Chapter Text
“Pettigrew, Peter.”
Peter jumped as his name emerged from the thin, pursed lips of the deputy headmistress. Professor McGonagall was a tall, imposing woman, with grey hair tied into a tight bun atop her head, and an intense stare. Peter walked towards her on legs of jelly and sat on the stool beside her, in front of the entire school.
As he sat down, he couldn’t help but think: what if the Hat refused to place him anywhere? His neighbour, Bobby, had been telling him that it happens sometimes when the Hat can’t find much inside the person’s head. That wouldn’t happen . . . would it? What would his mum say if he was sent home?
Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat upon his head.
Aah, interesting . . . the Hat deliberated within Peter’s mind, its voice slow and sage. Very intriguing. Your mind is quite the whirlwind.
What do you mean? Peter asked internally. Is it bad?
No, no, not bad . . . There are many values here. Hmm, many thoughts, many . . . ah, yes, contradictions. These may take some sorting through. Some Sorting indeed . . .
Please don’t send me home, Peter begged of the Hat.
Home? Of course not, child. Not home, but a House. But which? Or, which not? I do not believe you would do well in Hufflepuff . . . Yes, that is quite certain. And I do not sense a great value for wit. Admiration, certainly, but that is not the same. No, indeed . . .
The Hat took a long time. The first-years who hadn’t yet been Sorted grew fidgety. Peter glanced at Professor McGonagall—even she appeared to think it strange that the Hat was taking so long; her eyebrows were furrowed, and lips pressed tightly together. Was this it, then? The Hat hadn’t worked on him?
You might do well in Slytherin, mightn’t you?
Peter wasn’t so sure. The rumours he had heard about that House weren’t reassuring. Certainly not to Peter, who had managed to be an easy target his entire life so far. No, a different House would be better.
Ah, is that so? Slytherin’s great appreciation for cunning lies deep within your subconscious . . . yes, that is clear . . . But is it as strong as the value you attribute to courage? Hmm . . . this will take some weighing . . . With whom do you belong?
The Sorting Hat took even longer. Still no decision. Peter noticed Professor McGonagall glance at the headmaster. This was it. It hadn’t worked. They were sending him home.
“GRYFFINDOR!” the Sorting Hat announced.
Peter fell off the stool.
* * *
Sirius liked James, he decided, while the two sat together at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.
They listened to Professor Dumbledore make his headmaster’s speech. He said all sorts of strange things—the usual welcoming and housekeeping was peppered with words like bumfuzzle, collywobbles, and taradiddle. It was an odd speech for an odd man. His robes were eccentric, adorned with cross-stitched vines and flowers of various breeds and colours, and they matched his pointed hat perfectly. His warm eyes looked upon the students through half-moon spectacles. His voice was lilting and gentle, and his white beard almost reached his knees.
James leant closer to Sirius and whispered, “I bet you that beard’s gotten caught on a doorknob before,” making Sirius snort a laugh.
After his speech, Professor Dumbledore waved his arms and food materialised on the tables. There were roast potatoes, creamy pumpkin soup, haggis, entire turkeys . . . There was more food than at a Black family banquet. Sirius ate until his stomach couldn’t fit anything else.
After dinner, Sirius and James walked side by side, following a Gryffindor prefect and the other Gryffindor first-years to make their way from the Great Hall to Gryffindor Tower.
Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat had made its decision as soon as it was placed on Sirius’s head. Sirius had been prepared to ask the Hat to consider Sorting him somewhere that wasn’t Slytherin, but there had been no need. And that made Sirius the first member of the Black family in . . . well, a very, very long time to not be sorted into Slytherin.
His parents were going to murder him.
Which might have been concerning, if Sirius planned on telling them. Which he didn’t. No, they didn’t need to know. And Merlin knows they would never care to write to him.
“You said your father was in Gryffindor, yes?” Sirius asked James as they waited for the moving staircase to come back.
James nodded.
“What’s it like?”
“You’ll see—I think we’re here.”
They’d stopped a little way down a corridor at the top of one of the staircases. Before them was a large portrait of a large woman.
