whispered, voice acidic. “The reality is that I’m weaker, so I do not meet the OWL requirements.”

“But you’re improving! We’ve all seen it!”

“They don’t care.”

“And Dumbledore didn’t try to reason with them?”

“Dumbledore is managing a war,” Cindy explains, exasperation leaking through her words. “He can’t risk alienating Wizengamot members on my behalf.”

I clutched the blankets harder, anger bubbling. “If it were one of his special Gryffindor boys, I bet he would’ve acted.”

Cindy sighed. “Yes, because they would fight for him during the war.”

“Lupin is a fucking werewolf,” I hissed, voice low. “I have photo evidence of it. He’s a werewolf, and Dumbledore is willing to fight for him!”

“I’m sure the Board of Governors doesn’t know that,” Cindy said, voice even. “Plus, Dumbledore believes in the equality of all wizards. Helping a werewolf aligns with his ideology.”

I wanted nothing more but to storm into Dumbledore’s blasted office. I wanted to smash the pretty little trinkets against the majestic glass window until the floor was littered with gold and glass; I wanted to slam my fist against the door to his chambers until the wood splintered; I wanted to scream my throat raw and ask him why. 

Why did Potter and Black get away with tormenting Severus for all those years?

Why did he help a werewolf but not my best friend?

Why, in his entire reign over Hogwarts, did he never enforce equality?

“Don’t do anything rash, May,” Cindy implored, squeezing my hand. “I’m not angry about their decision anymore.”

I was angry – angry that my best friend would be taken away from me, angry that I brought it on myself. 

But it wasn’t about me, was it?

“We can still see each other, you know,” Cindy continued. “I bought two-way books, so we can stay in contact. You let me know when you’re free, and I can set up a Portkey.”

She would never again be the house down the street, or the bed next to mine. We would write to each other every day during the summer, then every week once the school year started, then every month. We would eventually lose contact, no matter how hard we held on to the remnants of our old connection. 

I hardly talked with Chloe these days, even though she was my stronghold during my first three years in the Hogwarts orchestra. 

And Chloe was in Britain. 

“Okay,” I whispered, for there was nothing else to be said. Had I voiced my thoughts, Cindy would’ve assured me they weren’t true. She would’ve used more of her precious energy to comfort me when she was the one who was moving thousands of kilometres from home, who needed comforting.  

“I’m planning to tell the rest of them when we go to Hogsmeade tomorrow.”

“I’ll come.”

“You don’t have to.”

I looked away, chest aching at her consideration. “I’m sorry I hardly spent Hogsmeade weekends with you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Really, I’ll come,” I said, voice cracking. “I’m happy to come.”

“Thanks.”

What do people say when their best friends announce that they are moving away?

I suppose I should’ve asked her how she was feeling and if she needed me to do anything. I should’ve asked her what she was planning to do in Hong Kong, how she would complete her education, what she was most excited for.

I didn’t need to ask her if she would be coming back. 

Nobody would return to a warzone.

Before my lagging mind could push the half-formed phrases out of my mouth, the mattress was already creaking. The warm arm against mine was extracted, and the velvet canopy rustled. I watched Cindy’s dark figure climb out of my bed, leaving a frigid emptiness in its wake.

Chapter Text

Summer 1976

Severus

Summer weekends are dreadfully boring at Spinner’s End. 

He offered to take up weekend shifts at Mr. Evans’s business, but the man refused, exclaiming that young men like him needed rest. On top of that, he and Lily had opted to meet at her house instead of their childhood park, a location that had been recently hogged by teenage delinquents. Unfortunately, Tuney has taken to bringing her new boyfriend around on Saturdays, and he’d rather not see the pretentious prick. 

So, he amuses himself by shooting down the flies that sit on his rotten bedroom ceiling. Although magic is technically not permitted off school grounds, he’s learned that the Ministry can’t detect such small doses. 

He currently has his eyes trained on a particularly fast one that is buzzing towards the window. It stops on the windowpane, where Severus can’t aim at it without breaking the glass. He swears as he drags himself out of his bed, still determined to catch the irritating thing. Upon reaching the window, another object catches his attention. 

A pure, white bird is flying towards his house, a letter clutched tightly in its beak. He recognizes the Malfoy seal glinting under the sunlight. 

With his heart in his throat, he opens the window with a creak. Lucius has only one reason to write to him, and that is to recruit him into the cause . Considering the temperment of the Malfoy birds, he has no choice but to open the letter and pen a response immediately. 

Sure enough, the bird lands on his windowsill and drops the letter through the small space between the dirty glass pane and the wall, beady eyes focused on Severus. Hands shaking, he carefully peels open the envelope, noting the tingle of magic beneath his fingers. 

It had been charmed so that only he could open it, meaning Lucius had increased his security measures.

Dear Severus, 

Being a member of the Board of Governors, I have recently accessed your OWL scores before their release. I would like to congratulate you on your academic prowess that will no doubt prove useful to the cause.  

However, I have heard from my sources at Hogwarts that you are spending most of your precious time with a Mudblood and an immigrant. I implore you to rethink your choices if you still wish to be considered a prospective member of our noble ranks. 

Sincerely, 

Lucius Malfoy

Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy

Under the watchful eyes of the bird, Severus rummages around in his Hogwarts luggage. After a nerve-wracking sixty seconds, he manages to find his parchment, quill, and ink. Back at his desk, he considers his response.

Based on his letter, Lucius had not yet mentioned him to the Dark Lord. That’s a good start, for it means Lucius is not hell-bent on recruiting him. The safest option, he decides, is to continue stalling. As long as Lucius doesn’t introduce him to the Dark Lord before he manages to leave the country, he would be free.

He curses his past self for giving Lucius his personal address. Although the Malfoy patriarch was unlikely to visit a Muggle slum for any reason, he would have to tread carefully so as to not offend the man.

Dear Lucius,

I am very honoured that you think so highly of me. To address your concerns, I am acquainted with Evans and Shen because they, too, are magically talented. For the remainder of my time at Hogwarts, I plan to prioritise my education over politics so that I may become a formidable wizard.

Sincerely, 

Severus Snape  

—

He wakes up to the sound of a beak frantically tapping against glass. Rubbing his eyes, he makes his way to the window, allowing the bird to drop a letter on his desk. Again, the envelope tingles in his hands as he peels it open. 

Severus, 

It seems I was not clear enough in my last letter. The Dark Lord will soon ask us to nominate new members to the cause. If you do not pledge your loyalty now, I will not vouch for you, for the Dark Lord deserves servants of the utmost devotion. There are many wizards of purer blood vying for the opportunity I have given you.

Frankly, your letter made me laugh. You are yet naive, though I suppose I cannot be surprised on account of your upbringing. I will tell you now that a formidable wizard is deeply committed to cleansing wizardkind. Do not confuse that with “politics”.

Please inform me as to whether or not you would like to be recommended. If the answer is affirmative, you must promise to cut ties with the Mudblood. If you are unsure, I will not condemn you, for I understand that it is difficult for Half-Bloods to achieve our level of commitment to wizardkind. 

Lucius Malfoy

Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy

With the bird attentively watching him from its place on the windowsill, he manages to hold in a snort. Has Lucius always been so arrogant? In his boyish admiration of the handsome, powerful, pure wizard, has he really been so blind to the man’s flaws?

Nevertheless, he trusts Lucius’s words. Although Lucius no doubt considers him an asset that would be unfortunate to lose, he has not yet made any substantial investments in Severus’s development.

Dear Lucius, 

He tears off the top line of the parchment. If he were to reject Lucius’s offer, they would no longer be acquaintances. 

Dear Mr. Malfoy, 

Yet, that sounds much too stiff. He tears it off once more. It’s better, he supposes, to play the role of the naive boy whom Lucius believes him to be. 

Dear Lucius, 

Thank you once more for your kindness. As of now, I wish to remain neutral in the war, though I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours. 

Sincerely, 

Severus Snape

With a sigh of relief, he reseals the letter in the envelope and hands it to the bird. 

—

Severus, 

I am disappointed, but I understand. I hope you do not regret your decision when our forces inevitably rise to power. It goes without saying that informing anyone about the contents of our correspondence will result in dire consequences.

Lucius Malfoy

Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy

This time, the bird leaves immediately after dropping the letter onto his desk. With a small smile, Severus watches its white feathers fade into the grey skyline of Cokeworth.

May

Just as she steps out of the hotel room shower, there is a muffled knock on the front door. Through the thin walls, she hears her father’s footsteps and a quiet creak.

“A letter addressed to May Shen, sir,” says the voice outside of their room. “I believe she is your daughter.”

“Yes,” Baba replies. “Thank you.”

After pulling on her pyjamas and wrapping her dripping hair in a towel, she steps out of the bathroom. Baba is holding the letter up to his face, squinting at the name on the back of the envelope.

“Is it Cindy’s?” she asks. A few days ago, Cindy wrote in their two-way books that she would send a postcard from Hong Kong, but it hasn’t arrived.

“No, it says ‘Severus’ on the back. Do you know this person?”

She reaches for the letter in his hand, heart fluttering. “Yes, he’s a friend from school.”

“I see. How does he know where we are?”

“I gave him our hotel address,” she answers, already eagerly tearing open the envelope.

Dear May, 

Congratulations on being first in our class! I received all Os, except for an E in Transfiguration and an A in History of Magic. Before you lecture me about missing all your History of Magic review sessions, know that I am perfectly happy with an Acceptable in that horrid class.

I’ve been doing some research for our project recently. I understand why that MacDuff fellow tried removing the pearl dust, as it is the catalyst that makes the symptom of induced lovesickness set on quickly. Without it, however, the potion is still effective – the reaction that occurs is just much slower. According to a newer edition of “Potion’s Today” , rose petals are the true active ingredient that result in lovesickness. I believe peppermint is responsible for the scent, as it is known for its fragrance, especially in Potions recipes. Considering MacDuff’s first attempt in the modification was simply removing rose petals – which resulted in a fully useless potion – the scent side-effect must only be released when the rose petals react with something else in the potion and create a side product, which in turn reacts with the peppermint. Therefore, we could remove the rose petals from the recipe, but we would need to substitute them with the side product, whatever that is.

I know you’re on vacation right now, so don’t worry about researching – I just wanted to let you know.

Best, 

Severus

“What did your friend write to you about that’s making you so happy?” asks Baba , watching her giddy reaction from his spot on the sofa. 

“Nothing much.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

She feels her face burn. “What? No!”

“Good. Focus on your studies.”

Eyes still roving over the middle paragraph, she wonders if she should tell her father about her plan. She would eventually – if it were to be successful – for she is planning to take her parents out of the country with her. 

“ Baba , did you study Potions in university?”

“Some advanced Potions knowledge was required for my major,” he responds. “Why?”

“Do you know what side products are created in the Amortentia reaction?”

“Don’t tell me you're brewing that in your free time, May.”

“Of course not! I’m just wondering.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“My friend and I are doing some Potions research.”

“What do you need it for?”

May sighs. There was no getting around the questioning if she wanted to obtain something useful from her father. “We’re trying to develop a variation of the Amortentia perfume that smells like what the user loves but doesn’t make them fall in love.”

Baba nods. “Ah, for the American universities?”

“Yes.”

“Not a bad idea. What progress have you made so far?”

She hands him the letter. “Read the middle paragraph.”

Baba removes his glasses and brings the parchment close to his eyes, squinting at the words. 

“Your friend does not have nice handwriting, but he is very smart,” he concludes after several minutes. 

“So, do you think he’s right?”

“His reasoning is sound.”

“What about the side products?” 

Baba hands the letter back to her and returns to his spot on the sofa, chin clasped in his hands. “I’m not sure, but I do know a method to isolate side-products. There is a special potion you add to your completed potion – I don’t know the name in English, but I can find it for you when we get home – and you boil the solution on high heat until it is completely reduced to a viscous liquid. The residue left on the bottom of the cauldron are the side-products.”

“Ohh, we’ve never learned that!” May exclaims, already ripping out a sheet of paper from Baba ’s notepad. “What if there are multiple side-products, though?”

“That wouldn’t matter, in your case. The rose petals have already released their magical potential – the main product – during the boiling process. The remaining side-products will not result in the lovesickness reaction, but one of them should react with the peppermint to produce the scent, so you can just add all the residue into your next potion.”

“I see,” says May, fervently scrawling the information in her new letter. “Thanks, Baba !”

“I have a couple questions for you, May.”

She looks up, surprised by his serious tone. “Yes?”

“When the potion is boiled, it will release its magical potential through the fumes. They will be very strong. How do you plan to protect yourself from them?”

“Masks?”

“That may not be sufficient.”

“We’ll keep the Amortentia antidote nearby.”

“Good. And make sure someone else knows what you’re doing and where.”

Personally, May doesn’t think she would mind the fumes or the lovesickness. They wouldn’t make much of a difference, anyway, if it’s only her and Severus in the room.

September 1, 1976

Severus

He sits cross-legged in his bed, stack of colourful papers in hand. The dates written on the top-right corner range from July 3rd to August 25th – a complete collection of the letters May wrote him over the summer. He spreads them out on his blankets, running his hand over the assortment of textures: creamy parchment, coated in black ink; rough graph paper with blue lines, the ends of Arithmancy equations decorating the poorly-ripped edges; flimsy notepad sheets, covered in pink-ballpoint-pen print. 

He finds himself wondering where they came from. She must’ve sent the parchment from her home in England – the graph paper too, for they are impractical to bring elsewhere. He picks up one of the notepad sheets and feels for the postcard tied to its backside, running his fingers over the glossy finish. 

She wrote these in France , he thinks. Was she sitting on a bed, like I am now? She must’ve been. I don’t imagine hotels have desks.

Pushing thoughts of her personal life out of his mind, he flops back onto his bed and holds the latest letter above his face. It contains a detailed rundown of their plan to brew Amortentia, including who exactly would be informed about what part of their operation. 

I think we should tell Slughorn about the whole plan to reduce the Amortentia to obtain side products, May wrote. He would know how to air out the room so that it’s safe for future use.

However, they had decided to refrain from asking Slughorn for more assistance, lest he claims partial credit for their creation. 

Let’s tell Lily and Gen what we’re doing, too. They have no conflict of interest with us, and I trust them.

