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Chapter Text

Act I:

The common room was quiet. Too quiet for May.

Most students had drifted off to their dormitories, worn thin by the heat and the drama that had unfolded that afternoon by the lake. James hadn't moved for over an hour—he sat slumped in a window seat, wand in his lap, eyes fixed blankly on the reflection of the stars in the Black Lake far below.

He couldn't get the sound of Lily's voice out of his head. The disgust. The shame.

He hadn't meant to show off.

He hadn't even planned to hex Snivellus, not really. But then he'd said that word and—and James had reacted. Too far, yes. And now Lily hated him more than ever.

That's why he was here now. Not to fix it. Not for himself. Just to say something true.

He waited until nearly midnight, broke the ward guarding the girl's stairs, then climbed to the girls' tower.

It was against the rules, but James had never cared much for those. Tonight, though, his every footstep felt like betrayal.

He knocked gently on the door that bore the words "Sixth-Year Girls" in gold lettering.

No answer. He tried again.

Finally, it creaked open, just enough to reveal Lily Evans, her face in half-shadow. Her expression hardened the moment she saw him.

"Potter, what are you doing here," she said flatly. "You aren't allowed up here!"

"I know. I just—just give me a minute. Please." He swallowed. "I need to say something."

She crossed her arms. "If this is some clumsy attempt to ask me out again, I swear—"

James held up a hand. "It's not. Merlin, Evans. I just wanted to apologize."

That stopped her—for a second.

But then something in her shifted. Her mouth twisted, and her eyes flared cold.

"Oh. You mean now you care? After publicly humiliating Severus? After hexing him upside down and letting everyone laugh at him?"

"I snapped," James said quietly. "He called you a—"

"I don't care what he called me!" she snapped, stepping forward. "You don't get to ride in on your broomstick and play hero after you've spent years tormenting him."

James's shoulders slumped. "I'm not— I'm trying to say I was wrong. That I'm sorry. Not just for today. For all of it."

Lily looked at him like she didn't believe a word of it. And maybe, James thought bitterly, she shouldn't.

"You think an apology fixes this?" she said. "You think just because you feel bad now, everything goes back to normal?"

"No," James murmured. "I don't."

She shook her head, expression unreadable.

"You're a spoiled, arrogant bully, James Potter. You treat the world like it's a joke, like everything exists to amuse you. And the worst part is, you could be better. But you're too in love with yourself to ever change. You walk around like this castle owes you something just because people laugh at your jokes and think you're clever. But you're not. You're just another spoiled little boy who thinks the world revolves around him."

James flinched like she'd struck him.

Lily wasn't finished.

"You think this is a game. You hex people, humiliate them, and expect everyone to clap. You're a bully, James Potter. That's all."

A long silence followed. The fire cracked. James didn't move.

"I didn't come here to fight," he said, voice low. "I just… I thought I owed you something honest. And maybe I needed to hear you say that. To believe it."

Lily stared at him, but whatever fury had been driving her seemed to flicker and die.

"I'm done," James said after a moment. "I won't bother you again."

He turned and walked toward the stairs, not looking back. Not seeing the flicker of regret that briefly crossed Lily's face. Not hearing her soft, uncertain whisper of his name.

He just kept walking—each step heavier than the last.

That night, James Potter didn't cry. But something in him, something bright and foolish and golden, quietly died.

The train had barely pulled out of Platform 9 3/4 when Sirius kicked his feet up on the opposite bench, hands laced behind his head, and announced, "Right. I am officially declaring this the Summer of Mischief."

James grinned, lounging beside the window, a Chocolate Frog hanging out of his mouth like a cigar. "Wasn't last summer the Summer of Mischief?"

"That was merely the prelude," Sirius said dramatically. "This year, I have plans."

Remus snorted from his corner, already halfway through a dog-eared copy of Wanderings with Werewolves. "Do any of these plans involve not getting us banned from Diagon Alley?"

Sirius waved a hand. "Trivial details, Moony. Don't crush the spirit of adventure."

It had become tradition, by then: the Potter estate had always been a kind of refuge, sprawling and sun-dappled, where the boys could crash for a few weeks without worrying about curfews or prying eyes. Euphemia and Fleamont welcomed them like sons—always with extra pudding and a quiet kind of grace that made Remus, especially, feel like he didn't have to keep bracing for impact.

That year, Remus hadn't even hesitated when James had invited him.

"Come stay with us again?" James had asked casually, already knowing the answer.

Remus had just nodded, eyes flicking toward the floor. "Yeah. I'd like that."

So they went—three boys, bags slung over their shoulders, laughter echoing through the countryside as they flew back to the Potter property on borrowed brooms, racing low across hills and skimming lakes until the sky turned blush pink and the manor appeared in the distance like something from a dream.

The days that followed were slow and sweet. Lazy breakfasts that turned into brunch, Sirius experimenting with Exploding Snap cards until one set fire to the curtains (he blamed the cards; Fleamont blamed Sirius), and afternoons filled with sun and spellwork, mock duels and Quidditch scrimmages in the orchard.

Remus found himself relaxing into it. Into the warmth of it all.

James's parents were kind in a way that made him ache—Euphemia constantly asking if he was eating enough, and Fleamont sneaking him copies of obscure Transfiguration journals with a wink.

And though Sirius was his usual chaotic self—half daredevil, half disaster—there was something softer in him when he was at the Potters'. Less guarded. Less like a boy trying to prove he didn't care about the family that had cast him out.

They were seventeen. Still boys. Still safe.

At least, for now.

The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the Potter estate in a warm golden glow as the boys trudged up the front path, loud with stories and laughter. Sirius was animatedly recounting how he'd nearly hexed a pickpocket in Knockturn Alley—until Remus had grabbed his ear like a cross mother and dragged him away.

James lagged behind, juggling a bag of sweets and a new set of Gobstones he'd "accidentally" swiped from Zonko's when the clerk wasn't looking.

"You are a menace, Black," Remus said, holding open the gate as they passed through. "One of these days, I'm going to let you get arrested just so I can have a quiet evening."

Sirius tossed his head like a shaggy dog. "You'd miss me in under five minutes."

"Give me six," Remus muttered.

James laughed, the sound light and boyish, full of sun and sugar.

Then the front gates creaked open behind them. Not the friendly kind of creak either—but the slow, grinding groan of magic being forced back.

They all froze.

Six figures strode through. Black robes. Wands drawn.

No time to think—just instinct.

Sirius stepped in front of James. Remus's hand went to his wand.

The lead figure moved faster.

"Potter!" barked Alastor Moody, his voice rough as gravel and twice as heavy. "With me. Now."

James's heart dropped into his shoes.

"What's happened?" he asked, breath tight.

Moody didn't blink.

"Your parents. They've been attacked."

The world narrowed. Sound drained out. The color of the sky turned grey.

"No," James whispered, shaking his head. "No. No, they—they weren't involved. They're not Aurors anymore."

"They're Potters," Moody said. "That's all it takes these days."

The hospital was too quiet.

Not peaceful. Not calm.

The silence was the kind that rang in your ears, sterile and humming, broken only by the occasional far-off rattle of wheels on linoleum or the faint murmur of spells being cast in unseen corners. St. Mungo's was never exactly cheerful, but the Janus Thickey Ward had a stillness that felt unnatural—like the air itself was holding its breath.

James had never seen Sirius look so pale. He was gripping the wall like he needed it to stand, jaw clenched, knuckles white. Remus stood beside him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like he wanted to say something—but couldn't find the words. They were staring at the closed double doors of Ward 49.

Long-Term Spell Damage. Permanent Residents.

No one said it out loud, but they were thinking the same thing.

It wasn't supposed to be this.

"They didn't even bother using the Killing Curse," Moody muttered to someone behind them, his voice gravel scraping over stone. "Wanted to send a message. To him. To us all."

James didn't ask who "him" was. He didn't care. He stepped forward.

He walked in alone.

The lights inside the ward were bright and cold. Too clean. Too white. It smelled like antiseptic and burning hope.

His mother—Mum, his brilliant, fierce, endlessly kind mother—sat stiffly in a chair by the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap like a porcelain doll that had been carefully arranged and then forgotten. Her spine was straight, chin high, as if she were still trying to hold dignity—but her eyes were locked on a blank patch of wall, unmoving. Her lips moved in a whisper James couldn't hear, couldn't decipher, repeating something over and over again.

A memory? A prayer? A spell?

"...Mum?" he breathed, his voice catching on the syllable.

She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just kept murmuring to the wall like he wasn't there.

James's chest tightened.

He turned to the bed.

His father—once so tall, so proud, the man who had built a company from nothing, who had taught James how to duel and laugh and be brave—was crumpled beneath the covers. His limbs twitched sporadically, as if jerking away from unseen hands. His mouth moved in silent screams, face contorted in pain no spell could numb.

He looked nothing like the man James had known. His magic, always so steady, so sure, flickered weakly around the edges of the room, like a candle fighting a storm.

James took a step closer. His hands were shaking.

"Dad...?"

His voice cracked like old wood splitting down the center.

Still no response. Not even a flicker. Not even a blink.

Just more twitching. More whispers. More agony.

He stood there frozen, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms, heart thundering in his chest like it was trying to punch its way out.

And all he could see were the memories—his mother laughing at the breakfast table, syrup on her fingers; his father lifting him onto his broom for the first time, steady hands and steady smile; the way they both beamed with pride when he caught his first Snitch, when he made Prefect, when he got into Gryffindor.

The way they hugged him every time he came home.

Gone. All of it. All of them.

They hadn't died. That would've been cleaner. Easier.

They'd been broken.

A nurse approached softly, gently touching his shoulder. He didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Just kept staring. Just stood, as if the force of his grief could rewind time, could undo the damage, could pull their souls back from whatever dark corner they'd been banished to.

But no miracle came.

And the silence of the ward swallowed him whole.

He didn't cry.

Not at St. Mungo's. Not in the lift. Not even when Sirius gently rested a hand on his back as they stepped into the Floo.

Not when Remus said softly, "We'll get through this," with the kind of voice you use when you're not sure it's true, but you say it anyway because you have to believe something.

James didn't believe anything right then.

It wasn't until they arrived back at the estate, into the cold silence of a home that no longer felt like home, that something started to crack. He muttered something about needing air—though he went upstairs, not outside.

He climbed the staircase like he was trudging through snow, legs heavy, mind blank.

At the top, the hall looked the same. But everything was wrong.

He opened his bedroom door, stepped inside, and shut it behind him like sealing a tomb.