The prefect turned to face everyone. She had introduced herself as June Foster, and was a tall fifth-year girl with olive skin, dark brown hair, and a friendly face. “Now,” she announced, “there’s always a password you’ll have to give to the Fat Lady—that’s the name of the woman in the portrait, I’m not just being rude. The current password is ‘Billywig’, okay? Don’t forget.”
The portrait swung open to reveal a passageway, and one by one they all climbed through the hole, into the Gryffindor common room.
Sirius looked at James, who seemed ready to burst with excitement.
“Wicked, isn’t it?” James exclaimed.
Sirius took in his surroundings. The room was large, but cozy, decked in tapestries and scarlet and gold drapes. A fire was roaring on the right-hand side of the room. There were couches, tables and chairs scattered throughout, and the moonlight shone in from the high glass-pane windows.
In more than just temperature, where Sirius’s house was cold, this place exuded warmth.
“Yeah,” Sirius breathed. “It is wicked.”
June made for the other side of the room, ushering the first-years to an archway in the stone wall. “Come in, come in. Right, so, you’ll see there are two sets of stairs here.” She gestured to two staircases, one on the left, the other on the right. “The one on your left goes to the boys’ dormitories. You first-years will be the third door; the others are for other year groups. And girls, same goes, but up the stairs on your right. That’s the third door, but there’s a number one etched into the wood so you can be certain that’s the correct room. Well, I’m pretty sure they’re enchanted so you can’t enter another year group’s room without their explicit permission, anyway.”
Sirius wondered whether he could ask one of the teachers for that enchantment. It would be perfect for keeping his parents out of his room. Last year his father had walked in and seen the Muggle posters Sirius had stuck up on his wall. His father had torn them all down and ripped them to shreds.
He was pulled from his thoughts by June holding a piece of parchment under Sirius’s nose. He took it.
“First class is tomorrow,” she stated as she continued to take more timetables out from her robes and hand them around. “Tomorrow’s Thursday,” she added, noticing that one of the boys, a short, pudgy boy, was running his finger over ‘Monday’. “Breakfast is served in the Great Hall between six-thirty and eight-thirty, so you should be at class before nine. You’ll notice you have Herbology first tomorrow, which is outside in the greenhouses. Professor Sprout is lovely; she’ll be understanding if you’re late, but try to leave enough time to find your way.
“Oh, and one last thing . . .” June’s voice turned slightly grim. “I’m sorry to end on a darker note, but Professor McGonagall—that’s your Head of House—wanted me to remind you all that Hogwarts has a strict policy regarding bullying, of all sorts, but most especially of the kind pertaining to blood-status. If you hear any blood-status-related harassment, report it to a teacher. Though, honestly, most of it comes from Slytherins, and I wouldn’t waste your breath on them. They’re all bark and no bite. And nothing seems to make a difference, anyway. Speaking from experience.” She muttered this final comment under her breath.
Sirius self-consciously averted his gaze to his feet. While he knew June wasn’t speaking about him, his entire family (except Andy, of course) were the kinds of Slytherins to enjoy a bit of ‘blood-status-related harassment’. During several family dinners, Sirius had found his favourite cousin, Andromeda, alone in an empty room, her face tear-stained and crimson with pent-up frustration, after the dinner conversation had unsurprisingly turned to the importance of ‘blood purity’. Sirius didn’t fully understand why Andy cared so much about what the adults decided to talk about. And the desire to keep magical bloodlines pure seemed reasonable to him—his father had explained that it ensured their magic remained strong. But Sirius also trusted Andy’s judgement—she was probably the smartest person he knew—so he was confident she had a good reason for feeling so strongly about it, whatever that reason was.
One of the girls, the one with the bright red hair from the train, spoke up. Her name was Lily Evans, Sirius had learnt during the Sorting ceremony. “Um, when you say ‘blood-status’, do you mean . . . being a Muggle-born?”
“That’s right. Are any of you Muggle-born?” June asked.
Lily and one of the other girls nodded.
“Me too,” June said. “Well, just prepare yourself to deal with a bit of crap—ah, sorry, rubbish,” she corrected, “from the Slytherins. Some are alright, but most . . . well, most are pretty backward. Only seems to be getting worse, really.”
Andy had told Sirius a very similar thing when he’d asked her what she thought of her House. She’d told him that she’d made a couple of good friends amongst her fellow Slytherins, but that most of them were ‘old-fashioned pricks’.