Though he doesn’t know much about Levesque, he trusts May’s judgement. He agreed to her propositions on the train to Hogwarts, so he assumes she has already informed the girls of their plans. All that is left is to meet with Slughorn before class tomorrow so that they could finalise a brewing schedule. 

With a yawn, he drops his arm onto the soft blankets. His eyes burn from reading May’s small handwriting in the dim lighting of his canopy-enclosed bed, so he shuts them for a moment. 

Five minutes, he tells himself, and I will get up. I still need to change out of my robes. 

Through a sleepy haze, he recognizes the creak of his dorm door. It is immediately followed by Mulciber, blabbering about blood purity drivel in an obnoxious voice. Thankfully, all is silent after about thirty seconds. He continues lying on his bed, eyelids heavy, mind drifting once more to May. 

Is she in her dorm room bed? She must be – it’s past curfew. Is she still awake? Yes – she said she stays up to talk with her dormmates on the first night back. Is she—

His canopy is opened with a dramatic rustle of fabric. Before he can react, he feels the cold, pointed end of a wand pressed against his throat. Much too close to his face are Mulciber’s ugly features, distorted into a maniacal grin. 

“Hey, Snivellus,” Mulciber whispers menacingly. Severus sneers at the nickname, resisting the urge to spit in the boy’s face. “Guess what I learned this summer, Sniv.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Severus retorts, hand clenched around the wand in his right sleeve. 

“Don’t even think about moving,” Rosier threatens from his spot to Severus’s left. “There are four of us and one of you.”

“That’s right,” Wilkes adds. “And we’re all planning to join the Dark Lord’s noble forces.”

Before making his attack, Severus would need to wait for Avery – who stood in direct view of his right hand – to move. Unfortunately, Mulciber increases the pressure against his throat, and Severus feels his eyes water. 

“Does that hurt?” Mulciber asks, grin widening to reveal a set of crooked teeth. “Well, what I learned this summer will hurt you a lot more.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “Crucio? I’m afraid that one would get you expelled.”

“You know what else I learned, Snape?” continues Mulciber, ignoring his interjection. “Lucius Malfoy himself told me that you are no longer interested in serving the Dark Lord.”

He doubts Lucius would willingly reveal that tidbit of information unless Mulciber asked. “You asked after me, didn’t you? How sweet.”

Mulciber slaps him across the face, sending his head lolling to the side. On his cheek, he can already feel a handprint-shaped sting, but he keeps his expression neutral upon meeting Mulciber’s eyes once more. 

Between Potter and his father, he has experienced far worse. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mulciber hisses. “A filthy Half-Blood like you isn’t worthy of a single morsel of the Dark Lord’s attention!”

“It’s a good thing I don’t plan on joining his ranks, then.”

Another slap, on the other side this time. He feels a coppery flavour spreading in his mouth, accompanied by the sting. “We’re going to teach you a lesson tonight. And guess what? We have plenty of other curses up our sleeve that aren’t Unforgivables.”

“Now, you said you want to maintain neutrality,” Rosier begins, walking closer.

Severus doesn’t deign him with a response. 

“You know what we think, Snape?”

“No, and I don’t particularly care.” 

Mulciber inches closer, and Severus nearly gags at the smell of his rancid breath. “We think you’re a secret supporter of Dumbledore.”

“Do you, now?” Severus says, trying to maintain a sardonic tone with his raspy voice. 

“You know why I think that?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Because you’re friends with that Mudblood, Evans.”

“Shocker.”

“Shut up!” Mulciber screams, digging his wand into the skin of Severus’s neck. Severus feels a sharp pain just below his Adam's apple, followed by something warm trickling down to his shirt collar. “Don’t interrupt me, Snape. You know that Levesque girl? Her blood traitor family has diplomatic relations with the French government. They’re working to overthrow the Dark Lord.”

“I don’t know Levesque.”

“Oh, but your little girlfriend does. Girls tell each other everything, you know. I bet they’re all planning to join Dumbledore’s cause fresh out of graduation, and you’ll be pulled right along.”

“Look at his bed!” Avery exclaims excitedly, attention diverted. “They’re covered in her letters.”

“ Sectumsempra!” Severus casts quickly, aiming his wand at Mulciber’s crotch. The boy yelps in pain, and Severus quickly scrambles out of his bed before Mulciber falls face-flat on his pillow, leaving a growing pool of blood that stains the white blankets dark red. 

“ Expelliarmus!” Rosier yells, but Severus is quicker with his shield charm. 

“Pass your wands to me, and I will heal him.”

Rosier sneers. “In your fucking dreams.”

“This is a spell of my own invention,” Severus says with a smirk. “Your friend here is bleeding out.”

Just as Rosier is about to protest, Avery interjects: “Are you three fucking stupid? Look at Mulciber! Pass up your goddamn wands!”

With a scathing glare, Avery places his wand in Severus’s outstretched hand. Wilkes and Rosier follow suit reluctantly. 

“ Incarcerous.”

In an instant, the three boys are tied together with thick ropes. He repeats the performance on Mulciber, ensuring his attacker wouldn’t retaliate if he were to wake up. When he turns the body over, he realises that his spell had missed Mulciber’s crotch by a few centimetres, instead cutting a gash on his upper thigh. 

Remember messy black hair and lopsided glasses? Bled just like—

Now is not the time.

 With a grimace, he pulls away the bloody cloth and repeats Vulnera Sanentur . After a few rounds, the flow of blood ceases, so he soaks up the residual crimson with his blanket. With another repetition, the wound knits, leaving a jagged scar in its wake.

He Accio s the mess of papers on his bed, frowning at the spot of ugly red that now stains May’s perfect handwriting. Thankfully, he has not yet unpacked, so he easily shrinks his luggage and tucks it in his robe pocket. Belongings successfully stowed, he makes his way towards the door, sidestepping the bundle of bodies on the floor.

With his hand on the doorknob, he drops the three wands onto the floor. “I will not be returning to the Slytherin dormitories. As Lucius Malfoy kindly informed you of, I plan to maintain my neutrality, so I will not seek further retaliation unless you bother me.”

Rosier spits in his direction. “As if you can fucking retaliate, Half-Blood.”

“I will inform Dumbledore about this little incident, and you will no doubt be expelled.”

“We don’t give a fuck as to what that old geezer thinks!” 

“Not to mention you would be revealed to the public as having lost to a filthy Half-Blood, as you so kindly put it. Would your father be proud?”

Rosier growls, a pathetic sound that makes Severus snort. 

“Shut up, you idiot!” Avery hisses at Rosier. “The Dark Lord said he’s not accepting anyone into his inner circle if they don’t have a full Hogwarts education.”

“Fine,” Rosier says, eyes still narrowed at Severus. “Just stay out of our sight.”

“Gladly.”

“And take us out of these bonds.”

“Very well.”

With a wave of his wand, he releases his dormmates from his conjured ropes. Before any of them can reach their wands, Severus walks through the door and slams it shut with a flourish. While bloating up the stairs to the common room, he casts the disillusionment charm, praying that none of the boys are following him. 

Heart beating wildly, he marvels at his luck. Honestly, he has absolutely no idea if Dumbledore would be able to expel his dormmates, considering Rosier’s father worked as some official in the Ministry. There is also the matter that Sectumsempra is a dark spell, though none of the morons seemed to notice. 

Hopefully, his bluff and their shame are strong enough to ensure their compliance. 

For now, he has to find a place to spend the night for the rest of the year; he will not risk returning to Slytherin House. Harbouring a burgeoning headache and stinging neck, he begins his trek up the countless flights of stairs to the Room.

On the sixth floor, he spots a lantern drawing closer. When the couple is about two metres away, he recognizes the sheen of fiery red hair, accompanied by the glint of the bronze-and-navy Ravenclaw Head Boy badge. The boy glances in his direction, and Severus ducks behind a pillar, momentarily forgetting that he is disillusioned. 

How did May do this two years ago?

Lily’s irritated voice echoes throughout the dark hallway. “We’re just friends, Blake.”

“Still, I don’t like it,” says Blake Macmillan, Lily’s boyfriend and Hogwarts Head Boy.

“As I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m one-hundred-percent sure he does not like me romantically!”

“You don’t know how a bloke’s mind works.”

Lily scoffs. “Ever considered that not all blokes are the same?”

“I just don’t trust him, Lily. Plus, he’s a Slytherin – have you seen how Slytherin House is these days?”

Are they talking about me?

“I trust him, Blake. That should be enough for the both of us.”

Oh, Blake, you’re not going to win this argument. 

“Plus, I already know he likes someone else,” Lily continues. “You see how much he hangs out with May, right?”

What the hell, Lily?

Without waiting for Macmillan’s response, he quickly makes his way towards the stairs, face burning at the mention of May’s name. His hand involuntarily jumps to the pocket containing her letters, an action for which he immediately scolds himself.

By the time he reaches Barnabas the Barmy, he is much too tired to imagine anything other than their study room. He walks in front of the portrait three times – eyes closed, recalling their whiteboard, their round table, and their sunlit floors. When he looks up, the familiar door has appeared, and he turns the knob. 

By some miracle, moonlight streams through the tall windows, mirroring what would be the real view of the Hogwarts grounds. After a cursory glance around the rest of the Room, he unceremoniously drops his heavy robes on the floor and tiredly sags into the nearest chair. Within five minutes, he is slumped forwards on their wooden table, asleep. 

—

September 2, 1976

“Severus!”

In the distance, he registers hands on his shoulders. Someone is shaking him, but he can’t look away from the pool of crimson on the floor. There’s blood dripping from the table and from the bed, and he can’t see who’s it is, but he can see a piece of dark hair dangling from the edge, and he’s sure it’s May—

“Severus, wake up!”

With a jolt, he opens his eyes. There’s a shirtsleeve in front of him: it’s white; its edge is tinted a crusty, coppery red; it’s his, isn’t it? Where’s the rest of the blood? 

Blearily, he lifts his head, only to find himself face-to-face with May’s dark brown eyes.

Still in a daze, he leaps up and grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her closer. Her face is flushed but unmarred, her hair flawless, and her uniform fresh. He swerves his head to the right, searching for the blood, but the classroom is spotless. 

“Severus, are you okay?”

The realisation hits him, along with a pounding headache. He sits back down with a relieved sigh. “It was just a dream.”

“Oh,” she says, cheeks still tinged pink. “I figured, but I’m talking about your face.”

Ah. 

“It’s a long story. How much time before our first class?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Shite! We need to get out of here— Merlin’s balls, I still haven’t unpacked,” he mutters, standing up again. “I’ll be quick. I just need to get my schoolbag out, I think I put all my class stuff in there when I was packing…”

He trails off as he digs in his robe pockets, only to find it empty. 

Shite, shite, shite! Where did I put it?

Panicked, he holds his robe upside-down, emptying its contents into a haphazard pile on the floor. May kneels down, gathering the papers into a neat pile. 

“Are these my letters?”

“Yes.”

“O-oh.”

He moves his shrunken luggage into an empty space on the far side of the room before enlarging it. He throws the lid open, then silently thanks his old self for pre-packing his school bag and putting it on top of his mess of clothes and Potion’s Today magazines. 

“I’m ready,” he announces, bag slung over his shoulder. 

May places the letters in her hands onto the table, then fixes him with a disbelieving glance. “First of all, you’re not even wearing your robes. Second, your face is a mess.”

“We’re going to be late to Potions! Are we supposed to waltz in there five minutes after the bell and proceed to ask him to let us borrow his room?”

“He likes us, Severus. He couldn't care less.”

“Still seems like a bad idea to me.”

“Could you please just tell me what happened last night?”

He sighs. There would be no leaving if May refused to leave. “My dormmates attacked me, and I escaped.”

She frowns, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he adds.

She pulls out the nearest chair. “Sit down – I’m going to heal you. We can’t let them see you with last night’s injuries.”

Reluctantly, he complies. As she gently tilts his chin up and casts episkey, he takes in the view of her silky, jet-black hair against the porcelain white of her crisp uniform collar. When he closes his eyes, he’s sitting on the desk in their old room again, blushing as she dabs damp tissues onto his bleeding face. 

It’s been two years and an eternity. 

There is the Potter ordeal, now locked up in the darkest crevices of their memories. There is their potions project, now partway solved. There is his height, now towering thirteen centimetres over hers. There is her magic, now strong enough to completely heal him with an episkey and a scourgify.

Yet, when she pulls away, he still can’t find the courage to reach for her hand. 

May

“Why’d you come to the Room before class?” Severus asks as soon as they step out into the corridor.

“We agreed to meet in front of Slughorn’s room fifteen minutes before Potions,” she answers. “You weren’t there, and I didn’t see you in the Great Hall when the others walked in, so I figured I’d check here.”

“My bad.”

“No worries,” she says, glancing at him through her peripheral vision. Though his injuries are gone, he still looks dishevelled. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“There really isn’t much to say,” he responds, voice unbothered. “Mulciber pinned me to my bed and dug the tip of his wand into my neck, which is why I had a cut there. They accused me of being a Dumbledore supporter and threatened to ‘punish’ me, but I fought them off and incarcerous ed the morons.”

His casual tone almost surprises her more than the story itself. 

“They— what? And you fought them off? That’s really impressive!”

Severus looks away and runs his hands through his hair, revealing the reddening tip of his ear. “Yeah, but it wasn’t hard. I caught Mulciber off guard with Sectumsempra , then threatened the others to drop their wands or I wouldn’t heal him.”

She cringes at the thought of being pinned under the Slytherin brute, inches away from his cruel face. “Still, I think I would’ve fully froze.”

“Really, it wasn’t that bad compared to Potter.”

Right, he’s withstood the Marauders for years , she remembers, heart clenching at the thought of first-year Severus surrounded by those sadistic, self-righteous Gryffindors. 

“Anyway,” he continues, “I threatened to report them to Dumbledore if they gave me any more trouble. I plan to sleep in the Room, from now on.”

It’s a bold move. His dormmates could report him for being out after curfew, but they would then be reported to Dumbledore for their assault and torture attempt. Then again, they would only feel obligated to leave Severus alone if they cared about their education. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll make a move,” Severus says as if reading her thoughts. “They plan to join the Dark Lord’s forces one day, and according to Avery, he only accepts those with a full Hogwarts education into his inner circle. They promised to leave me alone, provided I don’t report them.”

“I see,” she says. To no one’s surprise, You-Know-Who values prestige. “They’re hot-headed and ruthless teenagers, though. While they have good reason to keep up their end of the agreement, we should stay vigilant.”