Then he saw it.

The photo on the dresser.

The one from last Christmas—Mum laughing in that absurd red jumper she always wore, Dad smirking with mistletoe crooked behind one ear. James himself, somewhere between pretending to be annoyed and secretly loving every second of it.

The air left his lungs like he'd been punched.

He crossed the room in two strides and tore the frame from the dresser. He ripped down every photo, every poster, every memory that hurt to look at. Quidditch medals clattered to the floor. Books hit the walls. Laughter and light and childhood—all of it shattered under the weight of his fury.

He didn't know what he was yelling. Maybe nothing. Maybe just noise. Maybe just pain.

When he hurled his glass Snitch across the room, it exploded against the wall with a sharp crack, the shards skittering across the floor like fleeing pieces of himself.

The door slammed open.

"James—" Sirius's voice, urgent.

James spun around, chest heaving. "They're gone!" he shouted. His voice broke like glass. "They're breathing, but they're dead, Sirius!"

Sirius stopped cold.

And for a moment, he looked so young. Too young for this war. Too young for best friends with broken parents and broken hearts.

But he didn't try to stop James. Didn't tell him to calm down. Didn't say it would be alright.

He just looked at him—really looked. And in his eyes, James saw the same devastation, the same fire.

Then James collapsed to the floor.

He didn't even feel it when his knees hit the carpet. Just curled forward, pressing his palms against his face like he could push the tears back in. Like he could bury everything under his skin where no one would see.

Remus appeared in the doorway. Quiet. Always quiet.

He didn't speak.

He just sat beside James on the floor.

Sirius joined them a moment later.

No magic. No words. Just three boys sitting in the wreckage of a room—and of a childhood that had died in a hospital ward that afternoon.

That night, the silence was thick.

Not peaceful. Not restful.

It settled over the Potter estate like ash after a fire.

The three of them sat outside, huddled beneath the vast sky, wrapped in blankets they didn't remember fetching. The stars blinked coldly above them, ancient and indifferent.

"They tortured them," James said finally. His voice was hoarse, like it had been scrubbed raw. "For hours. We were supposed to be safe. Staying neutral was supposed to keep us safe!"

No one answered for a long time.

Then Sirius, staring out over the lawn with eyes too sharp for his seventeen years, said, "That's what they do. Voldemort. The Death Eaters. They don't care about truth or guilt or innocence. They just want fear. Power."

James swallowed, throat tight.

"I don't want to be afraid anymore," he said quietly. "I want to fight."

Remus looked up from his hands. His eyes weren't wet, but they glistened faintly in the moonlight—steel wrapped in gentleness.

He nodded once.

"Then we fight."

There was no dramatic vow. No brilliant light. No solemn oath or ringing proclamation.

Just three teenage boys, sitting in the quiet aftermath of grief, deciding—wordlessly—that they would not let this happen again.

The war wasn't distant anymore. It wasn't politics or rumors or whispers in the Prophet.

It had a face now. A cost.

And it had taken something from each of them they would never get back.

The Hogwarts Express shrieked to a halt, and steam billowed out in great clouds, curling around the students swarming onto Platform 9¾. Owls hooted irritably, trunks clattered, and somewhere, a first-year dropped a cage of puffskeins with a despairing cry. The usual chaos. The usual noise. But not for Narcissa Black.

Not this year.

She stepped onto the platform like a porcelain figure out of place in a madhouse. Immaculately composed, spine straight, hair swept back into perfect golden coils. But inside—inside, she was sick.

Engaged.

The word clanged like a curse in her mind.

Lucius Malfoy. Three years older, cold as marble, all ambition and sneering pedigree. She'd received the letter in June—just one sentence from her mother, as if announcing a dinner party—and had spent every day since with dread curling in her gut like smoke.

She hadn't told anyone. Not Regulus, not Bella. What was the point?

This year, Hogwarts didn't feel like a sanctuary. It felt like a countdown.

She stood tall near the edge of the crowd, pristine as always in soft grey robes, chin lifted in the way her mother had taught her: Grace is not a luxury. It's armor. Her hair was curled just so, her expression carefully composed.

Her gaze swept over the platform, disinterested. Faces blurred past her. Half-familiar. Unimportant. Her eyes shifted focus.

The Marauders.

But not as they had been.

They stepped off the train like they owned the world—but not with the reckless swagger they used to wield like a badge. No, this was something different. Controlled. Dangerous.

Narcissa's sharp eyes followed them automatically, cataloguing everything.

Remus Lupin, still quiet, still watchful, but now with a sort of haunted steel behind his eyes. He used to walk with the anxious caution of someone expecting the worst. Now, he looked like he remembered it.

Sirius—her cousin, her disgrace—moved like a wolf among men. There was no cocky grin, no theatrical jokes, just a flick of his dark hair and a gleam of challenge in his eyes. People stepped aside instinctively, as though they sensed he'd stopped playing games.

And James Potter—

Her breath hitched for half a second. She didn't let it show.

James Potter walked like a king who had tasted blood and decided he liked it.

Gone was the loud, gawky boy tripping over himself for Lily Evans's attention. No eyes scanning the crowd for a flash of red hair. No grand declarations of love. He didn't even look toward the Gryffindor crowd.

He stood tall, head high, shoulders squared like someone who knew the weight of grief and had decided to wear it like armor. There was a small, crooked smirk on his lips—not the cheeky, boyish one he used to flash around corridors. It was cooler. Amused, almost, at the absurdity of it all. The confidence was still there—but it had darkened. Refined. Hardened into something sharper than charm. There was mischief in his eyes still, but it was a dangerous kind, threaded with cynicism and bite.

Narcissa watched him like a hawk, something unspoken stirring low in her chest.

He was still handsome—more so now, actually, in a way that felt almost unfair. There was a magnetism about him, subtle and commanding, like gravity itself had decided he was the center of the room.

And he knew it. Oh, he knew.

He wasn't chasing Lily Evans. That struck her like a stone tossed through still water.

He wasn't even looking for her.

He looked up, instead—and found her.

Their eyes locked.

And Narcissa, flawless, composed Narcissa, felt a jolt run down her spine.

It was infuriating. It was arrogant. It was—

Devastatingly attractive.

James Potter smirked at her—slow, deliberate. Not a grin. Not a challenge. Just that infuriating little twist of his mouth that said, I see you.

She looked away quickly, pretending disinterest, but her pulse betrayed her. Her stomach twisted. She hated that he could make her feel something, anything, when she had just resigned herself to a future of sterile perfection beside a man she barely knew and already loathed.

A thrill shot through her spine. She didn't let it show. Not on her face. Not in the subtle lift of her brow. But she felt it.

Narcissa realized something else: he hadn't looked at Lily Evans not once.

Not even in passing.

That detail settled deep in her chest, humming with intrigue. The boy who once orbited Evans like she was the sun had shifted his focus entirely. And what remained in his place was... intoxicating.

She risked another glance.

He was walking toward the carriages now, Sirius and Remus flanking him like shadows, the three of them moving like a unit forged in fire.

What happened to them over the summer?

And why, of all people, was James Potter suddenly the most compelling figure on this entire bloody platform?

By the time the Sorting Hat's song faded and the new first years had been sorted, Lily Evans was already on edge.

There was a tension in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Not just the usual hum of excitement and chatter. This was something colder. Sharper.

Her eyes scanned the Gryffindor table, and that's when she saw them.

James Potter and Sirius Black sat at the far end, not lounging and laughing like they always did, but speaking in low tones, their expressions unreadable. Heads bent close. Eyes constantly moving, scanning the Great Hall like predators watching a herd. Remus Lupin sat beside them, a book open in front of him, but his eyes weren't on the pages. They were fixed on the Slytherin table—on Snape—with a quiet, unblinking intensity that made Lily's stomach twist.

The Marauders had always been confident, cocky even—but this was something else.

They didn't cause a scene. They didn't toss rolls or levitate goblets. They didn't laugh loudly or nudge each other when a pretty girl walked by. They were still.

Too still.

Lily sat down across the table, casting a sidelong glance toward the group. James Potter didn't even look at her. Not a smirk. Not a wink. Not a "Lily, love." Nothing.

At first, she felt relieved. Then unsettled.

Then, to her horror, intrigued.

His posture was relaxed, but there was a new weight to it—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes far too calm. He looked... older. Sharper. And his usual brightness—the easy, obnoxious confidence—was still there, but it had been sanded down into something more dangerous. More deliberate.

He's planning something, she thought, lips pursing. Obviously. He's trying to throw me off. Make me wonder. So I'll ask first. Classic Potter stunt.

She watched him for another moment. He laughed at something Sirius said, low and brief, and Lily felt her spine stiffen.

She'd seen enough.

After dinner, as the students began filing out of the Great Hall, she cut across the stream of robes and books and newly-polished prefect badges until she reached him. He was walking toward the corridor with Sirius and Remus, hands in his pockets, his expression bored and unreadable.

"Potter," she snapped.

He turned lazily, one brow arched. "Evans."

She hated the way he said it. Cool. Casual. Like she had something to prove.

"I know what this is," she said, crossing her arms. "You ignoring me. Acting all—what, mysterious and dark now? Is this your newest tactic? Make me curious, see if I chase you instead?"

James blinked slowly, then tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Is it working?" he asked.

She flushed, bristling. "No."

His smirk widened just a touch. "Shame."

Her jaw clenched. "You can drop the act, Potter. Whatever this little transformation is supposed to be—it's not impressive. You're still the same arrogant boy who hexed Snape because he couldn't stand someone saying no to him."

At that, the smirk vanished.

He didn't look angry. He didn't look hurt.

Just... done.

"Right," he said. "Well. Thanks for the chat, Evans."

And then he turned and walked away.

Just like that.

No comeback. No snide retort. No teasing, no "go out with me" line. Just a cool nod and the sound of his boots against the flagstone as he rejoined Sirius and Remus without a glance back.

Lily stared after him, her stomach twisting with something she couldn't name.

She told herself it was irritation.

But something in her chest was beginning to wonder—uneasily—if she was the one who didn't know how to play the game anymore.

Peter Pettigrew didn't hear about the attack on the Potters until a week after it happened.

He read it in The Daily Prophet, eyes skimming with lazy indifference—until he saw the name. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, brutally tortured in their home. No suspects. No arrests.

The teacup slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor.

He had expected to feel horror. Grief. Maybe even anger.

But all he felt was cold, clammy fear.

