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Lily’s clean-up of the Heads’ office was almost complete - thank Merlin. Her list of tasks was a mile long, and the glorified closet given over for her use resembled a bomb shelter. Magic helped tidy it, yes, but the sorting element of it all required a careful touch. Lily pressed the heels of her hands against her eyelids, wishing away the headache that threatened the evening’s further productivity.
Another five minutes, she told herself. Then a cup of tea, and a shower, and… the Alchemy essay didn’t warrant thinking about. She pushed herself off the desk, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work, going through the last sheafs of parchment.
Robbie Davies’s Arithmancy homework; a list of the weekend’s Quidditch matches; half a page of scribbled cariactures of classmates. And — at the bottom — a blank fold of parchment, spattered with a few splatters of ink. What a waste.
Lily sighed, tightening her ponytail. Robbie’s homework got stuck to the corkboard in the hopes he’d come looking for it, and slated the others for the bin. Was all of this James’s? They were three weeks into their seventh year, and he’d spent most of his time breezing in and out of the office and the meetings and their patrols. He’d throw out surprisingly effective suggestions on managing the prefects or settling the first-years, and then he’d disappear, off to Quidditch practice or whatever else. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was apparating through the castle — he had a knack for melting out from the shadows, or appearing in places he had no right to be. Evidently, she needed to get more sleep, because there was no way he could have really fit behind that tapestry.
Quidditch - discard. Potions - discard. Blank scrap —
No!
Lily swore, dropping the parchment to the ground. The word bled in black ink She rubbed her eyes. Shit. Five hours sleep was good enough, wasn’t it? She was a N.E.W.T student — time was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She crouched down, lifting it cautiously with pinched fingers. How had she missed that? What was it for, anyway? She straightened. Coffee, and a cold shower. That would wake her up. She just had to toss this —
Mr Prongs would really beg you not to throw this in the bin!
Lily blinked rapidly. Merlin’s beard, she thought, I’ve done it. I’ve gone round the bend. It had happened to N.E.W.Ts students for as long as the system had been in place, but Lily thought she might be breaking some kind of record. Three weeks in, and she was hallucinating. That, or going blind - how had she missed a whole sentence? One word, sure. But a sentence?
Lily flung the thing at the wall, coming to her senses. The other option - the obvious one - was that it was cursed. She drew her wand. Some joke product, maybe. With James around, it was possible. Her eyes raked over her fingers, hunting down burns. The other option was significantly more sinister. Lily’s blood status - no thanks to a certain ex-friend - was well known. Well-disliked. A bit of parchment with a nasty hex on it wouldn’t be the worst thing they’d tried.
“ Revelio .” Warily, she slunk towards the parchment. In a different, prettier hand, new words appeared. Her stomach flipped.
Mr Padfoot would request you to stop, Evans, and to further register his delight that you have brought Mr Prongs so low as to beg.
“ Prongs?” Lily echoed. Was that a threat? “How do you know my name?”
Mr Moony would like to add his plea that you leave this wherever you found it.
Mr Prongs says that ‘beg’ is simply a figure of speech.
Each had their own handwriting, so eerily familiar as to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She muttered a few more quick spells, the words of her Defence professor whispering in her ear. Nothing flagged. It knew her, though. How could it know her? How could it have multiple personalities, and argue with itself? The rational part of her thought she ought to run for McGonagall. The frightened part of her wanted to burn it to ash.
“What do you want?”
Mr Wormtail would like to pass his subjects very much, and also to have a hot chocolate.
Mr Padfoot knows what Mr Prongs wants, and will give you a hint: it starts with an L.
Mr Prongs would like to vehemently deny Mr Padfoot’s accusations.
Mr Moony recalls a time when they lost marks on a Transfiguration project because there were so many ‘L.E’s drawn on the page that it was unreadable.
Mr Prongs would like to remind everyone present that nothing before fourth year counts.
Mr Prongs would also like to remind everyone that that never happened and that Mr Moony is a filthy liar.
“You’re students?” Lily gaped at the parchment, twirling her wand. Students — or their consciousnesses — or imitations of them, at least. “Wait — how can you hear me?”
Lily leapt at a sudden sound, wand pointed, heart racing. In the doorway stood the Head Boy - James Potter himself, all tousled hair and flushed cheeks and Quidditch robes. His eyes widened.
“Shit,” he said, throwing up his arms. “Evans, are you all right?”
“I —“ she lowered her wand. It was only James. Her breath rattled. “There’s this —“
His eyes followed hers, and he swept down in one quick motion, snatching up the parchment.
“Mine,” he said quickly. “Sorry about that. Stupid map. Zonko’s.”
“A map? Zonko’s ?” Those were the least of her questions, but the intensity of his hazel gaze made her dizzy. “James —“
“Sorry, got practice. Detention slip, though.” He thrust it into her hands, and in that same whirlwind, he disappeared. Lily’s pulse throbbed in her hands.
She looked down at the slip. That handwriting…
No. No.
“Wait — James!”