Severus nods grimly. “Honestly, I’m not even sure if Dumbledore would – or could – expel them for this. I was bluffing when I threatened them yesterday.”

May recalls Cindy’s words the night before their last Hogsmeade trip. “Oh, he undoubtedly would find a way to expel them, seeing as their actions don’t align with his ideology. Plus, Wizengamont is still controlled by Dumbledore’s faction, even though your dormmates’ parents are working their way up.”

Some of the tension leaves Severus’s shoulders. 

“What I’m worried about,” May continues with a frown, “is that they will hurt you outside of Hogwarts. You mentioned Malfoy has your address, didn’t you?”

Severus swallows. “Yes.”

“Malfoy probably considers it below him to attack you – no offence – but it is entirely possible for Mulciber, Avery, Rosier, and Wilkes to obtain your address from him. For them, that would be the perfect opportunity to exact their revenge.”

“They would kill me, wouldn’t they?” Severus asks quietly. “Leave no evidence behind.”

I wouldn’t let them.

“You won’t be staying at Spinner’s End this summer,” May says firmly. “If the Amortentia project goes according to plan, we might be able to get our student visas by the end of the school year, considering the…circumstances in Britain.”

“What if we don’t finish it in time?”

“Then we’ll have no choice but to beg Dumbledore for protection.”

—

“Yes, Miss Evans, this is Amortentia! Five points to Gryff—”

At the thud of the heavy door closing, Slughorn looks up from the pearly potion in front of him. “Ah, Mr. Snape and Miss Shen.”

She is immediately hit by the smell of special edition ink and Cindy’s citrusy perfume. Woven within it all is the overwhelming scent of Severus’s fresh pine soap – did he use an excessive amount this morning?

No, he couldn’t have…

“Sorry, Professor.”

“All good, all good. Take a seat, but not at the tables where you see a brewed potion,” he says, gesturing at the various steaming cauldrons dispersed throughout the classroom. “Today, class, we will be brewing the Draught of Living Death. Can anyone tell me what this potion does?”

May raises her hand.

“Yes, Miss Shen?”

“It causes the drinker to fall into a death-like slumber.”

“Very good! Five points to Ravenclaw,” Slughorn declares with a smile. “Now, the recipe can be found on page ten of your Advanced Potions textbook. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. 

“We’ll be brewing individually today, and the best potion gets a special prize. Off you go!”

“I’ll get the ingredients, you set up the work station,” Severus whispers to her. For the sake of thoroughness, she uses the cauldron-scouring charm to ensure that there is no residue left behind. Just as she is unsheathing the silver daggers, she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“Oi, Shen,” Rosier says, sporting an ugly smirk. “Did Snape sleep with you last night?”

“What do you think?” she retorts sardonically. “Boys can’t enter girls’ dorms. I would expect you to know this simple rule, seeing as you’re from such a superior wizarding family with a long history at Hogwarts.”

Rosier sneers. “Drop the good-girl act. I know you’re a rule-breaker.”

“Need I remind you of the rules you broke last night?” Severus hisses, approaching her from behind, ingredients in hand. “Get the fuck back to work, Rosier.”

With a resigned glare, Rosier turns his attention back to his work station. Satisfied, Severus opens his heavily-annotated textbook to page ten and places it in between him and May. 

“Have you tested these?” she asks, pointing at the corrections in the margins.

“Once. They’re not perfect, but I’m planning to make some more revisions today.”

For the next segment of class, May’s gaze doesn’t stray from her table. Slughorn was correct – she has never brewed anything quite so difficult, what with precise measurements and a slew of steps that need to be completed simultaneously. After a tiring half-hour of intense concentration, she finally reaches the step that requires letting the potion simmer for five minutes. A glance to her left confirms that Severus, too, has just set down his stirring rod. 

“Keep an eye on my potion, won’t you?” he asks quietly. “I need to try something.”

She nods. Out of her peripheral vision, she watches Severus crush his drained Sopophorous bean with the edge of his blade, releasing an astonishing amount of juice. Muttering under his breath, he hastily crosses out “cut” and replaces it with “crush with silver dagger” in the fifth step. 

She frowns. “Are you sure more juice is what the potion needs?”

“With the small amount that’s currently added, there’s not enough to induce a reaction in all of the Valerian root.”

“I see. I’m guessing it’s too late to remedy that now?”

“Yes,” he responds, glancing up at the clock above Slughorn’s desk. “Five minutes is up.”

May returns her attention to her potion, following the remainder of the steps to a tee. When there are five minutes left of class, Slughorn begins walking around the classroom, leaning over everyone’s cauldrons. Two tables away, he gives a disappointed glance to Lily, whose potion is a deep shade of violet. 

“Forgot to share my annotations,” Severus murmurs. “Must’ve been the stirring that messed her up.”

Slughorn holds his nose as he walks by the table in front of them. “Rosier, my boy, you’ve added far too much sloth brain!” 

Severus and May snort. 

Rosier turns around, glowering. “As if yours are any better.”

“Oh, Mr. Snape and Miss Shen!” Slughorn exclaims excitedly, quickly shuffling towards them. “These are nearly perfect! Gather ‘round class, gather ‘round. If the potion is brewed correctly, it should be a very pale shade of lilac that eventually turns clear. Now, this here is just a tad too dark, but it is very close – very close.”

Slughorn pulls two leaves out of his robe pocket and drops them into their respective cauldrons. Moments after hitting the surface of the potion, the leaves bubble and dissolve. 

“Excellent, excellent! A drop of this would render even the strongest wizard permanently unconscious!” Slughorn announces. “I hope you two aren’t averse to sharing the prize, seeing as your potions are identical.”

Without waiting for their response, Slughorn pushes through the crowd of observers towards his desk. After some fidgeting, he pulls out a small vial, swirling its molten gold contents. 

Her eyes widen in shock. Felix Felicis.

“Class, can anyone tell me what this is?”

“Felix Felicis,” Severus answers. 

Slughorn beams. “Five points to Slytherin. As Mr. Snape said, this is Felix Felicis, otherwise known as liquid luck. Extremely rare, notoriously difficult to brew, and highly toxic if taken in large doses. Banned at competitions and exams. I’ve taken this twice in my life – once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Each resulted in a perfect day.”

With a happy sigh, he places it on their table. “This phial contains a dose large enough to grant you luck for exactly twenty-four hours. Consume it sparingly, as drinking it in excess results in giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence.”

“Thank you, sir,” Severus and May say in unison, still awestruck. 

“Of course, of course!” Slughorn responds with a small clap. “Oh, there’s the bell – everyone is dismissed after you clean up your work stations.”

“You keep it,” May whispers to Severus as Slughorn makes his way back to his desk. 

“It’s okay, you can take it.”

With a glance at Lily’s dark cauldron, May reminds herself that she couldn’t have brewed the draught without Severus. Sure, she’s a good potioneer, but she isn’t excellent. Severus, on the other hand, is an absolute genius. He is the one who corrected decade-old textbook instructions, who suggested the modification they make to Amortentia, who graciously shared his spotlight with her. 

He is her Felix Felicis.

“Please just take it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, carefully slipping the golden phial into the inner pocket of his robes. With a wave of his wand, their work stations are clean. “We have a free period next, right? We should ask Slughorn when we can borrow the room.”

She nods, following him to Slughorn’s desk. 

At the sound of their approaching footsteps, he looks up from the paperwork on his desk. “Ah, you two! I forgot to tell you earlier, but your potions were truly exceptional – never in my forty-five years of teaching have I had a single student brew a potion so perfect, let alone two!” 

“Thank you, Professor,” May says, bowing her head slightly. “We were just wondering if this room is still open Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

“And Saturday mornings,” Severus adds. “We want to use it for experimentation, like two years prior.”

“Oh, yes, I remember! Let me check…”

Slughorn fumbles around in his drawer before pulling out a schedule. “I have a late afternoon class on Tuesdays, so not then…Monday nights work, along with Thursday nights and Saturday mornings.”

May glances at Severus, and he nods. “Would we be able to use it tonight, sir?”

“Today is Thursday, isn’t it?” Slughorn asks, squinting at the expensive-looking calendar on his desk. “Yes…yes, you may! I will leave the room unlocked after dinner.”

“Right, thank you,” she says, biting her lip nervously. “Uhm, we’re using the room for something a bit different today, and…”

“We’re brewing Amortentia,” Severus finishes. When Slughorn’s mouth drops open, Severus quickly recitifies: “We’re modifying Amortentia.”

“We’re trying to brew a version of Amortentia that retains its scent property but not the lovesickness symptom,” May explains. “In the process, we’ll be using the Evaporating Solution to reduce the potion to its side produce, which will release strong Amortentia fumes.”

Slughorn scratches his chin. “An interesting idea…do let me know how it goes. In fact, you can use the Amortentia I’ve already brewed – don’t worry, I’ve ensured it is of the highest quality. As for the fumes…”

Slughorn pushes himself out of his chair with a huff and walks towards the left wall, gesturing for them to follow him. “Here, this is the ventilator. You turn it on by twisting the dial to the right. I suggest keeping it on ‘medium’ during the duration of the evaporation and brewing process, then turning it up to ‘high’ once you leave the room.”

“Can we leave it on overnight?”

“Yes, yes, that would be fine. I don’t have a first period tomorrow morning, so there is plenty of time for the fumes to dissipate.”

Slughorn makes his way to the other side of the class, where the storage room lies. Severus and May follow. 

“I have the antidote for Amortentia somewhere here…” he says, squeezing through the small doorway and into the rows of shelves. “Ah, I’ve found it.”

The portly man exits the room, slightly out of breath, and hands the small vial to Severus. “Drink this immediately if you feel like the fumes are getting to you.”

—

“You’re late,” Severus observes as she walks into the room, breathing heavily. 

She responds with a weak eye-roll, then places the Evaporating solution on their work station. “I left our materials in my dorm. Had to go all the way up to the seventh floor after dinner.”

“Ah. I still have the Felix Felicis, by the way.”

She crosses her arms, contemplating. On one hand, one drop could guarantee that their session tonight is successful. On the other hand, there is a pesky voice in her head, telling her to save it for a more important occasion. 

And what occasion would that be, if we fail to make it out of Britain before the war starts full throttle?

“Should we each take a drop?” she finally asks. 

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Okay.”

She stares at him, hoping he would uncork the phial. He stares back, hand still in his pocket. 

“You first,” she says, breaking the terse silence. 

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Tentatively, he pulls the golden phial out of his pocket and carefully removes the lid. With his head tilted back, he tips the opening over his lips. May watches, entranced, as a small, golden droplet flows out of the phial and floats gracefully into Severus’s mouth. He closes his eyes after the liquid reaches his tongue, as if letting the effects of the potion wash over him. When his eyes meet hers once more, he is smiling. 

He hands her the phial. “Your turn.”

“How does it taste?” she asks, eyeing the golden contents with a mixture of wonder and apprehension.

“Delicious,” he answers. “Just try it.”

So, carefully, she tips the phial over her own mouth. The moment the drop hits her tongue, it spreads a tingling warmth throughout the rest of her body. Her tired limbs are restored with energy, and the dreary potions classroom is illuminated with a dim glow. She knows, with unparalleled certainty, that they would finish their Amortentia modification tonight. 

From then on, their opportunities would be infinite. 

Severus has already set Slughorn’s Amortentia on the table, along with a second silver cauldron. “We need only half this amount.”

She agrees wholeheartedly. With the ladle, he gracefully transfers the Amortentia into the empty cauldron. Without missing a beat, her hand reaches for the Evaporating solution. 

“Is the heat on?”

“Yes, pour it in now.”

After flicking off the lid, she adds a drop into the pearly liquid.

“Now we wait,” Severus says. Just as she places her hand on the back of the chair, he reaches forwards and pulls it out for her, fingers brushing against hers.

She blushes. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“How long d’you reckon our luck will last?” she asks, eyes fixed on the beautiful wisps of steam that spiral into emptiness. 

“Two hours at most, based on the amount remaining.”

“Hm.”

She breathes in deeply, closing her eyes. She can almost tease apart the strands of scent – ink, citrus, fresh pine. Fresh pine is undoubtedly the strongest, but perhaps Severus used more soap sometime between their last class and now. 

“Are you wearing more of that lavender perfume than usual?” he asks, voice piercing through the soft sounds of bubbling Amortentia. 

She meets his eyes, heart galloping. “I didn’t spray it on today. Haven’t had the time to unpack everything.”

He flushes a deep shade of pink but holds her gaze. “What does Amortentia smell like to you?”

“Scrivenshaft’s ink, citrus perfume, and fresh pine soap,” she answers easily. “Did you use the soap today?”

“No.”

“I suppose that means I like you.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “I suppose that means I like you too.”

Suddenly, she is acutely aware of his every detail: ruffled shirt collar and loose tie; soft, fine hair brushing against broad shoulders; sharp jawline and aquiline nose; pale lips, slightly agape; and eyes a shade of brown so dark they appeared black, meeting her own with a burning intensity. She grabs his tie, pulling him towards her until the tips of their noses touch. Somewhere deep in her mind, she knows she should ask if he wants it.

But with the overwhelming scent of fresh pine permeating every corner of the room – with the thin trails of molten gold in their veins – she knows she doesn’t need to.

So – slowly, carefully – she presses her lips against his. Or, perhaps, he presses his lips against hers.

How does he taste? She doesn’t know. Somewhere between Gen’s clandestine stories and the adult books Rhea snuck into the dorms, she learned that people kiss with their tongues, but parting her lips doesn’t feel quite right.

How does he feel? She doesn’t know. Her senses are already flooded with the heady mix of fresh pine and electricity and dizziness. 

The contact is soft and fleeting. 

The first thing she remembers feeling is the chasm of cold air as they pulled away from each other. 

He stands swiftly. “We forgot to turn on the ventilator.”

Had she not been under the influence of liquid luck and love fumes, such a reaction would have sent her storming out the door. As it is, she knows that he is only looking out for their safety, so she glides over to the ventilator and places a hand on his shoulder. Standing on her toes, she watches his long, nimble fingers turn the knob to “medium”. Soon, the room is filled with the buzzing of the castle’s magic.

Once back at their seats, she takes in a gulp of unscented air. “It wasn’t the Amortentia.”

“I know.”

“I like you.”