They had gone after the Potters. Not in a duel. Not in some noble stand. In their home. Where they had no wands in hand. No time to scream.

And the worst part?

They hadn't even used the Killing Curse.

They'd wanted to send a message.

Peter had been hiding from the truth, but now it stood plain as day: the Death Eaters were winning.

And he was nothing like James.

Or Sirius.

Or even Remus.

The rest of the summer blurred. He didn't go to St. Mungo's. He couldn't bring himself to see the way James looked now—hollowed out and burning like a dying star. He skipped the late-night study sessions and dueling practices the other boys took to like lifelines. When Sirius began brewing illegal potions in the basement, when Remus started training with shield charms until his hands bled, when James hexed a practice dummy clean in half and didn't blink—Peter pretended to be asleep.

He told himself it was all going to blow over. That the Ministry would handle it. That someone else would keep the monsters at bay.

But even he couldn't believe it anymore.

By the time they boarded the Hogwarts Express for sixth year, Peter had never felt so far away from the others. They were storm-eyed and silent. They didn't laugh like they used to. They didn't even notice he'd stopped sitting with them at meals.

It happened a week after the term began.

Peter was walking back from the kitchens, pockets bulging with stolen pastries and still grumbling about having to go all the way down himself. He rounded a corner near the dungeons, distracted—

—and slammed straight into Evan Rosier.

"Watch it, Pettigrew," Rosier sneered, dusting off his robes like Peter had given him the plague.

Peter's heart stuttered. "S-Sorry."

The others appeared like shadows—Mulciber, Macnair, Avery. Big, broad-shouldered boys who smelled like expensive potions and cruelty.

Peter took a step back, but the corridor suddenly felt very, very small.

"Well, well," Mulciber said, his voice a dagger dressed in silk. "The Gryffindor stray."

Peter turned, but Macnair blocked the path.

"Looking for your little friends?" Rosier sneered. "Or have they stopped babysitting?"

"I—I was just heading back," Peter stammered. "Didn't mean—"

"Don't lie," Mulciber snapped, stepping closer. "You think we don't notice when one of you starts sniffing around alone?"

Rosier leaned in, smile sharp. "You know, I always wondered why Potter and Black keep you around. You don't look like much."

Avery laughed. "Probably to clean up after their messes."

Peter reached for his wand on instinct, but Rosier was faster. His wand was out before Peter could even blink.

"You wanna play, Pettigrew?"

Peter's knees wobbled. He could already feel the sting of a hex crawling up his spine.

"No—I—I'm not—" he stammered, palms raised. "I don't want trouble."

Macnair snorted. "Too late for that."

And then the words spilled out of Peter's mouth before he even realized what he was saying:

"I can help you."

The air shifted.

Rosier arched a brow. "Help us?"

"I—I hear things," Peter said quickly, breath shallow. "I'm close to them. Potter. Black. Lupin. I know what they're doing. Where they go. What they're planning. I could warn you. Whenevery they plan against any of you"

A pause.

Rosier lowered his wand slightly, intrigued.

"And why," Mulciber asked, voice like oiled steel, "would you do that?"

Peter swallowed hard.

Because I'm afraid.

Because I'm not like them.

Because I don't want to end up like the Potters.

Instead, he said: "Because I think you're going to win."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Rosier smiled. Not friendly. Not kind. But pleased.

"Smart," he murmured. "Maybe you'll live longer than the rest of them."

Peter laughed nervously. "Maybe."

He didn't tell them that his hands were still shaking when he turned the corner. He didn't tell them he felt like he'd sold something he couldn't ever get back.

But he slept a little better that night.

And that, he told himself, was all that mattered.

By mid-September, Hogwarts had begun to adjust.

Sort of.

The Marauders were still themselves. In theory. They still pulled pranks. Still disappeared off the map. Still left Peeves howling with glee as chaos reigned in their wake.

But the tone had shifted—subtly, then unmistakably.

Their pranks weren't harmless anymore. Not always funny. Not really clever in the way that used to make the staff sigh and the students laugh.

They were... pointed.

Personal.

Avery was found strung up by invisible cords from the Astronomy Tower rafters, hanging upside-down in his underpants. That would've once been standard Marauder fare—until students saw the word Mudblood Lover scorched into the stone beneath him, glowing with a sickly silver-blue light. It pulsed like a heartbeat, refusing to fade for hours. Someone whispered the runes used were blood-sealed. Someone else said they weren't sixth-year spells. Or even seventh.

Mulciber screamed during Charms when he opened his bag to find his textbooks had transfigured—each cover gaping open into a mouth, shrieking in voices not quite human: How dare you hex her, coward! Weak little worm! She was twelve! The voices echoed and echoed, growing louder the more he tried to silence them. Flitwick confiscated the bag with trembling hands. The chorus rang out for a full twenty minutes from the staffroom before they finally stopped.

Snape's cauldron exploded during Potions. Then it happened again. Different day, different ingredients, but both times the slime scorched only him. Slughorn looked disturbed. Everyone else looked away.

The retaliation wasn't theatrical. There were no proud announcements, no cocky grins or flourishes. No crowd-pleasing taunts.

It was surgical.

Calculated.

And merciless.

Even the staff started giving them sideways glances. Dumbledore kept his peace, but McGonagall's eyes lingered too long when Sirius smirked during Transfiguration. Flitwick looked nervous when James answered questions too confidently, his tone cool and measured, like he wasn't trying to impress anyone—because he already knew exactly what he was capable of.

No one knew what they did at night.

But there were rumors. Always rumors.

Some said they trained in secret. That they could duel blindfolded. That Remus had an arsenal of cursed tomes tucked in his trunk. That Sirius was working with goblin steel and forbidden enchantments. That James Potter had stopped using the Shield Charm because nothing ever got past his wand in the first place.

None of it was confirmed.

The Marauders had become untouchable. Not in the arrogant, untouchable-because-we're-popular way. In the step too close and you'll regret it way.

Even their silence had changed.

At night, they sat by the Gryffindor fire. Always the same seats—James in the armchair by the left, Sirius sprawled across the rug, Remus curled at the far corner with a book he never turned the page of.

They didn't talk much. Not like before.

Sometimes Sirius would mutter something sharp and cruel under his breath, and Remus would give him a tired smirk that didn't reach his eyes. James didn't always respond. Just watched the fire like he was waiting for it to speak.

They didn't laugh. Not really. Not the way they used to—the wild, carefree, we're invincible sort of laugh that echoed through the tower like music.

Those days were gone.

There was a gravity to them now. A quiet intensity that drew the younger students near—and kept the older ones wary.

The bond between them had deepened into something elemental. Forged in grief. Tempered in fury. Hardened in the heat of a summer that stole too much and left behind only purpose.

They didn't speak of it.

But it was there.

They were no longer just boys with messy hair and too much confidence.

They were something else now.

Something you didn't want to cross.

Something that looked you in the eye—and made you remember that the war had already begun.

And they had chosen their side.

Chapter Text

Act II

The castle was quiet — the kind of still, moonlit hush James Potter had come to love over the years. The air was cool against his skin as he slipped through the shadows, the Marauder's Map folded neatly in his pocket, wand ready in hand. He darted around a corner near the Charms corridor, robes flaring behind him, his mind already working out the best shortcut back to Gryffindor Tower before anyone noticed.

Just as he reached the edge of the hidden staircase —

"Mr. Potter."

The voice stopped him cold.

He turned, slow and deliberate, schooling his face into its best harmless-boy expression. There, arms folded tightly and one sharp brow raised, stood Professor McGonagall, her eyes like cold steel under her square spectacles.

"Out past curfew again, I see," she said, her voice precise and cutting, like she already knew whatever excuse he was about to offer.

James flashed his most roguish, lopsided grin. "Evening, Professor. Lovely night, isn't it?"

McGonagall's lips pressed into a thinner line. "You know better than to be strutting around after curfew Mr. Potter. That's fifty points from Gryffindor!"

James rolled his eyes, smirking, "Excuse me, Minnie! I do not strut!

McGonagall narrowed her eyes, "You will report to Professor Slughorn for your detention, Mr. Potter. Every Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday for the next two weeks."

James's smirk faltered, "Two weeks? That was harsher than usual."

"If I catch you again," she added sharply, "you will not enjoy the consequences."

For a long second, they held each other's gaze — McGonagall unflinching, James masking his irritation under a polished surface of charm.

With a small, almost lazy salute, James murmured, "Wouldn't dream of it, Professor."

She gave him one last hard look before sweeping away, her dark robes snapping crisply at her heels.

The corridor settled into silence again. James let out a long, quiet breath, dragging a hand through his hair. His reflection in the window caught his eye — the familiar messy-haired boy, but with something sharper in his expression now, a fire in his eyes. He watched himself a beat longer, then turned, shoving his hands in his pockets as he wandered slowly back toward the tower.

Well. That could've gone worse.

Or maybe, he thought dryly, this was just the shape of his luck these days.

The Slytherin common room had been stifling that night — the kind of airless tension that clung to her skin and made Narcissa Black feel like she couldn't breathe. She'd fled quickly, needing space, needing cool stone walls and the quiet of the castle corridors.

But she hadn't gotten far.

She was just past the dungeon entrance when she heard the snicker.

"Well, if it isn't the Malfoy prize…" came a drawling voice. A younger Slytherin boy leaned lazily against the wall, his smirk sharp and mean. "Counting the days until you're Lucius's, are you? Bet you're already practicing your—"

Narcissa's wand was in her hand before he finished.

"Langlock," she whispered coldly.

The boy gave a muffled yelp, his tongue instantly glued to the roof of his mouth. His eyes widened in shock and rage. Narcissa swept past him without even looking back, her face carefully composed, heart hammering in her chest.

"Miss Black!"

Her stomach dropped.

She turned slowly to see Professor Slughorn standing at the end of the corridor, small but sharp-eyed, his expression disapproving.

"I'm disappointed, Narcissa," he said, voice gentle but firm. "Hexing a younger student? I expected better."

Narcissa forced herself to lift her chin, the perfect picture of icy calm. "He insulted me, Professor."

"That may be," Slughorn said with a small sigh, "but there are better ways to handle such things. Hexing students in younger years is unacceptable, my dear. Unfortunately, I must give you detention. You'll report to my office every Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday for the next two weeks."

Her fingers tightened slightly on her wand, but she gave only a curt nod. "Yes, Professor."

As he walked away, she stood very still in the dim corridor, feeling the heat rise up in her chest, the twist of humiliation and rage she was trained never to show.

Lucius's name on that boy's tongue.