The other Muggle-born girl chimed up. “So, is the bullying just name-calling, or placing, like, curses?”
June shook her head. “Not curses, no, curses are very serious. More hexing than cursing”—both Muggle-borns’ eyes widened at that—“but hexing is still not too common. It’s mostly name-calling. Still not on, though, of course . . .
The red-haired girl looked at the other Muggle-born and murmured. “I hate bullies.”
The other Muggle-born girl looked sad. “Me too.”
June noticed the exchange and added, “Please feel more than welcome to tell me or the other prefects about any bullying if you don’t want to go to a teacher. If we aren’t in the common room, check the bulletin board. We’re going to put notes up with our locations if you ever need to come find us.” She gave everyone a warm smile. “Well, you should all be getting to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day for you!”
The boys and girls split off. James led Sirius and the other two boys up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. James shoved the door open and practically skipped into the room. There were four beds with red velvet bedcurtains, positioned in a circle against the rounded wall. Moonlight shone in through the arched windows, illuminating their briefcases, which were neatly stacked in the centre of the room.
James claimed the bed opposite the door, throwing himself down onto it. Sirius picked the one to the right.
The other two boys entered the room. The shorter, pudgier of the two—Peter, Sirius recalled, the one who had hatstalled—glanced fretfully around the room before scurrying to the bed between James and the door. The other boy kept his head down as he slowly approached the unclaimed bed on the other side of the doorway, next to Sirius. Sirius tried to smile at him, but the other boy didn’t meet his gaze.
“Well!” James clapped his hands together. Peter jumped. The other boy glanced up. “This is us! Roommates for seven years beginning tonight! I’m James Potter.” With that, he leapt off the bed, approached Peter and stuck his hand out in a manner that was strangely formal for an eleven-year-old boy.
Peter took his hand, and James used both hands to shake it. “Peter Pettigrew,” the nervous boy squeaked.
“Pleasure. We’ll be thick as thieves in no time, I’m sure.”
James crossed over to the other boy, extending a hand once more. This boy avoided eye contact still, but gingerly accepted the handshake.
“I’m James,” James prompted kindly.
The other boy looked up from where he sat cross-legged on his bed. “Oh, right. Remus. Remus Lupin.” His voice was a soft murmur.
“Nice to meet you, Remus. And this”—James finally released Remus’s hand to gesture to Sirius—“is my good friend, Sirius Bl—”
“Sirius,” he cut James off. “Just Sirius. Any of you call me by my surname and I’ll hex you.” Sirius smirked playfully, then regretted the comment when he saw Peter’s eyes widen and Remus retreat into himself.
“Good, good.” James collected his cases from the middle of the room and began unpacking, the others following suit. “Well, let’s make ourselves at home, then, hey? This is home now, after all.”
* * *
James was an early riser, Remus was quick to learn, and Remus was a terribly light sleeper. James was up and rustling through his suitcase before the sun had even begun to rise. Remus shoved his head under the pillow, but while that muffled the sound of James getting dressed, it did nothing to drown out his racing thoughts. He waited until he heard James shut the door to their room as he left, then Remus climbed out of bed and sat in the window.
It was still very dark, the moon doing most of the work in illuminating the grounds of Hogwarts. A large forest lay on the horizon—was this the ‘Forbidden Forest’ that Dumbledore had instructed the students not to enter during his welcome speech?—and another smaller tree stood in the foreground. Its long branches swung erratically, as though moved by a strong breeze that targeted this tree alone.
While there had been magic in Remus’s home, this place seemed to simply be magic.
Remus sat in the window until pink soaked the morning clouds, then dressed himself and made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast.
The moment he entered the Hall, a pair of hands shot into the air, waving frantically to capture Remus’s notice. He walked over to find the hands extended above James’s beaming, bespectacled face.
“Hi, Remus!” James patted the empty spot next to him on the bench. “Can you believe how many breakfast options they give us?”
Remus took a seat and beheld the food before him. There was practically every option you could think of—porridge to pancakes, crumpets to croissants. Remus poured himself a cup of tea.
“Toast?” James asked, already buttering it.
Remus nodded.