With Felix Felicis still coursing through her, she already knows his answer to her confession.

“I’d hope you do, seeing as we’ve been friends for so long,” he teases.

Well, maybe not that.

She smacks his arm playfully. “Hey, you know what I mean!”

“I like you, too,” he says, swatting at her hand. “Romantically, though you’re too afraid to admit it.”

“Oh, do shut up.”

A glance into their cauldron reveals that the potion has been reduced to an iridescent glob of viscous liquid, emitting no residual wisps of steam. 

“I think we’ve got the side products,” Severus observes, peering over her shoulder.

“We do,” she agrees. “Do you have the recipe for Amortentia?”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a battered potioning book she doesn’t recognize. “I know the original instructions call for letting the mixture simmer for two weeks after adding rose petals and pearl dust, but I have a feeling this will be ready as soon as all the ingredients are added.”

“Me too. Must be Felix talking.”

“That,” he explains, “and the fact that the catalysed reaction is the one that produces the lovesickness effect. That reaction is extremely slow. The scent, on the other hand, should emerge immediately, since we already have the side-products from the lovesickness reaction.”

“Nerd,” she jokes, standing up to ruffle his hair and pick up the recipe. “I’m going to get the ingredients.”

“I’m coming with,” he says, standing up with a loud scrape of metal chair legs against stone floors. He hovers over her as she plucks the rose oil and powdered asphodel root off the shelves, sending a wave of excited tingles down her spine. 

Her hand hesitates above the pearl dust. “We don’t need this, do we? It’s only involved in the lovesickness reaction.”

“We don’t,” he confirms. 

After collecting their ingredients, they make their way back to their work station. Severus starts by adding water to their cauldron, while May portions out the rose oil. In the following hour, the pair brew in perfect harmony, courtesy of their existing familiarly and the liquid luck.

“We skip step twenty-one,” Severus announces after adding the powdered asphodel root, pointing at the penultimate instruction before the two-week simmering period. “No need to add pearl dust.”

“Got it,” she answers, picking up the glass stirring rod. Carefully, she stirs the pearly mixture three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise. “We skip the step after this too, right?”

He nods, then picks up their container of crushed peppermint. “Would you like to do the honours?”

In response, she wraps her left hand around the cylinder, holding his fingers firmly in place. “Let’s do it together.”

As she continues stirring in the clockwise-counterclockwise pattern with her right hand, the two of them slowly empty the contents of the peppermint container into the potion, watching in rapt attention as the flecks of light green are absorbed by swirls of pearl. After three cycles of stirring, Severus stops the motion with a gentle hand on her wrist. 

“I can smell your lavender.”

Chapter Text

September 4, 1976

Severus

“Well, it certainly smells like Amortentia,” Slughorn observes, leaning over their cauldron. On Saturday morning, they found the Potions Master in his office, bent over a thick stack of summer essays. He was all too excited to “take a look at his best students’ revolutionary work” in the lab, though Severus suspects he only wanted an excuse to take a break from grading.

After another whiff, he picks up May’s hastily written report, skimming through the Abstract and Methods while scratching his chin contemplatively. “Based on the steps you took, it – theoretically – works as intended.”

“What would we do next if we wanted to determine its true functionality, Professor?” May asks. 

“We send a sample of the potion, along with your report, to the Potions Association. They have a set of testing procedures that would formalise your creation, and from there, you would patent it.”

Severus frowns. Anything that involves the Ministry of Magic is infamous for taking a horrifyingly long time. “Approximately how long would the process take, sir?” 

“Not to worry, my boy, not to worry,” Slughorn says with a chuckle. “One of my old students – Damocles Belby, very talented potioneer, you’ll know he’s just invented Wolfsbane, if you’ve been keeping up with Potion’s Today – works as an administrator in the Association. We’re still good friends, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to test it for you. The testing procedure for this potion should be very quick – it’s clearly nontoxic, unlike Wolfsbane – so we should get results within two weeks of submission.”

Damocles Belby? Though he is usually the first to scoff at Slughorn’s little elitist club , he supposes scampering around to make connections has its benefits.

“Thank you so much, Professor!” May exclaims, smiling widely.

Severus nods. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Of course, of course! You two are some of my most brilliant students, after all.” 

“Is there anything we need to do before making a submission, sir?” asks Severus.

“Yes, just small things to add to your report,” Slughorn answers, shuffling towards his desk. “Follow me, I’ll show you a sample and outline some little details you’re missing. I will get in contact with Damocles – he’ll send me the Association-sanctioned vials, and you’ll syphon your potion into those.”

Slughorn unlocks one of the many cabinets on the side of his desk and pulls out a roll of parchment after some fumbling. “Here, this is the final draft of Damocles’s Wolfsbane submission! He actually sent the original copy to me – yes, yes, we really are very close.”

When Slughorn pushes the parchment across his desk, Severus’s eyes immediately travel to the bottom of the page, where D. Belby is signed in a beautiful cursive. 

“It’s amazing, Professor,” May murmurs reverently. 

Slughorn puffs his chest out, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a proud bird. “He is quite a remarkable man, isn’t he?”

“It’s incredibly detailed,” Severus observes, brows scrunched as he tries to make sense of the elaborately-worded abstract.

“It is,” Slughorn agrees. “But do not worry yourselves – you need not write something nearly so complex. Your abstract and methods look fine, but I would suggest you add a short ‘discussion’ section. How did you come about the idea of using the side products as an ingredient – very clever, by the way – to eliminate the lovesickness symptom? Did you do any reading about Amortentia that led you to this conclusion? You should cite those sources in a ‘references’ section at the end.”

“We understand, sir,” he says, relieved that the heavy stack of Potion’s Today magazines in his luggage would be of use. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my boy,” Slughorn replies. Carefully – as if the thick parchment were a delicate artefact – the man rolls it into a neat cylinder and places it back in its cabinet. “Now, the earlier you finish this, the better. I expect Damocles will get the vials to me by this time next week, if not earlier.”

—

They exchanged a few more pleasantries with Slughorn – thanks to May, for he detests small talk – and politely declined to stay for tea – thanks to him, for May wanted to save face. On the long climb to the seventh floor, May admonishes him for his rudeness, citing that Slughorn clearly wanted company. 

“Perhaps company is not what he needs,” Severus argues. “He seems to have a lot of essays to grade.”

“We should’ve humoured him either way. Two weeks after submission – two weeks, Severus! Cindy’s mother had a couple dealings with the Potion’s Association, and they took half a year to fulfil the simplest requests.”

“I am thankful. I just don’t think he would’ve been thankful if I had to stay in that room for another hour,” Severus says. “I can’t play nice for that long.”

Her mouth twitches into a brief smile. “You know what we should do? We should offer to help him grade essays.”

He winces at the idea. “I think I’d rather jump off the Astronomy Tower than read some drivel written by eleven-year-old dunderheads.”

She rolls her eyes. “Always so dramatic. I’m only saying this because we might need a teacher’s recommendation for American universities.”

“Couldn’t you just ask Flitwick?”

“What about you?”

He groans. “So I’m going to be the only one grading essays?”

“Just a suggestion.”

Luckily, May drops the topic of Slughorn once they reach the portrait of Barnabas and his trolls. “You have your luggage with you, right?”

He nods. As per her instructions, he packed his luggage before going down to Slughorn’s office this morning. Apparently, the wooden floor of their study room is not an appropriate place to sleep, even though May brought extra blankets from her dorm. However, between classes, homework, Prefect duty, and brewing, they have not yet found the time to create a proper bedroom for him. 

“Make sure to ask for a room that the other Slytherins can’t enter,” May says. After playing around with their magical study room post-OWLs, they discovered that the Room has the ability to ward people out. They put it to immediate use, of course, restricting access for Potter and Black just in case.

Now, standing in front of the Room, he pictures a space similar to his Slytherin dorm: one green bed, one leather armchair, one small bathroom, one wooden desk with a chair. A window with a view of the lake. Restricted to anyone who has harmful intentions towards me or May.  

After walking in front of the portrait three times, a door appears. Reaching forward, he checks that the corridor is clear before opening it a sliver. He gestures for May to enter first before sliding in himself. 

“Is this what your dorm looks like?”

Rather than a bed with an emerald green canopy and white covers, the Room generated a canopy-less bed with dark green blankets. Further examination reveals that the bed frame – thankfully – contains storage cabinets, even though he had also forgotten to ask for those. 

“Something like it,” he responds. “I don’t think I was specific enough.”

“Well, the view is beautiful,” she says, staring at a school of multi-coloured fish on the other side of the window. 

“Better than the one in my dorm, actually.”

May walks towards the leather armchair on the far side of the room and plops down. “Not very comfortable, though.”

He shrugs. “I doubt I’ll be in here very often.”

He pushes open a narrow door across from the bed, revealing what is indeed a very small bathroom. 

“How is it?” May asks from her spot on the armchair.

“There’s a toilet, a sink, and a mirror.”

“No shower?”

“I can just use the one in the Prefect’s bathroom.”

“If you say so.”

He closes the bathroom door and drops his robe onto the nearby chair, then pulls his shrunken luggage out of the inner pocket. May joins him at the foot of the bed, where he enlarges his belongings to their true size.

“Need help unpacking?”

“Maybe later.”

What he does need is a long shower. Over the past two days, he made do with teeth-cleaning charms and light Scourgify s, but his hair has returned to the greasy state that served as the butt of many of Potter’s jokes. Contrary to popular belief, he does shower – unfortunately, hours in the Potions lab and cheap soap do no good for his oil-prone hair. He unzips his luggage and flips it open, a motion that spills several Potion’s Today magazines onto the floor.

At May’s judgmental side-eye, he tries to justify the mess. “I only had ten minutes this morning to shove everything in here.”

“What are you looking for?” she asks, ignoring his excuse.

“Soap. I’m going to take a shower.”

“There’s soap in the Prefect’s bathroom, y’know.”

He doesn’t know, as he’s never showered there – why climb to the fifth floor when there was a perfectly functional shower three metres from his bed? There’s also the matter of the fresh pine soap itself: according to their Amortentia perfume, it’s May’s favourite scent, and he wants to smell like something she likes. However, telling her as much is too embarrassing a prospect, so he tells her to turn around while he rummages for a set of clean clothes.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” he says, looking up to see her shift impatiently from foot to foot.

“You haven’t been to the Prefect’s bathroom, have you?”

“No, but I know the password.”

Her next question comes as a surprise. “Do you know how to swim?”

Before his father became a drunkard – before the factory closed down and dumped all its waste into nearby waterways – he would take Severus down to the river every Saturday. There, Severus learned his first lesson: sink or swim. Sometimes, during the sweltering summer days in his tiny house, he found himself missing the splashes of cool water and his father’s affectionate touch. 

“I do. Why?”

“There’s this gigantic bathtub in there,” she explains. “It’s more like a pool, actually.”

He stands up, clothes gathered in his arms. “You want to swim?”

“Yeah, if you’re down.”

Blushing, he looks down at his current clothing. The white shirt would no doubt become see-through in the water, and he doesn’t have suitable pants, either. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Transfiguration exists.”

Right. 

“Sure, let’s go.”

—

Upon arriving at the bathroom, he opted to take a quick shower before hopping in the bathtub – pool, whatever it is – so that he could give his hair a proper wash. Now, he stands in Stall No. 1, frowning at his reflection in the foggy mirror. Running from his left shoulder blade to the middle of his spine is a thin, jagged scar from his father’s belt. And while his figure has gained some muscle from his summer job, he could still see the faint outline of his ribcage.

Plus, he doesn’t want to make May uncomfortable by walking in half-naked. 

He thinks back to his trip to the beach with the Evans’s family. At ten, he was just old enough to be self-conscious about his bony frame and bruised body. So, he went into the ocean, wearing an old pair of shorts and a too-large t-shirt. He remembers walking through the small shop on the way back: shivering, wishing he could afford the swim trunks and swim shirt advertised by the tan men on the posters.

Taking two towels off the top of the stack, he transfigures one into a pair of trunks and the other into a shirt. They look rather dull, and the material of the shirt feels a little too cloth-like to be fully waterproof, but they fit. 

With a resigned sigh, he steps out of the stall. May is standing in front of a large mirror, wearing nothing but her white collared shirt. At the sound of his footsteps, she turns around. 

“Do…is that what you’re wearing?” he asks, voice cracking awkwardly. Out of his peripheral vision, he can see the embarrassingly-red face of his reflection.

“I have a bikini under this.”

“O-oh, sorry.”

He follows her to the edge of the pool – he decides that the gargantuan, rectangular thing is most definitely not a tub – and watches, mesmerised as she turns an elaborately-carved tap. The pool is filled with clear water at an alarmingly quick rate, reflecting golden rays of light back to the grand chandelier above.

“It’s warm,” she announces, hand dipped in the water. Then, she climbs over the edge, submerging herself to her shoulders. “Are you coming or what?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Slowly, so as to not slip on the wet floor, he lowers himself into the pool. Surprisingly, he can’t feel the bottom with his feet, even while sitting on the very edge of the basin. 

Suddenly, she grabs his leg. 

Then, she is pulling him forward, and he is in the water, and he is pulling her down with him—

Moments later, he resurfaces, gasping for air. She comes up next to him, hand on his wrist, trying to pry off his death grip.

“I can’t believe you pulled me down!”

He laughs, watching as her expression of mock offence fades into a grin. “You started it.”

“Yeah, whatever. I only did that ‘cause you were too slow.”

“Mhm,” he says, already dragging her towards the taps. “What do all of these do?”

“No idea. Try them.”

The closest sapphire-studded tap releases dark blue water, while the white marble one next to it fills the tub with pink bubbles. May scoops a bundle of foam in her hands and blows it at him, hitting his cheek. Just as he throws a ball of pink at her head, she ducks and starts swimming to the other side of the pool. His sad attempt ends up splattered on the stained-glass window, covering the mermaid’s face in glowing bubbles.

With a vengeful smirk, he lunges across the pool and seizes her, submerging them once more. She is the first to pop up, earning him another splash of foam. Breathing heavily, he adjusts his position so that his back is against the edge, arms wrapped loosely around her waist. 

May tilts her head upwards, placing her hands over his shoulders. He lets his eyes rove over her figure: her hair, dripping water, reflecting the soft, golden glow of the candles above; her shirt, now thoroughly soaked and translucent, betraying the outline of a strappy black top; and her lips, pale pink and soft. 