Her parents' smug, expectant faces.

Her own reflection — perfectly painted, perfectly controlled — cracking just a little at the edges.

Without a word, Narcissa slipped silently back through the halls, her footsteps sharp and graceful on the cold stone.

Detention.

Fine. Let them try to humble her. She'd survived worse.

The dungeon classroom was cool and dim, lit only by a few guttering torches along the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and something sharp, like potion fumes that had long since seeped into the stones.

Narcissa Black stood rigid near Professor Slughorn's desk, arms folded, chin slightly lifted — her expression perfectly calm, perfectly disdainful. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth hinted at irritation.

The door creaked open.

James Potter stepped in, hands tucked into the pockets of his robes, shoulders loose, stride unhurried.

His tie hung loose, and his hair was even messier than usual — mostly because he'd been running his fingers through it in annoyance the whole walk down from Gryffindor Tower.

"Merlin's beard, two bloody weeks of this," he muttered under his breath.

He stopped short when he saw her.

"Oh, this is what I walked down here for," James murmured, a half-smile curling lazily at his mouth. "Brilliant."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed, "You."

James blinked. "Me? What are you doing here?"

Slughorn emerged from the back room, beaming. "Ah! There you are, Mr. Potter! And Miss Black, always punctual, very good, very good. Now then — I thought rather than splitting you two up, we'd make good use of both your talents together."

James raised an eyebrow, his smile sharpening slightly. "You're not serious."

"You're both talented students, and I daresay this will teach you a little patience and cooperation."

James gave a sharp laugh. "Patience, sure. Cooperation might be pushing it."

Narcissa flicked him an icy glance. "I'm not wasting my time playing at chores with him, Professor."

Slughorn raised his hands, smiling benignly. You'll be here Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays for the next two weeks, sorting and cataloging the storeroom."

Narcissa's lips pressed into a thin, pale line. "Professor, surely — surely you don't think pairing me with him is a good idea."

James rocked back slightly on his heels, giving her a sideways look, calm and faintly amused. "Relax, Black. I don't bite." He let the words hang just long enough to see her bristle. "Unless provoked."

Narcissa shot him a cold glare. "I don't have time to waste playing servant alongside an overgrown Gryffindor child."

Slughorn raised his hands,chuckling. "Now, now! You'll manage. I'm sure once you get started, you'll barely notice the hours go by."

James shot Narcissa a crooked grin, clearly enjoying her visible irritation. "I dunno, Professor. I think she'll notice."

Narcissa took a deep, slow breath through her nose. "Let's just get this over with."

Slughorn patted both of them on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Miss Black! Well, I'll leave you two to it — the shelves need reordering, and the supply lists need checking. Oh, and do be careful with the jars — some of them are a touch volatile."

With that, he bustled out, leaving the door swinging faintly behind him.

James rocked back on his heels, hands still shoved in his pockets. "Well, this'll be fun."

Narcissa turned sharply toward the shelves, her voice cutting and cold. "If you get in my way, Potter, I will hex you."

James smirked, eyes narrowed. "Looking forward to it, Princess."

The dungeon smelled like mildew and mothballs, with a generous hint of dead toad. Dust motes swirled lazily in the air, caught in the sickly yellow glow of a floating lantern. Ancient shelves sagged under the weight of grime-covered potion ingredients, each jar looking like it hadn't been touched since the Founders walked the halls.

Narcissa Black stood near the far wall, arms crossed over her chest like a queen surveying a battlefield. Her expression was one of practiced disdain—chin high, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed to frosted slits. She looked like she'd rather lick the dungeon floor than spend an evening in a musty storeroom with him.

James Potter, meanwhile, slouched against a crate of dried leeches, lazily peeling the label off a jar like he couldn't be bothered to care.

"Do you ever stop fidgeting?" Narcissa snapped.

James didn't look up. "Do you ever stop talking?"

"If you had even a shred of discipline," she said icily, "we wouldn't be here."

"If you had even a shred of a sense of humor," he muttered, "maybe you wouldn't go around hexing your own housemates into next week."

She stalked over to a shelf and began rearranging jars with precise, angry movements. "That housemate made an indecent comment about my engagement. I reacted accordingly."

He scoffed. "Right. Because cursing people is such a noble Black family tradition."

Narcissa spun to face him, eyes blazing. "Don't speak of my family, Potter. You wouldn't last a day under the weight of that name."

James pushed off the crate, straightening with a lazy confidence that made her want to hex the smirk off his face. "You're right," he said, voice low and mocking. "I wouldn't last. I have this terrible flaw—conscience."

Her nostrils flared, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

The silence buzzed.

They were two storms circling the same point. No one had struck yet, but the pressure in the room said it was only a matter of time.

"You know," she said sharply, turning back to her work, "it makes sense you'd be here. Getting caught. Breaking rules. It's all so... expected."

"Expected?" James echoed, stalking to the other side of the table. "You think you know anything about me?"

"I know you're a show-off with too much hair and not enough brains."

"And I know you're a porcelain statue with a wand shoved so far up your—"

"Don't finish that sentence," she warned.

He didn't. But he grinned like he wanted to.

They worked in tense silence for a few minutes, organizing flasks and dusting off labels that hadn't seen daylight in decades. Every movement felt choreographed—purposefully loud, purposefully controlled. Neither wanted to give the other the satisfaction of appearing rattled.

But they were rattled. Both of them.

James stole a glance at her while pretending to reach for a stack of cauldron lids. Her expression was blank, perfect. Like she'd never felt anything in her life.

But her hands trembled—barely.

And Narcissa, for all her ice, could feel him. His presence. The way he moved like he owned the space. It infuriated her. The casual arrogance. The smirk. The ease with which he filled silence. The heat radiating from his every offhanded gesture.

He was reckless. Unrefined. Infuriating.

And she couldn't stop noticing him.

She set a bottle of bat spleens down with a little more force than necessary.

James raised an eyebrow. "Careful. You'll crack your perfect composure."

She didn't look at him. "You'll crack your skull if you keep talking."

"See?" he said, exasperated but amused. "This is why we keep getting detention. You're violent. I'm nosy. It's a match made in Slughorn's twisted sense of humor."

She finally looked at him then, her expression flat, voice dry. "If I were truly violent, Potter, you wouldn't be standing."

He held her gaze for a second too long, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then he smirked.

Narcissa turned back to her shelf, furious at the flutter in her chest.

She wasn't attracted to him.

She wasn't.

She just hated him. That was all.

And James, back to pretending to organize a pile of empty vials, told himself the same thing.

It wasn't attraction.

It was irritation. Disgust. Mutual loathing.

Nothing more.

The lantern hummed softly overhead.

Their fingers brushed briefly over the same bottle of eel eyes.

They both snatched their hands back like they'd been burned.

Neither said a word.

Narcissa walked into the same dusty potions storeroom she'd been serving her detention in for the last week. Dust still clung to every inch of the place, no matter how many times they scrubbed. Slughorn claimed it was the "magical residue" of ancient potions—a charming excuse for never lifting a finger himself.

She arrived exactly on time, crisp and cold in posture, her silvery hair coiled into a perfect knot. She looked up in surprise as James Potter strolled in on time for once, arms loaded with dusty cauldrons and an expression that practically begged to be hexed. "On time," she said coolly, not looking up. "Did you trip over your ego and arrive early by mistake?"

James tossed his bag into the corner and flashed her a smirk. "Nah. Just couldn't resist your charming company. The way you smile at me like you want me dead? Warms my heart."

"I don't smile at you."

"You did yesterday. Right after I knocked over that flobberworm goo. It was a very homicidal smile, but a smile nonetheless."

She sniffed, standing. "Flobberworm goo is the only thing in this room less tolerable than you."

"You wound me."

"I wish."

She rolled her eyes and turned to a shelf. "Tell me, do you rehearse your comebacks in the mirror, or are they just naturally that pathetic?"

James smirked, tossing a cauldron into the corner. "Mostly natural. The mirror's just for admiring how good I look while saying them."

They worked in silence for a few minutes—though silence, between them, meant a constant undercurrent of tension and not-so-subtle side-eye.

Eventually, Narcissa gave a derisive little sniff. "Honestly, I expected you to be more obnoxious by now. What's wrong, Potter? No Evans to chase? No crowd to impress?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he wiped his hands on his robes and said, surprisingly neutral, "Some things stopped being as important nowadays."

Her brows arched. "Like Lily Evans?"

"Like a lot of things," he said. "Not that it's any of your business."

She tilted her head slightly. "You've changed. The others too. Even Black." Her voice curled slightly around his name—familiar, but distant. "Though maybe not so surprising. Running away from home tends to do that."

James's shoulders tensed. "He didn't just run away. He was escaping a house where his own family cursed him for not being a bloodthirsty, pure-blooded puppet."

Narcissa blinked, the sudden sharpness in his tone catching her off guard.

"He showed up at my front door bruised and starving," James went on, quieter now, but firm. "They tried to break him. He's lucky he got out."

She stared at him, lips parted, but for once, no cutting remark came out.

"And yeah," James added, jaw tight, "he lives with me now. My parents didn't even blink. Just gave him a room and treated him like family."

Narcissa swallowed. She turned back to the shelves, carefully arranging bottles of powdered root. "That was... kind of them. Of you."

The air between them stilled.

She didn't say it sarcastically. Didn't lace it with insult. It was quiet. Honest.

James glanced at her, surprised. "Thanks."

Another beat of silence. This one less sharp. A bit softer, like a truce drawn in dust.

Then Narcissa sighed. "Lucius said it was disgraceful. That Sirius should've been dragged back and dealt with 'properly.'" Her voice dipped. "He always talks like that now."

James studied her. "And what do you think?"

She hesitated, fingers lingering too long on a jar of dried billywig wings.

"I think," she said carefully, "that sometimes getting out is the only thing that keeps you from turning into them."

Their eyes met across the room. Just for a moment.

No insults. No smirks. Just something weightier—an acknowledgment.

But then James reached for a shelf and knocked over a jar of flobberworm mucus, sending it splattering across the floor.

"Brilliant," Narcissa muttered, grabbing her wand and kneeling beside him to clean it up. "Of course you'd ruin the only halfway tolerable moment we've had."

"Don't get sentimental on me, Black," he said, grinning as he scrubbed beside her. "Wouldn't want anyone thinking you're capable of tolerating me."

"I'm not," she said flatly.

And yet, neither of them looked away.

They worked in silence once more, except for the occasional clink of glass and James humming some off-key tune just loud enough to be annoying.