“I’ve been waiting for you all,” James said. He clearly had been waiting, too, having apparently finished his breakfast, and having filled in some time by doodling in the margins of the newspaper, the Daily Prophet.
“I think the others are still asleep. Thank you.” Remus accepted the toast James had kindly buttered and cut into four small triangles.
James shook his head. “Can you believe that? I could hardly sleep last night—I just wanted it to be morning already so I could explore the castle! Blimey, it’s brilliant.” He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “The kind of magic that’s gone into creating this place is just—well, I can’t believe it.”
James’s enthusiasm tugged at the corners of Remus’s mouth. Maybe this place wouldn’t end up being so bad after all. Remus would just need to borrow a little of James’s sunny outlook—would just need to be a little more like James.
But this fantasy was broken with Professor McGonagall’s approach. The tall, stern-looking witch stopped behind the boys and cleared her throat. “I hope you settled in well last night, boys?”
James nodded furiously, and Remus gave a polite nod.
“Wonderful. Well, when you’ve finished your toast, Mr Lupin, I’ll have you follow me to my office. It’s nothing bad,” she added, likely more to preserve Remus’s reputation with James than for Remus’s own reassurance—he already knew what this would be about. “Just a small matter of housekeeping.”
No, Remus couldn’t be like James. He couldn’t be like anyone.
He shoved another bite into his mouth, pushed the unfinished toast away, and stood.
“See you in class!” James called, as Remus followed Professor McGonagall out of the Great Hall.
Attempting to keep up with the professor’s stride—she was surprisingly swift for an aged witch—Remus half-jogged through an overwhelming number of passages, many adorned with tapestries and sconces. From within the portrait frames, the people (and, in the case of the rabbits’ tea party painting, the animals) greeted Professor McGonagall as they passed. Remus followed the professor up numerous flights of stairs until they reached a door partway up one of the castle’s many towers.
Professor McGonagall ushered Remus in and offered him the seat in front of her desk. She sat opposite and folded her hands. “Now, Mr Lupin. I’m sure this is all a lot to take in, and I do not doubt that your condition”—she said this word in as ordinary a tone as the rest—“adds to the already present first-day jitters. Would I be correct?”
Remus nodded.
“Well, the Hogwarts staff, myself especially, are dedicated to ensuring your safety and wellbeing.” It did not escape Remus’s notice that she excluded mention of the safety and wellbeing of the other students that would be at risk by Remus’s sheer presence. “So in the next”—she glanced over her shoulder at the grandfather clock—“twenty or so minutes, I hope to set any anxieties to rest. Now, all Hogwarts staff are aware of your condition, but have sworn an oath to refrain from mentioning it to other students without your permission. The staff have been asked to keep track of the timing of each full moon and to make allowances for you at these times.”
Remus shook his head, causing the professor to pause and raise an eyebrow. “Is something the matter?” she asked, not unkindly.
“Please.” Remus’s voice felt very small. “I don’t need allowances. I can learn just as well as the others.”
Professor McGonagall’s piercing gaze turned somewhat softer. “I do not doubt it. Nevertheless, your professors have been asked to keep your condition in mind around the time of the full moon, whether it be necessary or not. Now, the first one is this Sunday, yes? I want you to meet me here in my office no later than six-thirty that evening. Ensure you have finished your dinner by that time.” Remus knew he wouldn’t be hungry that night. “I will accompany you down to the Willow, then leave you before sunset. Did Professor Dumbledore speak to you about the Willow when he met with you and your parents?”
Remus cast his mind back to the day that the headmaster of Hogwarts had arrived at Remus’s family home in rural Wales, the chickens running after the old man as he walked up the dirt path to the front door. Dumbledore had sat down with his anxious yet hopeful parents and explained that he would do everything in his power to ensure that Remus would be granted an education.
“Um, Professor Dumbledore mentioned a ‘precaution’ . . .” Remus answered.
Professor McGonagall nodded. “Yes, well, that precaution would be the Whomping Willow, a tree that has been planted especially for your time here. I shall accompany you to it, immobilise it, and allow you to enter the tunnel beneath it, which will then lead you to where you will spend the night. In the morning, you will be collected by Madam Pomfrey, who is the school matron and an excellent healer. She will take you to the Hospital Wing, where she will see to any injuries you may have sustained.”