Carefully, he places his hand under her chin, brushing the foam away. They haven’t kissed – haven’t said anything about their confession – since that night in the classroom: May had an orchestra meeting, he had lunch with Lily, and afternoon Transfiguration certainly did not seem like a good time to talk about their feelings.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the drip-drip-drip of the sapphire tap and the thunderous pounding of his heart.

May is the first to break the silence. 

“We’re dating now, aren’t we?”

“I suppose we are.”

“Can I kiss you?”

In response, he captures her lips in his.

May

Somehow – the one time she enters her dorm with dripping wet hair in the middle of the afternoon – all her dormmates are present. 

“Welcome back,” Gen greets, eyebrows raised. “Where have you been?”

“Prefect’s bathroom.”

“You washed your hair last night.”

“And?”

“You’re blushing.”

“And?”

Rhea leans forward, placing her elbows on her knees and chin in her hands. “C’mon, you can tell us what went down.”

Severus would definitely not appreciate being discussed by the sixth-year Ravenclaw girls, but it’s not as if she can evade her dormmates questions all day. Not to mention, the girls already think there’s something going on between them; it’s not a secret that she spends most of her time with him. 

“I was with a friend.”

Okay, horrible choice of words.

“I love a good bath with my dearest friends, too,” says Gen, sporting a knowing look.

She drops onto the floor by the foot of her bed, glaring half-heartedly. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Do enlighten us, then,” Abby pipes up.

“Nothing happened.”

Gen smirks. “You could’ve asked to borrow my new bikini, y’know. Actually, that might’ve been counterproductive – more to take off.”

“Ugh, gross!” May exclaims with an eye roll. Gen’s new bikini was rather…revealing, and she had worn her school shirt in the tub for a reason. “We just kissed – fully clothed, by the way.”

Gen bursts into laughter, followed by Rhea and Abby. “We were just teasing.”

“Yeah, we know you’re not the type to do that,” Rhea adds. “I’m surprised you guys kissed, honestly.”

“It’s about time, though,” Gen says. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other.”

The way we look at each other?

“Please, you guys hardly see me with him.”

“We’re in the same classes, May,” Abby reminds her. 

Gen scratches her chin, as if trying to remember an exact incident. “Cindy was the first to notice, actually. She was always looking at you two with her brows all furrowed during our fourth year, but it was damn obvious to the rest of us by fifth year.”

May frowns. Cindy hadn’t said anything about it, but then again, it wasn’t something Cindy would bring up. 

No, Cindy wouldn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

But did she not feel betrayed, to an extent? Here was May, her best friend, allegedly making heart eyes at a boy who has always been hostile to her.

Reflexively – as if Cindy were here to give her an answer – May glances to her left. In place of what used to be the middle bed, there are two suitcases and a messy pile of Gen’s clothes; she supposes the House Elves knew the girl wouldn’t be coming back, so they tried to remove all traces of her existence from the room. 

Yet, on the first day back, May nearly cried at the sight of Cindy’s citrus perfume on her nightstand: a parting gift, though she doubts she will ever use it. Last night, she was awoken by the sound of Gen turning in her sleep; bleary-eyed, she momentarily mistook it for Cindy waking up to use the bathroom. Right now, she notices the dark shadow of window rail on the floor, painfully reminiscent of a column of the four-poster bed that used to cover the empty space. 

When was the last time she checked her two-way book? It was the weekend after she came back from Nice, wasn’t it? 

That would make it a week from today.

With a grunt, she pushes herself off the rug and walks towards her luggage, where her two-way book sits under a layer of winter clothes.

“What are you looking for?” asks Abby as May lifts a heavy cloak. 

“Two-way book.”

“Need help?”

“I’m okay.”

“M’kay,” Abby says, turning back to Rhea. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Did none of you see the Apparition lesson advertisements in the Great Hall?” Rhea answers. 

May turns away from her luggage, the mention of Apparition capturing her attention. “I thought that was a second semester thing.”

Rhea shakes her head. “They’re making it earlier this year.”

How disorienting. 

Elbow-deep in her luggage, she feels her palm hit the leather-bound cover of her two-way book. With an odd hollowness in her chest, she pulls out her only connection to her longest friend. Eight years ago – back when they first met – eleven seemed grown-up, and seventeen was an eternity away. Yet, there had been an implicit understanding that they would pass their first steps into adulthood with each other, roaming the corridors of Hogwarts. 

As it turns out, Cindy would not be there for her seventeenth birthday.

—

December 25, 1976

About two months before the holidays, they received their stamp of approval from the Potions Association. A month after that, the patenting process was completed with a couple signatures from them and a decent amount of “meeting up with my old favourites” from Slughorn. 

In early December, May wrote to her parents about the news. May’s father promised to get in touch with one of his colleagues, who knew someone who knew something about the application process to higher education in America. In a separate letter, May’s mother urged her to invite Severus over for the Christmas holidays. For what reason she couldn’t fathom, other than the fact that her father would be opposed to the idea of May bringing home “some boy”.

Her parents’ cold war, it seemed, was still ongoing.

She could’ve easily told them that Severus’s parents wouldn’t let him. Had she done so, her mother might still be living at home rather than at Mrs. Lu’s restaurant. Alas, she was tired of trying to salvage the remnants of her parents’ long-broken marriage, so she brought Severus home because she wanted to.

Although her father was clearly disgruntled about the whole ordeal, he had the decency to act half-polite to their guest. She suspects the only reason Baba didn’t kick her boyfriend out of the house was because he knew of Severus’s contributions to their Amortentia project.

That, and he didn’t know Severus was her boyfriend.

“Did I do something to upset him?” Severus whispered to her over Christmas Eve dinner when her father excused himself to use the restroom.

“No. He’s just like this sometimes.”

On Christmas day, he drops them off in front of Mrs. Lu’s restaurant with a gruff reminder to stay safe.

After Baba disapparates, Severus pulls her away from the foggy window on the small door. “Am I supposed to say anything to her about…?” 

Mrs. Lu’s son, Jia-he, had passed away mid-September during a Death Eater attack somewhere in the Midlands. Faced with the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange and few of her cronies, the Auror squad suffered two deaths and a number of heavy injuries. 

May remembers being tapped on the shoulder during breakfast and looking up to see Abby, who was frantically gesturing to the BREAKING NEWS! headline on The Daily Prophet. Mildly horrified, she quickly skimmed over the article, stopping only when a name caught her attention:

Auror Jim Lu, 24, passed away at St. Mungos after sustaining heavy curse injuries…

She has a faint memory of sitting in the Lu’s restaurant, crying from homesickness. Jia-he made her a warm bowl of noodle soup while the adults were in the other room, discussing boring adult things. Later that day, she told Mama that Jia-he was a great chef, and Mama lectured her for bothering the poor boy. 

Apparently, they had been discussing Mr. Lu’s funeral arrangements. He had recently died of dragon pox.

Back then, Jia-he spoke to her in Mandarin, so that was how she always referred to him: Jia-he ge-ge. At some point, she learned that his English name was Jim. By the time she started going to Hogwarts, the Jia-he of her blurry childhood had long ceased to exist. 

Now, Jim Lu is gone, too.

She hasn’t cried about it. She is sad that someone has been lost, and she is sad for Mrs. Lu, but she isn’t sad in the way that people are sad when they lose an essential part of themselves. 

She is a distant, nostalgic sort of sad. 

“No,” May replies, parroting Mama’ s instructions. “Just act normal. Don’t bring it up unless she does.”

“Okay.”

With a mockingly cheerful jingle, the door to the restaurant swings open. Lu a-yi peaks her head out. “I thought I saw you two here. Why are you standing out in the cold?”

“Hi, Auntie,” May greets, forcing a weak smile. Mrs. Lu’s once-grey hair had turned a brittle white, and the creases on her forehead had deepened. “We just got here.”

After being ushered in, May is hit with the familiar smell of steamed buns and spices. Behind the counter, she spots Mama , who gives them a small wave.

Mrs. Lu immediately moves towards the curtain divider between the dining area and the kitchen. “Have you two had breakfast yet?” 

“Yes, we have,” May says. “Please don’t worry about us.”

“Really, we’re quite full,” Severus insists. Reluctantly, Mrs. Lu pulls out a stool and sits down, then exchanges a few pleasantries with Mama and Severus. Meanwhile, May stares pointedly into the distance, ignoring her mother’s raised eyebrow. 

In a private letter, Mama asked if Severus was her boyfriend. She denied it, of course – Merlin knew her mother would probably spill that secret in an argument with her father, citing something along the lines of “You didn’t know that, did you? Your daughter likes me better” – but Mama has an incredible intuition.

“Tell me, what have you two been up to at Hogwarts?” Mrs. Lu asks, forcing May to shift her gaze away from the plaid-patterned curtain.

“Schoolwork, mostly,” she answers. “The Professors weren’t kidding when they said NEWT-level classes are a big jump from the previous years. We started apparition lessons, too. Oh, and Severus here is Professor Slughorn’s teacher’s assistant.”

Severus blushes. “Not really, I just help him grade essays on occasion…”

Mrs. Lu chuckles. “You’re too humble! May, your mum told me that you made a modification on Amortentia and got it approved by the Potion’s Association.”

“It really—”

May is stopped mid-sentence by a loud scream. Before she can even react, Mrs. Lu is by the door, casting a window-blackening charm and some other wards she doesn’t recognize. 

“There’s a secret passageway if you go through the kitchen,” Mrs. Lu says. “ Ling Yu , you know where it is. Get yourselves out of here.”

Mama has already drawn her wand and is wearing an expression of muted determination that May has never seen. 

“Don’t tell me you intend to stay here by yourself,” her mother hisses in Mandarin. 

“We don’t have time to argue. Take your daughter and the boy and go—”

Boom. 

In a flash of blinding light, the glass of the window shatters, raining sharp fragments over the floor. Wincing, May feels something pierce through her skin. 

“We don’t have much time,” Mrs. Lu yells. “My wards won’t last long with so many people attacking at once!”

“May, take him and get out of here!” Mama screams. “The passageway down the back stairs and leads straight to the Huang’s old Potions’ store in Hogsmeade, now go behind the curtains – go, why are you still standing like an idiot?”

She feels Severus’s hand wrapped around her wrist, but she lunges for her mother. She isn’t going to leave her here, not when—

“I told you to go !” 

Through a haze of panic, May feels the sharp pain of a stinging hex on the back of her hand. From Mama’s wand.

“Listen to your daughter, Ling Yu , I’m begging you!”

May’s mother shouts something unintelligible. In the distance, May can hear sobs that sound strangely identical to her own.

Mama, please. 

Please, Mama, please.

Mama, please come, or we’ll all die.

Mama, I don’t know where the passageway is – she does, but this would convince her mother, wouldn’t it? – Mama, please.

With a final crackle, the wards falter. Suddenly, Mama is pushing her towards the curtain, and Severus is dragging her, and Lu a-yi is shouting for them to go – go, I will see my son soon, go!

Behind her, there are sounds of shouting and flashes of vibrant light. She hears “Jim Lu” and “Muggle-loving immigrant” somewhere in the chaos, followed by a blood-curdling scream. Mama spins around as if she’s about to run back to Mrs. Lu, but May catches her wrist and drags her into the narrow stairwell. Meanwhile, Severus urges them forward, pressed protectively against her back. 

Suddenly, for what is almost a moment of relief, all is silent. 

Then, there is yelling in the distance. “She’s hiding someone…behind the curtains!” 

“Quickly!” Severus hisses, voice uncomfortably hot against her neck. Soon, they’re running on flat ground, footsteps echoing loudly in the corridors. 

“Can’t we Apparate?” she whispers in between choppy breaths, chest constricting as the sound of people descending stairs gets louder and louder.

“Anti-Apparition wards,” Mama replies. 

Crack.

Severus pushes her to the side, and her elbow hits the concrete wall. 

A horrible, twisted scream. 

She watches – mouth comically agape, mind completely empty – as his body contorts mere centimetres away.

Clink.

Something shiny rolls onto the ground, glinting a brilliant gold in the dim light of the tunnel. Lurched violently into reality, she leaps towards the glowing beacon, narrowly avoiding a red beam fired straight at her chest. 

She wraps her hands around the cool glass.

Uncorks the vial.

Brings it to her lips.

Just as she feels the first drop touch her tongue, an oddly familiar voice shouts: “She has Felix Felicis!”

Dodge to the left.

The moment she throws herself against the left wall, another spell sizzles by her nose, passing through the point at which her hand resided only a fraction of a second ago. 

She casts a nonverbal Expelliarmus , aiming for the origin of the red beam of Crucio .

Severus’s screams cease, replaced with the soft sound of dry heaving. 

To her right, Mama casts a Chinese spell, hitting the larger Death Eater’s hood. It immediately catches on fire, and the Death Eater pries it off, screaming in horror as the blue flames continue to spread through their platinum-blond hair.

“They’re not worth it!” the other one shouts. Without another moment of hesitation, May pulls Severus into a standing position, biting down a cry of pain as she slings his arm around what must be a dislocated shoulder. 

Thankfully, the weight against her is soon lifted. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees that Mama is levitating his limp body. 

“Run!” Mama commands, grabbing May’s wrist. 

Behind her, Familiar-Voice is shouting something about not being able to win the fight, “ not when those blood traitors got their dirty hands on Felix Felicis!”. Then, there is a pop of Disapparation, and the tunnel is quiet once more, save for the sounds of their echoing footsteps, her wheezing, and Severus’s nauseating coughs.

Suddenly, she senses a difference in the surrounding magic.

“We can Apparate!” May shouts. Truth be told, she can hardly Apparate between colourful hoops in the Great Hall - let alone from underground London to her house - but a backwards glance tells her that her mother is in no condition to Side-Along two others. Left with no other choice, she spins on the spot— 

—snow-covered front porch, freshly-painted red door, phoenix-patterned curtains behind clear window panes—

—and desperately prays to whoever is listening. 

She feels a pull on her navel, then a suffocating squeeze, then burning cold snow beneath her hands, scraped raw by the concrete of the tunnel. Next to her, Mama appears with Severus clinging to her side, droplets of blood from his mouth staining the white powder a bright crimson.

On the ground in front of her, the small phial of molten gold lies horizontally, miraculously intact. While reaching for it, she spots a pair of black boots quickly approaching. 