"I can't believe I'm wasting my Sunday doing this," Narcissa muttered after fifteen minutes. "I had tea scheduled with Professor Flitwick. Actual intelligent conversation."

James looked over at her, mock-offended. "Oh, come on. You've got me instead. I'm practically a walking encyclopedia of wit and charm."

"You're more like a cautionary tale," she said, deadpan. "Proof that too much air in the head can cause permanent damage."

"Ouch." James grinned, unbothered, brushing a cobweb off a shelf. "Is that what they teach you in Slytherin? Brutal honesty and blackmail 101?"

"No. We learn how to survive," she said, and the edge in her voice surprised even her. She quickly turned away.

James blinked, suddenly quiet.

"You're not wrong," he said after a moment. "I suppose we're all learning that now."

She glanced sideways at him. He wasn't smirking anymore. Just scrubbing at a bottle, eyes distant. For a moment, she saw not the arrogant Gryffindor Quidditch Captain—but the boy who'd taken in Sirius without hesitation. The one who'd stood taller this year, a little harder, a little quieter.

She cleared her throat. "So. Are you planning to clean that one bottle until it dissolves or—?"

And just like that, the smirk was back. "What can I say? I like to be thorough."

"You like to be infuriating."

"And yet, here you are. Still showing up. Still working beside me. Makes a bloke wonder."

"It shouldn't."

"Does anyway."

She shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual venom. In fact, there might've been—if one squinted—something suspiciously like amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

James tilted his head. "Is that the beginnings of a smile, Black?"

"It's indigestion."

He laughed. Actually laughed. And something about it, about the way it filled the musty air, made her chest feel oddly light.

And she hated that.

She hated him.

And yet… not really.

Not entirely.

Narcissa walked into the storeroom, now almost spotless thanks to their combined efforts. Over their two weeks of detention, they'd finished organizing potion ingredients and appliances and dusting off shelves and furniture. They'd only now to finish organizing the recipes in the filing cabinets.

The sunlight had faded by the time James arrived, only to find Narcissa already perched atop one of the desks, legs crossed at the ankle, absently twirling her wand in her fingers.

"You're late," she said, though without heat. "Fitting. I imagine punctuality isn't a skill they teach in houses built on bravado."

James dropped into the seat across from her with a lazy grin. "Actually, we take it as an elective. Right after 'Staggering Into Glory 101.' You'd be surprised how many of us pass with honors."

She scowled. "You really do think you're charming, don't you?"

James wandered over to the supply shelves. "I know I'm charming. Just not sure if it's the classic kind or the roguish kind. What do you think?"

"I think you're about as charming as a flobberworm in molting season."

He gasped. "Cruel. I thought we'd grown so close these past two weeks."

"If by 'close' you mean I haven't cursed you into next year yet, then yes—we've made tremendous progress."

James looked over his shoulder at her, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You have been alarmingly well-behaved. I'm almost disappointed. I was hoping for at least one Bat-Bogey Hex."

She raised an eyebrow as she passed him a half-empty jar of pickled rat spleens. "Keep talking. I can make that dream come true."

He laughed under his breath. "You know, I think I might actually miss these little sessions."

"Detentions?"

"No, you. Your sparkling personality. Your tender affections. The way you insult me with such elegance—it's practically a love language."

"Keep dreaming, Potter."

He looked mock-hurt. "And here I was, composing sonnets in my head."

"Were they all about your own reflection?"

"Mostly," he admitted. "It's a good reflection. Strong jawline. Mischievous glint. Very poet-worthy."

Narcissa snorted—a sharp, involuntary sound she immediately tried to cover by coughing into her sleeve.

James stopped mid-polish, his grin splitting wide. "Was that a laugh, Narcissa Black? Did I just witness a genuine moment of joy?"

She shot him a withering glare, even as her cheeks betrayed her with the faintest flush. "It was a breath. I was breathing, Potter. Don't flatter yourself."

"That was a laugh, and I will treasure it always. Might even write about it in my diary."

"Please tell me you don't actually keep a diary."

"I prefer the term 'personal heroic log.' It's full of thrilling tales. And now, one rare Narcissa chuckle."

"More like a mercy wheeze."

He shrugged, still smirking. "Call it what you want. I cracked the Black Ice."

She shook her head, but her smile—yes, smile—lingered a little longer than she'd meant it to.

They continued cleaning in a kind of companionable silence, the occasional quip flung back and forth like Bludgers. Somewhere between inventorying gillyweed and alphabetizing powdered unicorn horn, the sharp edges between them had dulled into something almost tolerable. Almost.

And that was when Narcissa said, offhandedly, "You know, I see why you'd be the one to take him in. It's quite honestly inspiring how close you two are."

James blinked. "Sirius?"

She nodded, not meeting his eyes.

He shrugged. "Yeah, well. He didn't really have anywhere else to go. My parents—well. They always thought of him like family anyway."

She paused for a beat. Then, quietly, "It was kind of you."

James looked at her—really looked. "He's my brother."

Narcissa hesitated, meeting his gaze. "We used to be close, you know. We'd play together as children. He'd stick up for me when Bella would try to push me around. When we got to Hogwarts things changed. It hurt to see him go. We would share everything with each other. Now he won't even speak to me."

James looked down sadly. "It's not you I reckon. Sirius got a lot of heat from his family when he was sorted into Gryffindor. His mum especially gave him so much shit about it. Sent him two howlers on the first night. I think he was probably scared that you would hate him too. That's how he felt about Regulus."

Narcissa looked away, thinking about Andromeda, and how she treated her when she ran away with the muggleborn. She hadn't heard from her sister since.

She sighed. "Still I meant what I said. Not many would've done what you did."

James gave a small, lopsided smile. "Don't go falling in love with me now, Black."

"I wouldn't dream of it Potter," she said dryly, "I already promised my hand to a man with objectively better cheekbones."

"Ouch."

"Truth hurts, Potter."

The classroom door clicked shut behind them with a finality that felt heavier than it should have.

Two weeks. Four detentions. Dozens of insults. One laugh.

And now, nothing left to keep them in the same room.

James slung his bag over one shoulder, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Well. That was… a memorable sentence."

Narcissa folded her arms across her chest, expression carefully neutral. "I'm just grateful I survived it without committing murder."

He gave her a sideways glance. "Bet you rehearsed that line in the mirror."

"Twice," she said without missing a beat.

He smirked faintly and looked down the corridor, the weight of quiet beginning to settle in again. He hated quiet when it felt like something was being unsaid.

Narcissa stepped away from the door, chin high and hair pristine despite the hours of scrubbing and sorting.

James watched her for half a second too long. He didn't know why.

She paused.

Turned slightly.

Met his eyes.

There was no sneer this time. No sigh or eye-roll or withering insult. Just the smallest tilt of her head, like she was still deciding if he was worth the trouble of speaking to.

Then, softly—almost reluctantly—she said, "I'll see you around, Potter."

Something about the way she said it didn't feel like a threat. Or a dismissal. More like… an acknowledgment. A choice.

James raised an eyebrow. "Looking forward to our next punishment?"

She narrowed her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Don't flatter yourself."

Then she turned on her heel and walked away, footsteps sharp but not rushed, not running. He watched her go, not bothering to hide it.

She didn't look back.

But she didn't need to.

James stood there another moment, smiling softly as she walked away.

Then he turned and headed the other way, the echo of her voice somehow louder than the corridor around him.

Chapter Text

Act III Part 1

The torchlight flickered against the stone walls as James, Sirius, and Remus strolled down the corridor, voices echoing low and easy. They were out after curfew—again—but that only made everything more amusing.

"—I'm telling you," Sirius said, "if Slughorn invites me to one more of his slug club dinners, I'm going to slip a Dungbomb under the table and vanish mid-toast."

"You say that every time," Remus muttered, though he was grinning. "And yet, there you are each time, smiling like you're on your debut into society."

"That's called politics, Moony," Sirius said, smug. "I smile, I charm, I network. I don't like it, but it's useful."

James snorted. "You just go for the free food and the chance to eye the Ravenclaws."

Sirius shrugged, unashamed. "They're sharp and terrifying. I like that."

"And you wonder why you keep getting hexed in the hallways," Remus said dryly.

"I do not wonder. I accept it as the price of beauty," Sirius said with a flourish, flipping his hair dramatically.

James let out a bark of laughter. "More like the price of being a little shit."

They turned a corner and slowed, their voices fading as they heard footsteps and the low murmur of voices. James held up a hand, silencing the others. The mood shifted in an instant—laughter evaporating into silence, like the temperature had dropped ten degrees.

A few steps ahead, barely visible in the shadows near the base of the staircase to the dungeons, four Slytherins had a girl cornered—small, first or second year by the look of her, with trembling hands and blood smeared across her cheek.

MUDBLOOD.

They'd written it across her face.

Snape, Mulciber, Rosier, and Macnair.

James's smile died.

"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered.

"Stay back," Remus whispered, grabbing both their arms.

"Not yet," Remus whispered, voice like flint.

Macnair laughed, loud and barking. Snape said something low and cruel—James didn't catch it, but the girl flinched like she'd been slapped. Mulciber raised his wand again.

A flash of orange light.

The girl screamed, clutching her head. James caught a glimpse of blood-streaked hair. The sick bastards had cast a bloody Scalping Hex.

Sirius made a sound like a growl. James shook him off and stepped out into the open.

"Oi," he barked, voice echoing sharp and clean down the corridor.

The Slytherins whirled.

James stepped into the torchlight like a blade unsheathed, wand already in hand.

"Well, well," he drawled, eyes locked on Snape. "What is it tonight, Snivellus? Recreational blood magic? Or just a little late-night hate crime to soothe your greasy soul?"

Snape's lip curled. "Not your concern, Potter."

"Everything's my concern when it starts stinking up my castle," James snapped back. "Didn't they teach you in first year? Slytherins reside in the dungeons—though I understand you might have trouble finding your way around that bloody nose of yours."

Rosier stepped forward, scoffing. "You're not a Prefect."

James gave him a pitying glance. "No, but I can read, Rosier. That already puts me leagues ahead of you."

Snape's wand hand twitched. James's voice dropped to something razor-thin and lethal.

"Go on. Try it. I'd love an excuse."

The Slytherins disappeared around the corner in a rush of robes and callous laughter, leaving only silence—and the girl behind. She had collapsed onto her knees, shaking, blood trailing from her nose, one sleeve scorched and frayed at the edge. Her wand lay discarded a few feet away.