Remus felt slightly lightheaded. In the past, he hadn’t needed a professor, magic tree, healer, and hospital wing. He’d managed so far with just his two parents, a barricaded basement, and some bandages and home healing spells. He knew that he ought to be extremely grateful—his father had reminded him of that—but his face still grew warm with embarrassment to be causing so many to go to so much trouble. Remus lowered his head and fiddled with his hands.
Professor McGonagall mistook this for apprehension. “Rest assured, Mr Lupin, Professor Dumbledore would not have made any promises to you had he been uncertain whether he could keep them. Your condition will not threaten your place at Hogwarts.”
Remus looked up, where Professor McGonagall beheld him from behind her rectangular frames. She was the picture of control. Remus believed her.
* * *
James waited until Sirius finally showed at breakfast with only fifteen minutes until class.
“Where have you been?” James exclaimed as Sirius sauntered over. “I’ve been waiting for you since breakfast opened!”
Sirius frowned as he sat opposite James. “You’ve been sitting here waiting for two hours?”
James ignored the question. “Here, I saved you some eggs. Breakfast ended fifteen minutes ago. All the plates in the middle of the table vanished, so this was all I could keep for you.”
James’s legs bounced and fingers tapped on the table until finally Sirius had eaten, then they practically sprinted outside to the greenhouses, asking for directions along the way.
Five minutes late, they arrived in the greenhouse where a kindly, stout witch stood before the class.
Upon seeing James and Sirius enter, she waved them over with two very grubby hands. “Ah, good, good, that should be everyone now! Take a pair of gloves each, you two, and pick a pot. As I was telling the others, my name is Professor Sprout, and during the next five years—or six or seven if you’ve quite the green thumb—I’ll be teaching you all you need to know about magical plants and their properties and uses.”
James and Sirius took the only two remaining pots that were positioned together, and listened as Professor Sprout went over the safety notices.
“We’ll be repotting the bubotubers today, folks! Don’t forget to wear your dragonhide gloves, and make sure you don’t give the plants too much of a squeeze. They’re only young, but some might be beginning to develop some pus, and we don’t want that getting on your skin! Right, now, watch closely as I demonstrate how to handle them with the appropriate care . . .”
The two boys soon found that they had a knack for magical plants, as their bubotubers were repotted perfectly in a matter of seconds. So, while the rest of the class struggled to detangle roots from the soil, James and Sirius pretended to add some ‘finishing touches’ to their pots while they chatted.
“. . . But surely your parents will find out sooner or later,” James stated.
Sirius shook his head. “Absolutely not. How could they? They won’t ask, and I won’t tell. They never need to know.”
James pressed on. “But don’t you have any family here at Hogwarts who might let it slip that you’re in Gryffindor? What about that cousin of yours you mentioned on the train?”
“Andromeda?” Sirius laughed, as he aimlessly sifted the soil through his fingers. “Nah, Andy’s no snitch. Hates my parents’ guts, too. And rightfully so. That’s why I like her so much.”
“Are they really that bad?” James frowned, unable to fathom holding such hatred for one’s parents.
“Awful.” They were both silent for a moment, before Sirius added, “Narcissa might be the one to worry about. I don’t think she’d tell them—I mean, usually she just minds her own business—but if they ask her . . . Yeah, I suppose I’d better have a word with her, just to make sure.”
“Is Narcissa another cousin?” James asked, grabbing his hand shovel to polish it again.
“Yup. Andromeda’s little sister. She’s alright. Not nearly as cool as Andy, of course. Cissy’s kind of a typical girl. Obsessed with her hair and makeup. At least she’s not their other sister, though. Bellatrix is a lunatic.”
“Oh?”
Sirius looked James in the eye. “I don’t suppose you’d wanna meet someone who keeps a collection of dead rats for ‘experiments’?”
“Oh, gross, no.”
“Well then, let’s pray you never meet my cousin.”
James screwed his face up as he attempted to mentally piece together these parts of Sirius’s family tree. “So are they all here at Hogwarts?”
“Nope,” Sirius replied. “Luckily Bellatrix has graduated already. It’s just the other two who are still here.”
“And that’s Andromeda and Narcissa?”