“May!” shouts the owner of the shoes. “Ling Yu!”

She is enclosed in a pair of strong arms, breathing in the scent of Baba’ s woody cologne. He is asking them what happened, Mama is explaining, he is telling them to get out of the cold, Mama is saying that they need to get Severus to St. Mungos, Baba is objecting – “you can’t venture into London again, too dangerous…”

Then, there is the sensation of being lifted. There is the hazy knowledge of knowing it is safe to relax her tensed muscles.

And, all at once, the stabbing pain of embedded glass shards and bloody scrapes against concrete comes rushing back.

Chapter Text

December 25, 1976

Severus

“Drink.”

His pounding headache had subsided after a few moments of lying on the Shen’s sofa. Vial in hand, he catches a waft of its contents: dittany, combined with an unfamiliar, sweet-ish herb. 

A healing potion? 

Yet, it isn’t a scent he recognizes. 

Sitting across from him on a wooden chair is May’s father, brows furrowed in an expression of worry identical to his daughter’s. A brief look around the room reveals that May is absent.

“Where is May?” he asks. He’s sure she’s in the house – he was conscious throughout the second half of their journey through the tunnel, even though his legs felt much too weak to support his weight. 

“In the bathroom,” Mr. Shen answers. “She scraped quite a bit of skin off her hands, so she must clean the wounds before they can be healed.”

“Is she…?”

“She will be fine. Drink.”

“What is it?”

“A Chinese restorative draught. My wife tells me you were hit with the Cruciatus curse.”

“I was.”

“This will heal your nerves and ensure there are no…what do you call them? Phantom pains?”

“I see,” he says, swallowing the solution in one gulp. It has a slightly sweet aftertaste that is rather pleasant. “Thank you, Mr. Shen.”

“No problem,” Mr. Shen replies. “Now, I need you to hold still. I will cast a diagnostic charm.”

He feels a flash of cold, then multiple parts of his body glow orange. Mr. Shen breathes a sigh of relief. “May told me you hit your head, but there appears to be no lasting damage.”

Well, that would explain it. 

While the excruciating pain of the Cruciatus felt infinite in the moment, he doubts he was under it for over two minutes. He likes to think he has a comparatively high pain tolerance, so a dose of that size shouldn’t have fully immobilised him for thirty minutes. 

“You have minor injuries elsewhere, but they are not magical wounds,” Mr. Shen observes, aiming his wand at Severus’s chest. Severus reflexively flinches backwards before reminding himself that the man is clearly here to heal him.

“I can heal them myself,” he says. 

I’m not weak.

“Now is not the time to exert your magical core.”

“Really, sir, I feel much better—”

With a sharp flick of Mr. Shen’s wand, his body is briefly enveloped in warmth. Immediately after, he notes that the various sharp pains and aches have disappeared.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, gaze now fixed on his feet.

How embarrassing.

“What was the spell you used, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A Chinese healing charm,” the man responds. “It is nonverbal but can only be used to heal small, non-magical injuries, such as cuts and scrapes. Simply flick your wand downwards and envision the wounds closing.”

“I see.”

Mr. Shen stands. “I will get you some water.”

Then, noticing Severus’s open mouth: “Do not object.”

Just as Mr. Shen leaves the room, May enters, looking haggard but uninjured. With a grunt, he pushes himself up and staggers towards her. She rushes forwards and grabs his wrist, leading him back to the sofa.

“Fuck. I should be fully healed by now.”

May intertwines her fingers with his. “It’s normal to be exhausted after an exposure of that length.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, eager to change the topic. 

“I’m all healed,” she answers. Then, reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a small, golden vial. “Look what I got.”

His eyes widen – he had forgotten that it was in the pocket of his cloak. “How?”

“It rolled out when…you know,” she says, swallowing uncomfortably at the reminder of their Death Eater encounter. “I grabbed it and took a sip.”

“Good thinking.”

“Thanks.”

Suddenly uncomfortably hot, he shrugs his cloak off, along with his inner robe. 

“And thanks for shoving me out of the way,” May murmurs, squeezing his hand. 

“Of course,” he replies. Had it been her writhing on the ground, he doesn’t think he would’ve kept enough of his wits to drink the Felix Felicis, let alone Apparate himself out of that claustrophobic tunnel. “Did I break your arm?”

“It was easily fixed.”

He winces. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“What about your mother? Is she alright?”

“Yeah, she’s showering upstairs.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and May quickly moves her hand back into her lap. Mr. Shen walks into the living room, holding two steaming mugs that fill the room with a floral aroma. 

He hands one to Severus and the other to May. “Drink.”

Well, it definitely isn’t water. 

“Herbal tea,” Mr. Shen says, as if reading his mind. “It isn’t magical, but it’s very good for you.”

Slowly, so as to not burn his tongue, he takes a sip. It has a mild, slightly bitter flavour. 

“Dad, have you gotten in contact with your colleague?” May asks, reaching forward to place her tea on the coffee table behind her father.

Colleague? He vaguely recalls May mentioning that her father would be able to find more information about America’s higher education system through a colleague. 

“I have,” Mr. Shen replies. “Severus, I presume you are planning to apply to an American university with my daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I have some news with regards to that,” Mr. Shen begins, clasping his hands in his lap. “A friend of mine gave me a list of institutes that accept students who have only taken their OWLs – as a matter of fact, most of them do because NEWTs are considered advanced curriculum. Now, these institutes have a heavy preference for domestic students, as there are many young wizards and witches vying for an American student visa. However, the fact that you two have modified Amortentia and patented your derivative creation makes both of you very competitive candidates.

“I will later give you the list of institutes along with their mailing addresses. Start by sending each of them a short letter that states you are interested in applying. In the same envelope, include a copy of your OWL grades and the report you sent to the Potion’s Association – the one that has received the stamp of approval. From what I understand, most schools do not have a formalised application process for international students, so simply wait for a reply.

“They might request supplemental materials, such as a letter of recommendation from your teachers – you will send whatever it is that they requested. Then, you will receive either an acceptance, waitlist notification, or rejection letter. I was told that this process can take up to four months, so you both must begin immediately if you wish to attend during next school year.”

Four months. Four months, and he would seal his fate. 

“We won’t be graduating from Hogwarts, will we?” asks May, her question mirroring his thoughts.

Mr. Shen sighs. “All of us know that staying here another year is much too dangerous. Today’s events should be evidence enough.”

—

February 14, 1977

After a long Monday, Severus and May decide to spend the evening in his makeshift dorm. She sits on the edge of bed, holding a letter from the New Orleans Institute of Magic . He leans over her shoulder, reading the typewriter printing that covers the creamy parchment. 

“They only request one letter of recommendation for the pair of us,” he observes, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “What did we grade all those essays for?”

“Because we’re obviously going to ask Slughorn,” she responds with a roll of her eyes. “Plus, the kids who got a Troll from you are the true victims of those grading sessions.”

“The Trolls were well deserved,” he says, unsympathetic. “What about the other letter?”

As she carefully peels open the seal to the second letter, he notices her shaking fingers. It’s been a little over a month since they sent their impromptu resumés, and all five of the schools had finally responded: Maryland School of Magic, stating that they had recently changed their policies and were not accepting students from Great Britain; Sonoma College of Sorcery, informing them that they were at maximum capacity for the 1977-78 school year but would accept them for the 1978-79 one; Salem Institute of Witchcraft and Wizardry ; urging them to reapply next year, for they missed the application window this year; New Orleans Institute of Magic, requesting supplemental materials, to May’s immense relief; and now, Cornell University: Magical Division.

Out of all of them, he knows Cornell is her top pick; not only is it one of the most prestigious magical institutions in the country, but it also blends magical education with compulsory Muggle courses, reminiscent of her early education in China. 

Sensing her hesitation, Severus plucks the letter out of her hands. “I’ll never understand why you’re so scared to look at the results. It’s not like you can change anything at this point.”

“Can you blame me for wanting to live in delusion for a little longer?”

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t think there’s a high chance that Cornell would admit them, considering their recent track record of rejections. Prepared for mild disappointment, he begins reading: 

Dear May Shen and Severus Snape, 

Thank you for your interest in Cornell University: Magical Division. After reviewing your application, we were very impressed by your test scores and extracurricular accomplishments. In order to make a final admission’s decision, we require one letter of recommendation per applicant. We advise you to choose a Professor who can speak to both your character and your overall magical abilities. 

Please ensure that the required materials are mailed to Cornell University by March 15, 1977. 

Sincerely, 

Office of Admissions

Cornell University: Magic Division

For once, he’s glad to be wrong. He turns to May with an upward quirk of his lips. “They’re asking for supplemental materials, so it’s not a delusion.”

“Pass me that,” she says, snatching the parchment out of his hands. He watches her expression change as her eyes travel down the letter: first, apprehension; then, nervous excitement; then, a broad, uninhibited smile. She drops the letter on the bed and – without warning – leaps towards him, hugging him tightly around the shoulders. He wraps his arms around her waist, smiling softly. 

“We’re practically guaranteed, aren’t we?” he murmurs. Cornell had outright stated that they were impressed with the application, and there was no doubt Slughorn and Flitwick would write excellent letters of recommendation.

“Yes.”

We already have a foot out the door. 

“Maybe we should celebrate,” he says, brushing his lips against her cheek. 

“It is Valentine's day.”

He snorts. His parents paid no mind to the ridiculous holiday, but unfortunately, his time in Hogwarts has made him acquainted with the nauseating pink hearts and shallow confessions. Looking down at his girlfriend – girlfriend, he finds it hard to believe she is girlfriend at times, even as he holds her in his arms – he decides that he will relent to lovers’ propaganda by eating the Valentine’s day special prepared by the House Elves. 

“What do you want to do?” 

“How about we sneak something from the kitchens and bring it up here to eat?”

As expected . “Let’s go.”

With much effort on his part – she complains about moving, despite being the one who wants to go to the kitchens – the two of them disentangle themselves and make their way down to the basement. 

“Do you know where the kitchens are?” she asks once they’re underground. 

He remembers being a hungry first-year, wandering alone in the basement after a particularly bad day of being chased by Potter and Black. While passing by a delicious painting of a fruit bowl, he reached forward and tried to grab the pear, wishing that it would appear in his hand by some magical miracle. Since then, he’s known the secret passage into the kitchens. 

Before he can answer her question, they come to a stop in front of the familiar fruit bowl. After a furtive look around the corridor, he tickles the pear. Behind him, May gasps as the door swings open. 

He grins at her before stepping in. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“There are so many House Elves,” she whispers, eyeing the creatures nervously. When a group of them approaches, she presses herself against his side, clutching his arm.

The tallest one, presumably the leader of the group, bows. “Slinky at your service, Miss and Mister. What is it that Miss and Mister wish for?”

He looks at her, and she shrugs. 

“The Valentine's day special,” he answers. “But we will not dine here.”

The elf bows once more before scurrying back to the kitchens with its companions. Less than two minutes later, it is back, carrying a large box. 

“For you, Mister and Miss,” it says, lowering its head reverently. “Slinky is very sorry for being so slow, very sorry. Slinky hopes Mister and Miss enjoy the meal very much.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies, inwardly cringing. Unlike his pureblood ex-dormmates, House Elf behaviour has always made him rather uncomfortable. With one arm wrapped around the box and the other attached to May’s hand, he drags them out of the room. 

“Didn’t you know House Elves worked in the kitchens?” he asks her as they step through the portrait hole. 

Her grip on his arm relaxes. “I did. I was just…surprised. They live in such poor conditions.”

He snorts. “They would be rather insulted by that observation.”

“I know. It’s just unnerving to see.”

On their way back up to the seventh floor, they run into Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew. Save from a poorly-masked sneer from Black, the boys pay them no mind. 

“It’s like everything has gone back to normal,” May murmurs as they pass.

“Mhm,” he agrees. In all his six years of Hogwarts, he can’t quite pin down a “normal”, but he supposes his four enemies reunited is a good marker. 

After reaching the Room, he sets the box in the centre of his bed, then pulls out two heart-shaped platters of lasagna, two rose-coloured glasses of cranberry juice, and a small, heart-shaped red velvet cake topped with raspberries. 

“Tacky,” May remarks with a giggle. “But it’s cute in its own way, don’t you think?”

He isn’t sure about cute. But – sitting cross-legged on his bed, across from May’s glowing smile, laughing about Slughorn’s latest failure of a Slug Club reunion and McGonagall’s publicised row with the new Defense teacher – he basks in the warmth of his new normal. 

April 8, 1977

May

The stage lights are blinding. 

She knows Severus, Gen, Lily, Rhea, and Abby promised to show up to the Spring performance, but all she can see is a dark mass of heads in the audience. 

Then, Flitwick lifts his baton, and the first piece commences. Today’s selection is rather short – only two pieces, with the second one being just under four minutes. As per Hogwarts tradition, they would end the Spring concert with something comical, presumably to boost students’ moods for the upcoming finals season. This year is no different: Flitwick selected a recently composed piece, Bernstein’s Slava! , to be their finale. 

“ Slava” , Flitwick told them, is Russian for “glory”. Despite their under-tempo and disjointed first run-through, she could hear “glory” echoed ironically in the obnoxiously high-pitched sextuplet runs and meticulous off-beat rhythms. 

Glory for wizardkind! Eliminate the Mudbloods – no, of course they are not real wizards even though they perform magic!

Glory for wizardkind! Enslave the Muggles – no, of course they are not human, how could they be when they are too stupid to perform magic? Magic is the genetic trait that determines your humanity, everyone knows that!

Glory for wizardkind! Follow the dictator to cleanse the country!

Glory for wizardkind!

Glory, glory, glory!

After their first Spring concert rehearsal, Flitwick announced the piece’s full name: Slava! A Political Commentary . 

She already knew that, of course. 

Then, he played a “recording” of the piece through their magical gramophone, one that included political commentary between iterations of the melody. To much of the class’s dismay, he announced that they would not be adding commentary to their interpretation. 

“Perhaps,” he told them, “we will repeat it next year.”

At that moment, she desperately wished there would be a “next year”. Next year, where they would laugh through orchestra rehearsals; next year, where they would read the soon-to-be puppet Minister’s inaugural speech as Bernstein’s mocking harmony repeated itself in the background; next year, where she would play yet another solo, where Flitwick would beckon her to stand up before the encores of the crowd. 

As it was, she could count her remaining days on two hands.