Remus was the first to move.

He rushed forward, dropping to a crouch beside her. "Hey—hey, it's alright now. They're gone."

She flinched at his voice and shrank further against the wall.

"Bloody hell," Sirius said behind him, voice tight with anger.

Remus hissed in a breath. On her cheek, angry red letters were scrawled—"Mudblood"—still oozing.

James forced himself to stay calm, though his hands curled into fists. "We need to get her to Poppy."

"She needs a calming charm first," Remus murmured. "She's in shock."

He gently raised his wand. "It's alright," he said softly, making sure she saw him. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to make the shaking stop, alright?"

She nodded shakily, eyes wide.

"Tranquillitas." A warm light spread from his wand over her chest. Her trembling eased slightly, though the tears kept falling.

Sirius gently gathered up her wand and handed it to her. "Here, love. You hold onto this. You're safe now."

James took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders before lifting her carefully into his arms.

"What's your name?" he asked as they started toward the hospital wing at a brisk pace.

"Emma," she whispered. "Emma Brookridge."

"Well, Emma," James said gently, "you're the bravest witch I've seen all week. You're going to be alright."

They reached the hospital wing ten minutes later, breathless and half-running. The doors were shut tight.

Sirius banged on them. "Poppy! Wake up!"

"Honestly, Black, it's nearly midnight—" came the muffled response. A moment later the doors swung open and Madam Pomfrey stood in a robe and nightcap, blinking in the candlelight. "What in Merlin's name—?"

"She's hurt," James said quickly, stepping inside. "Badly. Slytherins did it. She's bleeding—there's a curse—"

Pomfrey's expression sharpened. "Bring her here. Bed three."

She moved fast, suddenly wide awake. As James laid Emma down gently on the bed, Pomfrey was already summoning vials and bandages with rapid flicks of her wand.

"What curse did they use?"

"Some kind of skin-carving hex and the scalping hex," Remus said. "It's still bleeding. She's in shock."

Pomfrey muttered a spell and the carved letters began to fade, though the skin underneath looked raw and red. She dabbed salve onto the wound with precise hands.

"Thank you, boys," she said without looking at them. "You did the right thing. You may have saved her life."

"Will she be alright?" Sirius asked.

"She'll recover," Pomfrey replied. "Physically, at least."

James looked down at Emma. Her eyes were half-lidded now, the effects of the charm and the potion Pomfrey had slipped between her lips beginning to work. But her fingers were still clenched around her wand, white-knuckled.

James reached out and gently touched her hand. "You're not alone, alright? We've got you."

He looked over at Sirius and Remus, both silent now.

None of them said it aloud, but the words were loud enough in the air:

This can't happen again.

The fire in the hearth had long since burned low, casting deep shadows that flickered along the stone walls. The castle was quiet, but the seventh-year dormitory was not.

James sat on the edge of his bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. His wand lay beside him, abandoned, but his eyes hadn't left the floor since they'd come back. A muscle jumped in his jaw every few seconds, like it was trying to speak for him.

Sirius paced by the window like a caged wolf, hair wild, boots still on, fists opening and closing restlessly. Remus stood with his back to the hearth, arms crossed tightly, his expression pulled taut with disgust and something deeper—weariness, maybe. But beneath that, anger too. Slow-burning. Righteous.

"This isn't the first time," Remus said. "Mulciber used that hex on a Ravenclaw third-year last spring. She had to go home for a month. No one could prove it was him."

"They've done this kind of thing before," Sirius growled. "And they know how to cover their tracks. Pureblood families—alibis always ready. One big club of snakes covering for each other."

James finally looked up. His voice, when it came, was flat. "Her face. They wrote it on her face." He spat the word like it left a bitter taste.

Remus let out a long breath through his nose. "And now she won't name them. Can't blame her. She's terrified. Even if she did... Slughorn would sweep it under the rug and Dumbledore would offer another bloody speech about unity."

"They don't want unity," James said coldly. "They want power. Fear. Control. They want everyone beneath them to stay there."

James stood.

"Then we stop playing by their rules."

Sirius looked at him sharply. "You're thinking something big."

"I'm thinking justice," James said. "Real justice. If the professors won't act, we will."

Remus frowned. "There's a difference between justice and revenge."

James didn't answer immediately. He stared into the fire, eyes hard.

"Our revenge is justice."

James hunched over the Marauder's Map spread across the table, quill tapping against the wood as he sketched something that looked suspiciously like a floor plan. Sirius lounged beside him, one boot kicked up on a stool, flipping Mulciber's class schedule between his fingers. Remus leaned against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought.

"We can't touch Snape yet," James muttered. "Not properly. Whoever cast that skin-carving hex—he hid it well. I want to know how. And who."

"Macnair or Rosier, maybe," Sirius offered. "But Mulciber's the weak link. He's dumb enough to bait. Always thinks with the wrong wand."

Remus gave a noncommittal grunt. "So what, we hex him bald? Slip him a nose-biting teacup?"

James didn't even glance up. "No. What he did is unforgivable. We need to make a statement."

Sirius grinned. "What are you thinking."

James circled a spot on the map. "We frame him for arson."

Remus blinked. "Come again?"

"The greenhouses," James said. "They're old, dry wood. Fragile glass. I can set it up—make it look like he torched the place."

"That's a bit… extreme," Remus said, though his voice held more intrigue than concern.

James shrugged. "No one was in there after Herbology today. I checked. No casualties. Just reputation. And expulsion."

"How?" Sirius asked, sitting up now.

James grinned. "I nick his wand at lunch. Swap it with a fake. He won't notice. You two lure him out to the greenhouses right after dinner—send him a note. Make it sound like Charlotte Greengrass."

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "She smiled at him once and he's been composing imaginary wedding vows ever since."

James's smirk widened. "Perfect. While you're getting him there, I'll be under the Cloak. I use his wand to burn the place down—just the entrance. Enough to leave evidence. Then right before the teachers arrive, I swap the fake wand back into his robe."

"He pulls out his wand," Remus said slowly, "and McGonagall walks in. One less wanna-be Death Eater on our hands."

"Exactly."

Sirius leaned back, whistling. "You're an evil bastard, Potter."

James smirked back.

The grounds of Hogwarts glowed amber with the last stretch of sunset, the sky bruising at the edges with night. Greenhouse Three sat at the edge of the cultivated gardens, silent and deserted, its glass panes fogged with the day's heat, now rapidly cooling.

Mulciber stomped down the slope toward it, brushing a hand through his slicked-back hair, trying to appear casual but clearly hopeful. He clutched a crumpled note in one fist. Written in slanted, loopy handwriting:

Meet me after dinner. I've been thinking about you. —C.G.

He'd shown it to Rosier and Macnair , practically swaggering. They had hooted and shoved him toward the doors. Snape had raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Now Mulciber reached the greenhouse, glancing around. No one. The door was cracked open. He grinned.

"Charlotte?" he called, voice low, just in case it really was a prank. "You in there?"

He stepped inside.

James was already there. Beneath the Invisibility Cloak, crouched near the center bench, hidden in the scent of damp soil and flowering hellebore. His heart beat steady. No nerves. This was precision work.

He held Mulciber's wand in one hand—a perfect, illegal copy of it in his robes, identical down to the gnaw-marks on the shaft. Swapping them during lunch had been child's play.

He whispered a silent spell under his breath—"Incendio Serpentina."

Flame slithered out like a whip from the wand's tip, catching along the brittle vines. It snaked up the wooden support beams, curling with hungry speed toward the glass ceiling.

Another flick and twist—James flung the wand to the far side of the greenhouse, near the door. Then, one more muttered spell under his breath: "Mutare." The decoy wand in Mulciber's pocket vanished. The real one took its place.

Outside, James heard the crunch of approaching footsteps—Sirius and Remus's part of the plan was playing out exactly.

Mulciber stepped through the doorway, blinking at the sudden heat. "Hello?"

A bloom of fire burst overhead.

"What the—?"

His eyes widened in horror. Flames licked the edges of the glass, cracking panes from the heat. The fire began to consume the shelves—soil smoldering, rare magical flora igniting with bursts of green and purple smoke.

He staggered back, fumbling in his robes.

From behind the bushes, Remus watched tensely, Sirius beside him, ready to shout for help on cue.

Inside, Mulciber yanked his wand free—

And right at that moment—

CRACK!

Glass shattered above. Part of the ceiling collapsed with a hiss of steam as heat met the evening air.

Mulciber stumbled again, wand in hand, just as shouting voices approached.

Professor Sprout reached the scene first. She let out a strangled cry at the sight of her beloved greenhouse engulfed in flame.

"No—no—NO!"

Slughorn followed behind, one hand clasped to his chest like he might faint. "Good heavens—what in Merlin's name—!"

Then McGonagall swept in, her tartan robes billowing, fury radiating from her like a second fire.

Mulciber turned, panting, wand in hand, face flushed and soot-smeared.

"I—I didn't do this—I just—!"

McGonagall's eyes landed on his wand. Her voice was ice.

"With your wand drawn, Mr. Mulciber? In the very greenhouse that is now burning to ash?"

Mulciber took a step back. "No—I came here for—I didn't mean—someone tricked me—"

"Tricked you into arson?" Slughorn gasped. "This is a serious offense, boy!"

Sprout was already trying to douse the flames with spells, her voice shaking with every incantation. A vine hissed as it turned to smoke.

James, still hidden beneath the Cloak near the exit, allowed himself the barest of smiles. He turned quietly and slipped into the darkness, already picturing the headlines in the student-run newsletter:

Slytherin Saboteur Burns Greenhouse – Expulsion Pending

The air in the Transfiguration classroom crackled with subdued excitement. Students shuffled in, voices buzzing like an overcharged Sneakoscope. The smell of parchment, ink, and conjured chalk dust hung in the air as the class settled into their usual seats—Gryffindors on one side, Slytherins on the other, the invisible wall between them tense as ever.

But today, the tension was charged.

"Did you hear," murmured Marlene McKinnon as she leaned toward Lily Evans, voice low but eager, "they say Mulciber tried to set the greenhouse on fire. Professor Sprout was nearly in tears."

Lily scoffed, lips pursed. "Tried? It was on fire. I saw the smoke from the Astronomy Tower. Honestly, the whole thing's suspicious. Mulciber may be horrible, but even he's not stupid enough to torch school property with his wand drawn."

Marlene glanced across the room to where the Marauders had taken their usual seats.

"I dunno," she whispered. "Some people think someone set him up."