“Yuh-huh. Erm, James, you might wanna stop touching the—”
But Sirius’s words came too late. James, who had been mindlessly fiddling with his bubotuber plant, had accidentally managed to squeeze one of its pus-filled lumps between two of his fingers, and he watched as the thick, green pus shot out of the plant, landing across the table on the cheek of a classmate.
James gasped. His classmate screeched, her eyes going wide as she raised an ungloved hand to her cheek.
“Stop!” James yelled, as he ran around to the other side of the table, quickly yanked down the sleeve of his school robes—the fact that he was still wearing his gloves anyway had completely slipped his mind in his panic—and wiped away the offending plant matter from her face. It was then that he recognised her as the crying girl from his compartment on the train—the girl with the deep red hair and the slimy friend.
She, too stunned to protest, simply stood there staring at the boy beside her, until James extended a hand towards her. “I’m really sorry about that. I’m James Potter.”
Slowly, she took his hand. “Um, it’s alr—”
“Miss Evans!” Professor Sprout waddled over. “Did you get bubotuber pus on your skin?”
The girl opened her mouth to respond, but James cut in. “It was my fault, Professor.”
Professor Sprout waved her hand. “Oh, I’m not concerned with who’s at fault here, not at all—these things happen! But let me see . . .” the professor bent down—only slightly, as she was only a little taller than the first-years—to inspect the girl’s cheek. “Ah, yes, lucky the plants are only young. But you should still have Madam Pomfrey give you something to keep the pimples at bay. Yes, might as well head to the Hospital Wing immediately, I should think! You too, Mr Potter, seeing as you’ve already repotted your plant beautifully!”
“I know the way,” James stated. He did not, in fact, know the way, but still felt rather chivalrous saying so. He led the girl out of the greenhouses, giving Sirius a thumbs up as he went.
James walked up the stairs, entered the castle, and was immediately faced with no less than five possible routes. Feigning certainty, he chose the corridor to the right, and had walked half its length before realising that the girl was no longer with him. He turned around to find her back at the start of the corridor, her hands on her hips. “You don’t know the way, do you?” she accused.
“Oh, well,” he fumbled, “I mean, I assume it’s—”
“The Hospital Wing’s at the other end of the castle. The south side. Meaning, we need to go that way.” She stuck out her finger to point dramatically in the other direction.
“Oh, right. Well, since you know how to get there—”
“I don’t know how to get there, actually. I just know north from south.” She said this very matter-of-factly.
James was unperturbed. “Well, you seem to have a better chance of finding our way than I do! I’ll follow you.”
The girl turned on her heel and, without waiting for James to catch up, marched off. He caught up to her as she was asking for directions from a group of older students, who were seated around a large marble fountain in the middle of what must have been one of the castle’s many atriums. She turned to her left to ascend a series of staircases, James close behind.
“So, I don’t think I caught your n—” James began, but was quickly shushed.
“I need to remember the directions.”
“Oh, well, I can help!”
The girl sighed. “Alright. Listen. Those students said we have to go up these stairs, turn right, go up the spiral staircase, go across the bridge, go up another flight . . .” she continued to recount an impossibly long list of directions, as James grew increasingly baffled that this girl was able to retain so much information at once.
“Well?” She raised her eyebrows at James. “Are you going to help me remember it?”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” James responded. He had, however, already forgotten half of the directions. “But”—he smiled—“only if you tell me your name.”
“Fine. When we get there.”
“Wonderful.”
James trotted along silently as the girl whispered under her breath, “. . . spiral, bridge, up, corridor . . .”, and she remembered the way flawlessly, until—
“Wait.” She stopped dead in her tracks. “Are we meant to go up that spiral staircase?”
“Uh . . .” James faltered. She’d definitely mentioned something about a spiral staircase at some point . . . They really could have done with a tour of the castle. Or a map. “Um, yes? I think so. I mean, we definitely needed to go up a staircase, I mean, you said something about two spiral—”
The girl glared at him, evidently unimpressed. “Oh, dear. Oh, no . . .”
“It’s fine! We can just ask someone else for directions again,” James reassured her. “But I’m pretty certain we need to go up two spiral staircases.”