Ten rehearsals. 

Two performances.

One last solo.  

After the applause for the first piece dies out, Flitwick begins speaking. “It is no secret that we are entering tumultuous times – academically, for all of our students, and politically, for all the members of this audience. To liven things up, but to also make you think a little bit deeper, we will be ending tonight’s concert with a delightful piece composed just earlier this year: Leonard Bernstein’s Slava!”

Flitwick turns towards the orchestra and raises his baton in one, sharp motion. Then, Slava! begins with a flourish. May is immediately sucked into the rhythm; as with all their performances, she and her fellow musicians merge into one, gigantic, multi-toned instrument. 

This time, however, their instrument is broken. 

Each individual part is played with perfect precision, heard with ringing clarity. None of them blend, none of them are in synchrony, and none of them sound particularly melodious when mashed together, but they have an undeniable togetherness .

She loves it.

Then, comes her solo. It’s the shortest one she’s ever played, but it has grown to be one of her favourites. 

“Miss Shen!” Flitiwick exclaimed after their first run-through. “Miss Shen, you’re playing it too beautifully. This is not Mozart.”

So, as the orchestra pulses behind her with a shared adrenaline, she plays her solo: loudly, aggressively, pridefully; with a harsh vibrato and a rough sound, all while maintaining the integrity of her tone. 

It’s over in the blink of an eye. All too soon, the piece ends with a splattered chord from the brass. The audience sits in shock for a few, deathly quiet seconds, before bursting into a round of thunderous applause. With his back turned, Flitwick gestures for the soloists to stand before giving a deep bow; May, illuminated in a pool of light, soaks in the cheers for the last time. 

Then, the whole orchestra rises, and the moment is over.  

As soon as the lights dim, May hurries offstage, eyes peeled for the distinctive lustre of Lily’s dark red hair. She soon spots the five of her friends in the second row: Gen, Rhea, and Abby, heads bent together; Lily, whispering something in Severus’s ear; and Severus, holding a bouquet of flowers. 

So this is the surprise Lily promised me last week, she thinks, smiling to herself. Her boyfriend, she knows, is not the flowers-and-chocolates sort of man.

Gen is the first to notice her. She taps Rhea on the shoulder, then Rhea taps Abby, then all three of them are looking up. Following their neighbours’ lines of sight, Severus and Lily spot her, standing awkwardly in the first row with a wide beam.

Before she can react, the girls are enveloping her. Gen and Lily give her tight hugs, while Rhea and Abby sing their praises in her ears. A ways behind them, Severus stands. They make eye contact before he quickly looks down, cheeks tinged pink. After what feels like five minutes of non-stop congratulations, Lily meets her dormmates’ eyes, and the four of them move to the side.

Hesitantly, Severus steps forwards and places the bouquet in her outstretched hands. Up close, she can see the soft petals of yellow and white primroses. She meets his eyes once more, blushing at the intensity of his gaze. 

“Your solo was amazing,” he says, lips quirking into a grin. Beautiful - he usually called her solos beautiful, but she knows beautiful isn’t quite right. “The second piece was especially clever.”

“Thank you.”

He looks away, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the four girls. “I’m afraid I must leave. It’s getting rather late.”

“No worries,” she replies, suppressing a giggle. “I’ll meet you later in the Room.”

He bows his head slightly before turning around. She watches his figure retreat into the distance, weaving its way through the gaggles of students and performers before disappearing from sight. 

Lily taps her on the shoulder. “I have to leave, too. Curfew’s soon.”

She wraps Lily in her arms once more, then whispers into her ear: “Thanks for everything.”

Thanks for coming to my last performance. Thanks for staying by my side for the past four years. Thanks for forcing Severus to come to our first Arithmancy review session.

She thinks Lily understands, for she feels a warm droplet of water stain the shoulder of her dress, followed by the movement of Lily’s hand to wipe the tears. 

“You’re welcome.”

Lily soon pulls away. Almost immediately, the girl is dragged into another crowd – this one, filled with happy faces and red-and-gold ties. May turns back to find Gen, Rhea, and Abby waiting, wearing matching smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. 

“Sorry,” she says. 

Sorry for making you wait. Sorry for leaving so early.

Gen shakes her head. “Don’t apologise.”

Together, the four of them make their way through the thinning crowd, then up the countless flights of stairs to the Ravenclaw common room. 

“What do the flowers mean?” Abby asks as they pass a painting of pixies on the third floor.

“New beginnings,” she answers, feeling the corners of her lips twitch upwards. Or, in floriography, a declaration of undying love:

I can’t live without you.

She decides to keep the latter to herself. 

“Fitting,” Rhea remarks. “And what was that about meeting him in someone’s room?”

“Just our study room,” she lies. They had come up with their own differentiation between the two magically-created rooms: “our study room” for the study room, and simply “Room” for his bedroom. Unfortunately, “bedroom” has a lustful tinge she rather dislikes, for it is in no way resemblant of their relationship. 

Gen rolls her eyes affectionately. “Of course, May. Y’know, sometimes you guys are more like study partners than actual partners.”

“Hey! He gave me these flowers…”

“Just teasing,” says Gen, sliding her arm around May’s shoulders. “Speaking of your new beau , will you be taking him to Madam Puddifoot’s for our next Hogsmeade trip?” 

“Of course not. I’m spending the day with you guys.” 

Their next official Hogsmeade trip, set tentatively as the Friday after finals, would be her last. She would savour her final moments in Scotland with her dormmates, for she has a lifetime of moments left with Severus. 

—

June 4, 1977

Dear May Shen and Severus Snape,

Congratulations! You have been admitted to Cornell University: Magical Division. We thank you for your hard work and cooperation during the admissions process. Enclosed in this letter are your student visa documents, which you must bring with you upon entering the United States of America.

Please do not discard this envelope, as it is a Portkey to the British Magical Embassy in New York. The Portkey will be active on July 11th between the hours of 9:30 AM and 11:30 AM. Please ensure that no one else obtains the Portkey during this time. 

Sincerely, 

Office of Admissions

University of Cornell: Magical Division

May holds the long-coveted letter in trembling hands, waiting for a much-belated rush of joy to sweep her off her feet. 

Severus leans over her shoulder, breath warm against her cheek. “We did it!”

“We did.”

“You don’t sound too excited.”

“I think I’m in shock.”

“Me too,” he replies, pulling out the chair next to her. “It’s the perfect birthday present, isn’t it?”

She fingers the new sapphire pendant that sits on her collarbone. “I like yours better.”

“I was going to get you Scrivenshaft’s newest ink collection, y’know,” he says, eyebrows scrunched. Earlier, he had practically apologised when she pulled the glittering necklace out of its neatly-wrapped gift box. Flowers and necklaces, he had told her, were tarnished by the modern dating scene. Too stereotypical. “But you went off and owl-ordered it before I could.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, eyes focused on the view of the sunny grounds outside their study room window. “It’s better than Scrivenshaft’s. I shop from that place much too often.”

“That, you do.”

She feels Severus’s arm shift, followed by the sounds of rustling parchment. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees a cluster of Arithmancy graphs. Final exams start next week , she reminds herself, searching for the motivation to lift her head and finish her Transfiguration review session.

“Are you going to miss this place?” she finds herself asking. Outside the window, a young Hufflepuff boy – a first year, by the looks of it – is running across a patch of bright green grass, chasing a laughing girl.

Severus sets down his quill. “Not really. It’s been nothing but a disappointment, for the most part.”

Whenever he makes such sweeping, depressive statements, she finds a retort on the tip of her tongue; sure, he has some horrible memories, but why let them overshadow the sheer grandeur of the castle, the hours spent with friends on the vibrant grounds? In moments like these, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and reminds herself that she would never truly understand his experience. 

“I see.”

“What about you?”

“I will.”

He swallows, giving her what is probably meant to be a sympathetic look. 

“Abby is leaving too,” she says. With each passing day, more Death Eater attacks were reported in the paper. After May told her dormmates about the attack in Muggle London, Abby decided it was best for her family to leave the UK in search of a more Muggle-born friendly country. “Gen and Rhea will be the only ones in the dorm next year.”

“Where is she going?”

“Vancouver, Canada. Her aunt’s family lives there.”

Severus looks away, and she feels a pang of guilt for bringing up her dormmates. The rest of the Slytherin sixth-year boys would, of course, be staying. They would see to the destruction of Britain. 

With a yawn, she pushes herself into an upright position. “Wanna go somewhere fun?”

“Where?”

“Hogsmeade.”

He turns towards her, brows raised. “And how exactly are you planning to get there?”

“Whomping willow.”

“Let’s go.”

—

Thirty minutes later, they find themselves on the battered floor of the Shrieking Shack, wearing regular clothes. Severus nervously touches the phial of liquid luck, a token from the Death Eater attack that he has kept in his pocket since. She staunchly opposed drinking it before their rendezvous, seeing as they still had a risky Portkey trip in their near future. He brought it along anyway: “Just in case, May.”

May steps into the room first, then walks around the perimeter, searching for a door. Sure enough, next to a boarded-up window, she sees a metal knob. Upon closer examination, she realises that there is a slightly protruding rectangle of wood that blends almost perfectly into the rest of the rotting, blood-stained walls.

“Severus, come over here.”

In an instant, he is by her side, kneeling down so that he is eye-level with the knob. Then, he draws his wand and casts a simple Alohomora. To her surprise, there is a click , as if the door had just unlocked itself. With a twist of the knob, Severus opens it by a crack.

“We should disillusion ourselves before we step out,” he says. “We’ll find a better place to undo it once we actually get in the town.”

So, after casting two Disillusionment charms, the pair carefully step out onto the sunlight hill of Hogsmeade. With her fingers tightly intertwined with Severus’s, the two of them make their way down the hill. When they reach the street, the first thing she notices is the number of boarded-up windows and dark shops. On her last trip – it was before Christmas, wasn’t it? – the street had been bustling with passersby and flashing lights. Now, it stares back at her, a sickly pale version of what it used to be.

“There hasn’t been news of Death Eater attacks here, has there?” she whispers. 

“No,” Severus answers. “Hogsmeade is still very much considered Dumbledore’s territory. We still need to stay vigilant, though.”

After some walking, he pulls her into the alleyway between two faded buildings, then casts Finite Incantatem.

“What do you want to do?” he asks as they step back into public view. 

“How about some Firewhisky at the Three Broomsticks? We’re both of age now.”

He grins. “Firewhiskey and sneaking out of school? The weekend before finals week, no less. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’ve always made my own rules.”

“Never at the expense of your academics.”

She shrugs. Perhaps seventeen – seventeen, adulthood? I feel just as childish as sixteen – is getting to her. Perhaps she is tired: tired of studying, tired of caring, tired of spending every spare moment of her day preparing for exams whose results would be seen by no one except herself and her parents. Or, perhaps, she just wants to feel free. 

In all her years at Hogwarts, she has never felt free. 

She settles on seventeen. “Drinking is a classic debut into adulthood.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Soon, she pushes open the door to the Three Broomsticks with a jingle. Upon stepping in, she spots Madam Rosemerta’s blond ringlets behind the counter. 

“D’you think she’ll recognize us?” May whispers, gulping nervously.

Before Severus can answer, the woman turns around, fixing them with a befuddled look. “It isn’t a Hogsmeade day, is it?”

“Oh, uhm, we’re not students—”

“Please, I recognize you two. You're in Sirius Black’s year, aren’t you?”

“We’re seventeen, Madam,” May responds, reaching into her pocket for her Ministry of Magic ID card. 

“Let me see that,” Rosemerta says, walking towards them, arm extended. May places the card in her hand, trying in futility to keep her wrist steady. So much for freedom. Detention with Flich was the absolute worst way to spend her last weeks at Hogwarts. 

“Ooh, happy birthday!” exclaims Rosmerta, stern expression replaced with a grin. 

“T-thank you.”

“Do have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the tall chairs in front of the counter. “I won’t say anything on account of the occasion. Just be careful out there – get back to Hogwarts before nightfall.”

“Of course,” May promises.

Severus nods. “Thank you so much, Madam.”

“No, thank you,” Rosemerta replies, reaching into the lower shelf. “I hardly have any customers these days, and it’s dreadfully boring. What would you two like? Firewhiskey?”

“Yes, please.”

Rosemerta pulls out two tall glasses and a bottle of Ogden’s Old. “So, tell me, are the two of you dating?”

Severus is about to object before May digs her nails into the flesh of his lower arm. He gives her a glare, and she returns it with a pointed look: play along. She could withdraw her hospitality.

He closes his mouth, and she looks back towards Rosmerta with a cheery smile. “Yes, we are. He wanted to come here to celebrate my seventeenth.”

“Oh my, that’s adorable!”

“It is, isn’t it? My birthday usually falls right on finals week, and it’s absolutely horrid. Severus here wanted me to have a good memory of my birthday at Hogwarts before we leave.”

Rosmerta directs her full attention to May, and Severus takes the opportunity to not-so-subtly roll his eyes.

“Leave? You two are sixth years, right?”

“We got accepted into an American university,” May explains. “The term starts at the beginning of what would be our seventh year.”

Rosmerta gasps. “Oh my, congratulations! It’s such a pity you’ll miss your last year at Hogwarts though. That one was definitely my favourite, save for the NEWT exams…”

“I suppose that’s the only silver lining of leaving early,” says May with a laugh.

Rosmerta pushes two bubbling glasses of amber liquid across the counter. “Drink up. I heard they don’t make them as good in America.”

Next to her, Severus brings the glass to his mouth and takes a gulp with ease. May watches him out of her peripheral vision, remembering Gen’s warning about the burn of firewhiskey. 

“First time, dear?” Rosmerta asks, eyeing her sympathetically.

“Yeah.”

“Take a small sip,” she instructs. “It will be a bit of a shock, but nothing too horrible.”

May brings amber liquid to her lips, tilting the glass ever so slightly. The moment the firewhiskey touches her tongue, her mouth is on fire; then, she feels a thin trail of acid snake down her esophagus, seering through flesh and soft tissues. For the next few moments, all she is aware of are her own hacking coughs, the cold countertop beneath her palms, the wetness in her eyes, and the burn. 

Severus is patting her back, and Rosmerta is telling her to breathe, and the fire is finally fading. She lifts her head, wiping away the stray tears. 

“Merlin, that was painful! How do people drink this for fun?”