Lily followed her gaze. James, Sirius, and Remus sat together, unnaturally calm. Their expressions betrayed nothing outright—but there was something off about them. Not smug exactly. Not gleeful. Just… satisfied.

James's arms were crossed behind his head, lounging so comfortably you'd think he was on a beach somewhere, not sitting opposite the House of snakes. Remus was flipping through a worn copy of Advanced Switching Spells, and Sirius had one boot propped up on the rung of his chair, absently twirling his quill between his fingers.

Narcissa Black noticed too. She sat straight-backed two rows in front of James, glancing over her shoulder subtly. She caught the faintest ghost of a smirk on Potter's face.

Too smug, she thought. Too quiet.

Macnair and Rosier sat slumped in the corner, whispering heatedly, their faces pale and rattled. Snape looked exhausted—dark shadows under his eyes, his jaw tight. He cast one burning glance toward the Gryffindors before quickly returning his eyes to his desk.

The room fell abruptly silent as the door swept open and Professor McGonagall entered, robes sharp as her expression.

"Wands away. No practical work today," she announced, dropping a thick folder onto her desk with a resounding thud. "We will be starting term projects—pairs only."

A chorus of groans rose from the class.

"Yes, yes, save the dramatics," she snapped. "You will each select a partner from the opposite House. Projects will be due by the end of the month, and I expect full demonstrations. You are Seventh Years. Impress me."

A parchment hovered into the air and unrolled, names scrawled in careful, slanted handwriting. The room tensed as students waited.

"Evans and Avery. Lupin and Travers. Rosier and McKinnon."

One by one, the pairings continued—some groans, some snickers—until:

"Black and Potter."

A pause.

Narcissa's face didn't change, but the way her eyes narrowed slightly made her irritation obvious. "Of course," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for James to hear.

James leaned forward lazily on his desk, flashing her a slow, wicked grin. "Don't look so thrilled, Black. I promise not to dazzle you too much."

She turned in her seat, expression cool and unimpressed. "Just don't slow me down, Potter. I don't have time to coddle your ego."

He tapped a finger against his chin. "I don't know, I do work better with a little coddling."

"I'll bring a leash," she replied flatly.

"Oh Ms. Black you wound me," he replied dramatically with a smirk, "Only a kiss could make it better."

"Fat chance," she snapped, but didn't entirely hide the curl at the corner of her mouth as she turned back around.

As the bell rang and students began packing up, James didn't rush. He stretched like he had all the time in the world, then gave Narcissa a light tap on the arm with the end of his wand as she passed.

"Library after dinner?" he said, voice low and lazy. "We'll pick a topic, argue a bit, maybe you'll storm off dramatically—should be a lovely evening."

She arched a brow at him. "You assume I have the patience to suffer your presence for that long."

James gave a casual shrug, his smirk deepening. "Well, I assumed you had good taste. Clearly I was feeling generous."

"You're not nearly as clever as you think you are."

"I'm clever enough to get paired with the smartest Black," he said with a wink. "That's got to count for something."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the corner of her mouth twitched—just barely. "Just don't be late."

He leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered. "For you, Nissa, never."

She scoffed, "We'll see Potter. And don't call me that." She turned, robes sweeping behind her as she strode off. But James didn't miss the faint flick of her hair as she passed.

The library was quiet, save for the occasional turn of a page and the soft tapping of Madam Pince's quill as she scribbled something at her desk. James spotted Narcissa already seated near the back, quill in hand, parchment unrolled before her, and not a hair out of place.

He slid into the seat across from her without a word, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head.

"You're late," she said without looking up.

James grinned. "I like to make an entrance."

She finally raised her eyes, cool and unimpressed. "You call that an entrance?"

"I thought you purebloods appreciated elegance," James said, kicking his feet up onto the bench beside her seat.

"I appreciate punctuality," she replied flatly. "And personal space."

"I've always found the concept of personal space tragically overrated," he said, eyes gleaming.

Narcissa rolled her eyes, smiling lightly, brushing a strand of pale hair behind her ear as she returned to her parchment. "Let's just pick a topic and be done with this."

"Alright," James said, stretching across the table and lazily flipping through the index of a nearby transfiguration textbook. "What about something dry and miserable? Animagus theory through the centuries?"

She gave him a sharp look. "If this is your way of getting out of doing actual work—"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Nissa. Besides, what would you rather do?" James asked, leaning back lazily.

"I was thinking of Vanishing Spells. Easy to research. Straightforward theory. And I told you to stop calling me that," eyes narrowed.

"Vanishing Spells?" James wrinkled his nose. "C'mon, Black, you can do better than that. That's the kind of thing Ravenclaws pick when they want to go to bed early."

"Not everything has to be fireworks and spectacle."

"Says the girl who makes an entrance like she's walking into a throne room."

Narcissa narrowed her eyes, but failed to hold back her grin. "At least I look like I belong there. You look like you broke in through a window."

James grinned. "Windows are more fun anyway."

She shook her head and turned a page with more force than necessary. "We are never going to get through this if you keep talking."

James leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, gaze drifting toward the window. Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the scratch of her quill.

Then his smile faded slightly, remembering the Slytherin who had still gone unpunished for hexing Emma.

"Macnair," he muttered under his breath.

Narcissa glanced up, brows drawn. "What?"

James didn't answer right away. He sat up slowly, fingers tapping a soft rhythm on the table's edge. His expression had shifted—less playful, more thoughtful. Cold around the edges.

"Nothing," he said, brushing it off. "Just thinking."

He grabbed the nearest book without looking at the title, flipped it open, then snapped it shut again. "What if we did Human Transfiguration?"

Narcissa frowned. "That's N.E.W.T.-level theory. Complex, dangerous—"

"Challenging," James cut in. "You want something respectable. I want something interesting. This ticks both boxes."

She studied him carefully. "You've already read up on it."

"Just a little," he said, gaze flicking toward her with the ghost of a grin. "Might've poked around in the restricted section once or twice."

"You say that like it's something to be proud of."

He shrugged. "Depends on the results."

Narcissa sat back in her chair, arms folding. "Why Human Transfiguration?"

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair again. "What can I say? I like a challenge."

Her lips curled, half-smirk, half-skepticism. "Mhmm. Fine. Human Transfiguration. But you're doing half the research."

"Deal. I'll even try to spell my name right on the essay."

"A stretch, but I'll take what I can get."

They both leaned over the book, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the pages and the space between them. As they read, Narcissa caught him watching her once or twice—his gaze distant, calculating.

They shared a look—half a challenge, half something unspoken—and then she bent over her notes again.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.

"After lunch," he replied. "I'll even try to show up on time. Just for you."

"How gracious," she said dryly, gathering her things. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. You're not that charming."

"Oh, Nissa," James replied with a faint smile, "When are you going to stop pretending that you hate me."

"No one here is pretending, Potter. Don't be late."

Chapter Text

Act III Part 2

The next afternoon, the library was busier, but their usual corner remained undisturbed. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, slicing golden beams across the study tables. Narcissa dropped the heavy volume onto the table with a dull thud. Advanced Applications of Human Transfiguration, Vol. II. Its cracked spine and worn cover made it look older than either of them.

James raised an eyebrow. "Merlin, that thing looks like it bites."

"I rather like it," Narcissa said coolly, sliding into the chair opposite him. "Most students are too afraid to touch books like this. Fortunately, I'm not most students."

"No," James muttered, flipping the book open. "You're definitely not."

She either didn't hear him or chose not to respond. He wasn't sure which irritated him more.

For several minutes, they worked in silence, broken only by the scratch of quills and the occasional thoughtful hum from James.

Eventually, she glanced at his notes. His handwriting was neater than she expected. Dense with information, terms underlined and annotated with references she hadn't even considered yet.

"You're... actually good at this," she said before she could stop herself.

James shot her a sideways look, faintly amused. "Try not to sound so surprised."

"Just unexpected. You act like you couldn't care less in class."

"Maybe I just enjoy surprising people," he said, reaching lazily for another book. "Besides, Transfiguration's brilliant. Like... the magic of potential, right? Turning something ordinary into something else entirely. Sometimes something better."

Narcissa blinked, caught off-guard by the quiet sincerity in his tone. They sifted through the index in silence for a minute. James scanned quickly, his mind only half on the content. Macnair's face flashed in his mind—smirking, triumphant, untouched. Emma's terrified sobs still echoed in his ears.

He caught himself gripping the edge of the table a little too tightly.

"Here," Narcissa said, tapping the page. "This chapter. Temporary Morphological Overrides. Looks manageable." James nodded, eyes skimming over the opening lines.

In some cases of advanced human transfiguration, incomplete or rushed execution may result in the subject retaining partial traits of the transfigured form after reversion. These may include distorted bone structure, subdermal hardening, or altered facial features…

His fingers twitched around his quill. Distorted facial features.

He read the paragraph three more times, mind racing. A spell intentionally cast with a flaw. Imperfect execution leading to permanent results. He could ambush Macnair. Curse him from behind the cloak and leave no trace of his magic. He forced himself to keep his face neutral.

Beside him, Narcissa continued reading aloud, oblivious: "It's dangerous though. One misspell could leave you permanently disfigured. It's pretty risky. Do you think this would be a strong enough topic for McGonagall?"

"Oh, it's strong," James said. His smile returned, slow and easy. "Risky, a little dangerous, probably controversial. She'll love it."

"Alright then it's settled. Same time tomorrow?" Narcissa asked.

"No, after dinner tomorrow. We've got Quidditch tryouts in the afternoon," James replied as he rolled up his notes and slipped them into his bag.

Narcissa rolled her eyes, "Fine. Just don't be late, Potter."

"No promises," he said with a grin.

As she gathered her things, she allowed herself one brief glance back. He was already leaning back in his chair, spinning his quill between his fingers like he didn't have a care in the world.

But she knew better. His eyes had gone sharp again, focused. Calculating.

And Human Transfiguration, for all its technical complexity, was starting to look far too personal to him.

The fading echoes of cleats against the wooden floorboards signaled the last of the team heading out. The air still smelled of sweat, mud, and leather polish. A chill crept in through the cracked window, the autumn dusk bleeding orange and violet across the sky.

James toweled off his damp hair, sitting on the bench with a contented groan. "Well, that went all right."

Sirius flopped down beside him, shirt half-buttoned, grinning. "We're going to wipe the pitch with Slytherin this year. We're going back to back for sure."

Remus leaned against a locker, arms folded. "Don't jinx it."