“I know that, but not yet! Something else came first.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do I look sure? Ugh, I can’t remember at all anymore, you’ve been talking too much! It’s all escaped my brain now.” She marched off again, up the spiral staircase.
James jogged to catch up. They ascended one flight, only to find that the staircase ended there.
The girl huffed again. “Well, this isn’t right at all!”
James looked around. This part of the castle felt quite familiar. He turned to his left, and—
“Oh, look! That’s the Fat Lady!”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s great,” she said sarcastically, “except that we’re looking for the Hospital Wing.”
“Well, yes, but it means that we at least know that we are in Gryffindor Tower! And we can ask someone.” James approached a student who had just climbed out of the portrait hole, asked them for directions, then reported back to the girl. “Right, we need to go back downstairs, down the corridor on the left, and up the stairs until we reach the Hospital Wing!” James felt very proud of himself.
They followed the directions until they found themselves standing at the open door to a large, clinical room. Along the left and right walls were many tall windows, and beneath these were a series of hospital beds with turquoise bedsheets.
The two of them entered the room, and a kindly-looking, middle-aged witch in red robes and a white apron bustled over to them.
“Dear, oh dear,” the witch—this was Madam Pomfrey, James supposed—tutted. “It’s only the first day! Ah”—she noticed the gloves that James had forgotten to remove—“what did Professor Sprout have you handling this morning?”
“Bubotubers,” James answered. “I, uh, accidentally squeezed some pus onto—” He looked to the girl, realising he still didn’t have her name.
But Madam Pomfrey cut in. “Right, no matter. Where did it get you?” The girl raised a hand to her cheek. Madam Pomfrey nodded and ushered her to sit on one of the beds at the other end of the room. “Well, it looks just fine to me, so I’ll just give you a prevention treatment. You’ll need to wait a moment, though—I have to finish mixing up another stomach-settling potion for Mr Hornby here.” James noticed that the boy on the bed opposite was a shade too green. “There’s always one who gets a little overexcited at the welcome feast . . .”
Madam Pomfrey disappeared through a door at the back of the room, leaving the girl seated on the bed, swinging her feet, and James standing beside her.
“So,” James began, “have I earned the right to know your name?”
The girl glared up at him. “No, you haven’t. You didn’t remember the directions.”
James smiled. “Well, maybe not the first time, but I did the second time! Surely that counts, right?”
She continued to glare. “. . . No.”
James frowned, then asked, perfectly bluntly, “Do you dislike me?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I do, in fact.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Because”—she crossed her arms—“you were rude to Severus. And he’s my friend.”
“That slimeball? You don’t like me because I was rude to him?”
“Do not call Severus a slimeball!”
“Well, he is a slimeball! Someone should show him what a bottle of shampoo looks like.”
The girl raised her voice. “Oh, like you’re one to talk—I’d love to show you what a hairbrush looks like!”
James opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn’t been prepared for such a quick, sharp response. Then he laughed.
The girl looked horrified. “What’s so funny?”
“Well, you got me, didn’t you?” he responded.
James’s hair was always sticking up at the back, no matter how many times he brushed it. Ironic, really, since his own father was the inventor of Sleekeazy’s, a potion used to tame unruly hair. While the potion flew off the shelves, it had never actually managed to work on James or his father.
Laughter was apparently not the girl’s intended reaction. She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, I get it, you probably like how cool it makes you look—like a rowdy, messy, couldn’t-care-less kind of boy!”
“You think it makes me look cool?”
She huffed, and turned away from him. They were both silent for a moment.
James had had people dislike him before, so it wasn’t an entirely new experience. But those people had always, always been nasty kids. Mean kids. Bullies. Never someone nice. Never someone like this girl. She needs to like me, James found himself thinking. She needs to know I’m nice. I’m funny. I’m cool. I’m not a nasty kid.
“Hey, you know, I did remember some of the directions, so maybe half of the directions gives me half a name?” he offered jokingly. “Your first name? Or surname?”
She didn’t answer immediately, but quickly gave in. “You don’t remember? Professor Sprout said my surname in front of you.”
“Oh.” James didn’t remember. “Remind me?”
She sighed. “. . . Evans.”
James stuck out his hand. She rolled her eyes, but accepted his hand nonetheless.
“I’m James Potter. Pleasure to meet you, Evans.”