“You get used to it,” Rosmerta says, lips twitching as if trying to suppress a smile. Then, she turns to Severus: “Not your first time, is it?”

Severus shrugs. “Someone always found a way to sneak it into the dorms.” 

Rosmerta pours herself a glass, chuckling. “My, I remember those days. Firewhiskey nights used to be the most exciting part of our week.”

Then, followed by a long sip and a sinking smile: “We thought ourselves so grown-up.”

“I’m going to miss dorm life,” May remarks with a sigh. The rug is always covered in clothes, the bathroom is always filled floor-to-ceiling with hair care products, and someone is always snoring through the night. Yet, after six years, the chaos and late nights became a second home. 

“That was the best part about Hogwarts,” agrees Rosmerta. A look to the side confirms that Severus has emptied his glass and is staring contemplatively at the marble countertop.

Right. Dormmates are a sore topic.

May picks up her amber glass once more and holds it up to the dim ceiling light, watching the bubbles sparkle and fizzle away. “I think I’m going to try another sip.”

“The second time is much easier than the first,” Severus says. 

Rosmerta nods. “It is. I guarantee you’ll be able to chug bottles after finishing this glass.”

Sure enough, when the liquid touches her tongue, she only winces at the sensation. “Still don’t like it.”

Rosmerta glances at the clock behind her. “I really wish you two could stay longer, but you should get going. The sun is setting soon.”

May stands quickly, secretly relieved that she wouldn’t have to keep up the strained conversation. “How much do we own you?”

“Oh, it’s on the house!” Rosmerta says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Take the glass with you, too. It’s practically full…”

While May tries to awkwardly refuse the free drink, Rosmerta starts rummaging in the shelf behind her. With a satisfied “aha!”, she pulls out a medium-sized flask with a twisting lid, then transfers into it the remaining contents of May’s glass.

“Here, take it,” she insists, pushing the firewhiskey into May’s hands. “And I mean it, I won’t be letting you pay – consider it a birthday present if you must. You two showing up is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in two months”

May accepts the flask with a slight bow of her head. “Thank you, Madam.”

“Yes, thank you,” Severus echoes. 

“Of course, of course. Now you two be careful on your way back.”

After a wave of goodbye, May and Severus step back onto the streets. 

“Thank Merlin we’re out of there,” Severus exclaims. “I’m sick of reminiscing. It’s all anyone ever does these days.”

“They have a good reason to.”

He shrugs. “Where do you want to go next?”

“Scrivenshaft’s.”

“Closed. We passed by it on the way here.”

Had she really been too distracted to notice? The streets are rather monotone, so she isn’t surprised she couldn’t distinguish the grey storefronts. 

“Let’s go back to the shack, then. We can watch the sunset from the hill.”

“M’kay.”

For the remainder of the walk, only the sound of hard-soled shoes against cobblestone breaks the strained silence of the deserted roads. Empty shop after empty shop, she keeps her eyes peeled for the familiar calligraphy of Scrivenshaft’s storefront. Just as the shack comes into view, she spots the old stationary shop to her left: overgrown, yellowing weeds in the hanging flower baskets; dull, translucent windows through which she catches a glimpse of a barren room; Scrivenshaft’ written in peeling paint above a dusty door, the last s completely scratched off. 

She stares, unable to banish the bygone image of vibrant roses, colourful quills through display windows, and freshly-painted signs. Severus squeezes her hand, and she lets herself be pulled away. Moments later, they are walking through the front gates of the shack and climbing up the hill. 

This time, neither of them bother to disillusion themselves: no one is looking, no one is there. 

Severus halts in front of the old door and casts “ Alohomora!” . The knob glows for a moment, as if absorbing the magic, but there is no clicking noise. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “It can probably only be unlocked from the inside.”

It makes sense, she supposes. Dumbledore wouldn’t want Hogsmeade residents – or worse, Hogwarts students – getting in. Lupin, on the other hand, wouldn’t be able to perform a simple unlocking charm in his werewolf form, so there is no need to place a more complex locking charm on the inside. 

“We can take the traditional route back,” May suggests. “We have Felix Felicis, remember?” 

“Thought you were saving it.”

“We’ll take a drop right before leaving Hogsmeade,” she answers. More than that, and they would risk saving too little for their travel day.

He nods before plopping onto the ground, leaning back onto the outer walls of the shack. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how you feel about it. The acceptance letter, I mean.”

She carefully lowers herself onto the ground next to him. “Fine.”

“This whole…expedition is unlike you.”

She opens the flask, bringing it to her lips. “Celebration seemed fitting.”

The firewhiskey enters her mouth, bringing along with it the now-familiar burn. 

“This doesn’t feel like a celebration.”

“I didn’t know Hogsmeade would be so dead.”

He tilts his head upwards. “It isn’t, not quite. Look at the sunset.”

She lifts her gaze, looking away from the wilting weeds on the hillside. Above them, the sky is a gradient of pale yellow, pastel purple, and light blue, complete with wispy pink clouds gliding across the wide expanse. 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” she murmurs. “The sky is beautiful, even when the rest of Britain is greying.”

“I’m sure the sunsets in America are just as nice.”

She takes another sip of firewhiskey – this time, savouring the burn. “The whole America thing is ironic, too. My dreams came true, but I don’t feel happy.”

“Would you be happy if you had to stay another year?”

“No.”

He laughs – dryly, humourlessly. “Pass me the flask.”

“Don’t drink it all,” she chides softly, watching him take a long gulp.

When he hands it back, she notes that it is already half-empty. “My parents aren’t getting divorced.”

“Oh?” he says, brows raised. “That’s good, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they coming to the States with us?”

“No, they’re leaving for Hong Kong right after we get to America. They’ll stay with Cindy’s family until I can arrange some sort of visa for them.”

“I see.”

Severus opens his mouth, then closes it after a moment of hesitation. She suspects he wants to know why they had a change of heart, so she explains: “It was the attack in December. I guess my dad realised he didn’t want to live without my mum.”

He gives her a tentative smile. “So they do love each other, after all.”

“More like parasitically co-dependent,” she answers, frustration seeping into her voice. “She had to almost die for him to value her. They still argue all the time, according to my mum’s letters. Neither of them are happy, but neither of them want to change the status quo.”

He looks away, lips pressed into a thin line. “My mother wrote to me last month. She said she’d be staying in Britain no matter what.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, wishing she hadn’t brought up the subject of their families. She supposes Severus is right about her parents; they love each other – a twisted, malignant love, but love nonetheless. Whatever remained of his parents’ relationship must be a thousand times worse.

“It’s alright. I didn’t expect her to come,” he replies, expression unreadable. She watches him rip a weed out of the ground and shred it to pieces, scattering its remains back onto the grass. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Perfect. She doesn’t want to spend another second speaking about their miserable parents. “What are you most excited about in America?” 

He frowns. “Dunno. I’ve never been out of the country.”

“Me neither. I mean, I’ve been out of the country, but I don’t know what I’m excited about,” she answers, sighing. “It was a dumb question.”

He starts shredding another weed. “To answer your earlier question – the one about missing Hogwarts – I’m going to miss Lily.”

An image of the redhead surfaces in her mind: Lily’s kind smile, hiding mischievous schemes; Lily’s emerald eyes, dancing with excitement. “Me too.”

“I begged her to come.”

Another image of Lily, red hair soaked in crimson blood – eyes closed, skin deathly pale – appears in her head. She takes another shot of firewhiskey, then blinks the nightmare away. “I don’t understand why she wouldn’t even try to apply.”

When he reaches for the flask, she notices a glittering trail of water on his left cheek and tiny, iridescent droplets on his eyelashes. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Severus cry, and the sight of it makes her throat constrict. Before either of them can say anything, she’s leaning against the rough wooden wall of the shack, hiccupping and blinking back tears to no avail. 

Severus wraps his arms around her shoulders and she buries her head in his shirt, unbidden images rushing through her head: Gen, unsuccessful at finding refuge in France after graduation; Rhea, her family home in shambles after a Death Eater attack on “blood traitor immigrants”; Abby, killed for being a “Mudblood” before she can make it to Canada; Cindy, stuck in Hong Kong as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named extends his influence to the British colonies.

Suddenly, Mrs. Lu’s screams are loud, piercing, roaring next to her ear: “ Go – I will see my son soon – go!” 

She hardly knew Lu a-yi and Jia-he ge-ge by the time of their deaths, but thought is accompanied by the realisation that she would never see them again. She would never again walk through the streets of Muggle London and pass by their tiny restaurant, she would never again hear one of Mrs. Lu’s stories about her weird customers, and she would never again have the chance to thank Jia-he for his noodle soup.

Their little family had been erased from the world forever. 

Forever is a dreadfully long time. 

Severus pats her back wordlessly, and the voice soon fades. She continues leaning against his chest, gasping for air; she registers the feeling of Severus’s rough thumbs against her cheeks, wiping away the tears; she lifts her head, breathing now even. 

“I shouldn’t have brought her up,” he murmurs. “It’s not good to cry on your seventeenth birthday.”

At that, she chuckles lightly. “Crying was long overdue.”

He leans forwards, pressing his lips against hers. This time, he lingers long enough for her to taste the firewhiskey, to feel the burn of their kiss. 

“Are you okay?” she asks as soon as they break contact.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, holding the flask up to the darkening sky, letting the last rays of fiery orange sunlight shine through the translucent material. “We finished the firewhiskey.” 

“Good. We wouldn’t want to be caught with alcohol in school.”

“Speaking of being caught, we should probably start heading back.”

She grabs his upper arms, pushing him down. “Five more minutes. I want to finish watching the sunset.”

“We shouldn’t be out after dark.”

“We have Felix Felicis.”

With that, he resigns. She sits back down on the grass, resting her head against his left shoulder. Above them, the indigo sky is streaked with burning orange, casting the dying village of Hogsmeade in a warm glow. 

“Do you think moving to America will fix everything?” she whispers into the shadows. “Will we be okay?”

Fixing. Her whole Hogwarts career was spent fixing: her grades, James Potter’s bullying, her friendship with Cindy, Sirius Black’s arrogance, their circumstances in war-torn Britain. Somehow, she ended up on a dark hill in front of a haunted house – half-drunk and crying – with nothing but a boy and their sad ticket out of home. 

Severus squeezes her hand, eyes never leaving the sight of the setting sun.

Chapter Text

June 11, 1983

Severus

BREAKING NEWS! MACUSA’s CIA Agent Kills Lord Voldemort

On June 10th, the dark wizard Lord Voldemort was fatally shot seven times when he tried to capture the United Kingdom’s last stronghold, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Voldemort, known predominantly as “He Who Shall Not Be Named” by British citizens, has been terrorising Britain for nearly a decade, using violence and dark magic to spread his blood supremacy ideology. In January of 1982, Voldemort murdered the No-Maj Prime Minister and took full control of Britain, herding No-Maj’s into labour camps and slaughterhouses. 

In February of 1982, MACUSA joined forces with Le Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France to liberate the United Kingdom from the rule of this dangerous dictator…

Severus scoffs. It is common knowledge that Wizarding Britain has been on rough terms with the international magical community at large, so neither America nor France would give a damn about its “liberation”. Rather, France felt threatened by their neighbour’s growing disinclination to democracy. The US Muggle government and MACUSA, on the other hand, were primely offended by the Dark Lord’s alliance with the communist Soviet Union. In exchange for support from the USSR’s magical government – who are, ironically, known for both their blood supremacist ideals and close cooperation with the Muggle government – the Dark Lord had promised to restore the country to its former glory. 

A stupid move, in Severus’s opinion. 

Had the Dark Lord bothered to read a single Cold War headline from the past thirty years, he would’ve known that such an action might as well have been a declaration of war against America. 

May peers over his shoulder, coffee in hand. “Our friends told us about this.”

During their lunch break yesterday, May opened her two-way book to find that both Lily and Levesque had promptly informed them about the Dark Lord’s death.

“Mhm.”

“Any new information?”

“MACUSA developed some special gun to deal with the Dark Lord,” he says, skimming the third paragraph. “Can’t be deflected by any magically constructed shields. Or Muggle walls, for that matter.”

May furrows her brows. “Interesting. I’m not sure I like the thought of a weapon like that being in anyone’s hands, though.”

“Me neither.”

Their two-way book glows green, and May reaches to pick it up.

“Who wrote?” 

She frowns. “Lily. She’s worried because Potter’s out capturing Death Eater’s right now. Apparently, the Malfoys and Avery disappeared after the battle.”

Two years ago, Lily married Potter for some unfathomable reason. 

We’ve been in the same Order camp for a while, she had written. Please don’t be upset. He has truly matured since Sirius’s death and is now a key player in the resistance. 

At first, he was more than upset: his childhood best friend jumping into the arms of his childhood bully felt like a hot knife twisted into his gut. These days, what was once a gaping wound feels more like a bothersome itch; after all, Lily seems to be happy with the arrangement, and Potter can’t hurt him from across the Atlantic.

Plus, Black died, and he was arguably worse.

“Could you pass the book and a quill?” he asks. She hands him his requested materials, then hovers over him as he writes. 

Don’t worry. Malfoy and Avery value their lives more than anything, so they will give in at the slightest threat. — SS

“Is that true?”

He nods, recalling the attack in the restaurant all those years ago. Although he never told her – what good would telling bring? – he recognized Malfoy’s platinum blond hair and Avery’s croaky voice.

They ran as soon as they lost the upper hand.

May is saying something about how Cindy finally got a work visa and will be arriving next week – can she stay at their place for two days? Also, May’s dad is paying the Portkey fee to China, so they can visit her grandparents next month – thank Merlin for the open-door policy, does he want to come? 

He stares into the distance, blinking away the image of pale restaurant walls splattered crimson.

May has gone silent. Moments later, he feels the light pressure of her hand against his thigh. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he answers, running his thumb over her fingers. There are no proposals or certificates or rings, though not without a lack of urging from May’s parents – for what reason he cannot fathom, seeing as the couple’s ultimate decision to remain married did absolutely nothing to thwart them from their incessant bickering. There are no passionate ‘I love you’s, seeing as May has deemed the words meaningless.

As for him, amidst the frustration of post-graduate research and the stress of the war on the other side of the world – amidst short kisses over coffee and rays of morning sun shining through apartment windows – he’s found the answer to her questions on the hilltop: 

Moving fixed nothing, but everything is okay.