They lingered in a comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the distant whistle of wind past the stone walls. Then James's face sobered. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"I've been working on something," he said quietly. "For Macnair."

Sirius looked up at once. "Finally. I was starting to think you were going soft."

Remus gave him a sharp look. "This isn't about ego, Padfoot."

James's expression didn't change. "It's about making sure that lot knows they don't get to walk away from what they did. Emma's still afraid to walk to class alone. Macnair did that. And he's smiling about it."

Remus exhaled. "All right. What's the plan?"

James reached into his duffel and pulled out the Marauder's Map. "We'll use this to track him. I want to catch him alone. Completely alone. No witnesses. No friends."

"Cloak?" Sirius asked.

"Of course." James nodded. "It hides me and my magical trace. I already tested it last week. Not even Filch's cat sensed me."

"And then?" Remus asked warily.

James tapped his fingers against the bench. "Then I hit him with a partial human transfiguration. Subtle, but irreversible. I've been studying it with Narcissa for our project."

Sirius's eyebrows rose. "Never thought I'd see the day. James Potter doing his homework?"

James gave a cold, thin smile. "What can I say? McGonagall would be proud."

Remus sat down across from him, frowning. "What are you thinking—full transformation?"

"No. Just part of the face. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to ruin that smug look for the rest of his life. I'm thinking… a boar's snout. Or half a lizard's face. Fangs. Pitted scales. Something that doesn't heal right, even with magic."

Sirius gave a low whistle. "Gruesome. I like it."

James glanced at him, and for a second, something in his eyes darkened. "It's what he deserves."

Sirius grinned. "You should hang him upside down afterward. From the arch of the Entrance Hall. Let the whole bloody school get a good look."

James actually chuckled at that. "Add a nice flair to it."

Remus looked between them, expression unreadable. "And no one will trace it back to you?"

James shook his head. "No. They might suspect. But suspicion's not proof."

Sirius clapped him on the back. "Just let me know when and where. I'll bring the rope."

Remus stood slowly, eyes shadowed. "Just be careful, James."

James looked up at him with cool determination. "We were careful last time. This time? We're going to make sure he never forgets."

The three of them stood there in silence, the air crackling with something heavier than electricity. The prank war was over.

The stone corridor was dimly lit, torches casting flickering shadows along the damp walls. Peter Pettigrew shuffled nervously just outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. He shouldn't be here—he knew he shouldn't be here—but his hands were clammy, and his stomach had been in knots ever since Quidditch tryouts ended.

Finally, the door swung open and out stepped Walden Macnair, tall, broad, and sneering. Beside him, Evan Rosier cracked his knuckles as if expecting a fight.

"What do you want, Pettigrew?" Rosier asked, his voice thick with disdain.

Peter flinched, then gave a weak, placating smile. "Nothing, really. Just—just thought you'd want to know something."

Macnair narrowed his eyes. "You've got about ten seconds to stop wasting my time."

Peter took a deep breath, trying not to stammer.

"I was walking by the Quidditch pitch earlier this afternoon. The others—James, Sirius, and Remus—they didn't know I was nearby. I overheard them mention your name, Macnair."

That got their attention. Macnair took a step forward, his lip curling.

"Go on."

"They weren't laughing. And they weren't talking about a prank," Peter continued, voice trembling slightly. "They looked serious. I—I couldn't hear much. Just something about you getting what you deserved."

Rosier sneered. "That could mean anything."

"I thought the same," Peter said quickly, "but the way they said it... I think they're planning something. I don't know what, but if I were you, I'd watch my back."

Rosier exchanged a look with Macnair, who crossed his arms. "You'd better not be wasting our time, Pettigrew."

Peter gave a nervous nod. "Just—just watch yourself, alright?"

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and scurried off down the corridor, the sound of his quick, retreating footsteps echoing off the stone.

Behind him, Macnair spat on the ground. "Fat bloody pig."

Rosier shrugged. "Still. Let's keep an eye on those Gryffindors."

The library's annex room was quiet, lit by enchanted lanterns floating high above the dusty bookshelves. The air smelled of parchment and ink and old spells—comforting, steady things. Narcissa Black told herself she came here for the quiet, for the academic rigor of their project. Not for the boy seated across from her.

James Potter lounged in the chair opposite, wand lazily twirling between his fingers as he flipped through the dense book on Human Transfiguration. His tie was loose, hair as wild as ever, and there was that perpetual glint in his eyes like he was always three steps ahead of everyone else—and delighting in it.

Narcissa forced herself to look back at her notes. Focus. Precision. Control. She was a Black, not some fluttery Gryffindor schoolgirl with a crush.

He'd mastered the hand-to-paw transformation in three tries.

She hated how impressed she was.

Potter used to be noise incarnate. All swagger and spectacle. Daring, but thoughtless. Laughing too loud, pulling pranks for attention, posturing with Sirius like they ruled the castle.

But this boy—this James—was quieter when they were alone. Not less confident, but... sharpened. Still maddening, still full of infuriating smirks and cheeky quips, but something about him had changed.

He was more deliberate now. More composed.

More dangerous, maybe.

And Narcissa liked dangerous. She always had.

"You're staring," James said, not looking up.

She snapped her eyes back to her notes, spine stiff. "I was scowling, Potter. Don't flatter yourself."

He chuckled under his breath. "Right. The signature Black family death glare. I'm quaking."

He should've been irritating. And he was. But it was different now. The irritation came with heat, with the slow thrill of challenge.

"Your ego is showing, Potter. You might want to Transfigure it into something more manageable."

"Too powerful a spell. Even for me." He winked, and she didn't stop the small smile that tugged at her lips.

It wasn't like her, this smiling-for-no-reason nonsense. Especially not for James bloody Potter. But something about him tonight—the way his voice was just slightly softer, the way he'd saved her a seat without asking—was disarming. And it wasn't the first time.

They began their work, easing into the practical aspects of partial transfiguration. Narcissa found herself watching him more than her wand movements—how his fingers moved, the effortless flicks of his wrist, the way he murmured incantations under his breath with precise control.

He made it look easy.

He was easy. In a way she hadn't expected. Not simple. Not shallow. But easy to be around, in the quiet spaces between conversation. She didn't have to fight for every breath with him. She didn't have to pretend she wasn't brilliant.

And he didn't pretend not to notice.

"You're doing the movements wrong," James said suddenly, nodding toward her model. "It's meant to be more fluid."

She groaned under her breath and started to correct it, but he stopped her hand gently with his own.

Narcissa blinked.

He didn't grip. Didn't force. Just lightly adjusted her wrist with the barest contact—his palm warm against hers, grounding.

"Here," he said quietly. "Like this."

Their eyes met briefly, and she didn't look away.

Merlin, he was beautiful when he wasn't being a menace.

"Thanks," she murmured, her voice losing some of its practiced chill.

He raised a brow. "Was that... genuine?"

"Don't get used to it."

"Oh, I will. I'm writing it down in the history books. 'Narcissa Black, gracious for one whole second.'"

She rolled her eyes, but this time her smile came easily. "You're an idiot."

"And yet here you are, voluntarily spending time with me."

"I'm here because I like Transfiguration."

"I'm here because I like you."

Narcissa stared at him. It wasn't even a line. It wasn't cocky or smug. It was said so casually, like it was just the weather—something obvious and certain.

And she didn't hate hearing it.

She didn't answer, just turned back to the textbook, flipping a few pages in silence to hide the rising color in her cheeks.

James didn't press. Just went back to his notes, humming softly under his breath like nothing had happened. Which somehow made it worse.

After a while, Narcissa broke the quiet.

"You're annoyingly good at this," she said.

James waved his wand with an effortless flick, and the model nose on the table transformed neatly into a fox's snout—sharp, elegant, and anatomically perfect.

Narcissa glared at it like it had personally insulted her.

"Do you ever not get it right on the first try?" she muttered.

He gave a lazy grin, stretching slightly in his seat. "Would it make you feel better if I said yes?"

"Not really. You'd still be lying."

"I'm just gifted," he said, as if it were the most obvious and natural fact in the world. "It's a burden."

"A burden," she echoed flatly.

James nodded, solemn. "One I bear with grace and humility."

Narcissa stared at him. Then at the perfectly transfigured fox nose. Then back at him.

"I hate you."

"You say that, but I feel like I'm growing on you."

"Like a fungus," she muttered.

James wiggled his eyebrows. "A devilishly handsome and genius fungus."

That did it. The corner of her mouth twitched, then curled fully into a laugh, light and reluctant.

James stared for a moment like he'd won something, and Narcissa, flustered, cleared her throat.

"Don't look so smug."

"Now it's far too late for that, Black."

"Merlin, you're so annoying Potter," Narcissa said, failing to hide her smile.

He was too good at this. Too fluid with the wandwork, too intuitive with theory. He grasped things she still had to puzzle out, and though that should've irritated her, it... didn't.

Not quite.

Narcissa was used to being the clever one. The composed one. And she still was. But she was beginning to see that James Potter wasn't just a reckless show-off. He was smart. Cunning, even. And beneath the easy charm was someone who could be calculated.

Someone she might've had something in common with—if they weren't on opposite sides of everything.

She hated how curious that made her.

"You're just mad because you can't help how funny I am," James said with a smirk, "You're pride just can't take it."

"My pride is intact," she said coolly.

James smiled, almost sincerely. "Oh, I'm sure."

She hated the way that smile made her stomach twist.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, scribbling notes, testing spells. Occasionally, his knee would nudge hers under the table, seemingly by accident. She told herself she didn't notice.

And then, she did notice the way he went quiet. Pensive. The playful light in his eyes dimmed, just slightly. Like he was thinking of something—or someone—that shifted his whole demeanor.

He closed the book slowly and stared at the cover for a moment.

"We should meet again tomorrow after dinner," she said abruptly, the silence unsettling her more than she wanted to admit. "We've still got a bit more to finish."

James looked up, the glint in his eyes returning as if nothing had happened. "You're obsessed with me, Black. I'm flattered."

"In your dreams," she snapped.

His grin widened. "Every night."

She made a show of collecting her things, hiding the stupid, traitorous pull of a smile that wanted to escape. She refused to let it win.

But as she left the annex, Narcissa didn't feel victorious.

She felt like she was slipping.

And part of her—against all sense and better judgment—was starting not to mind.

The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to glowing embers. Moonlight poured through the tall windows, casting silver light across the dormitory. Four beds stood in silence. Three boys sat on the edge of James's, speaking in whispers, their expressions taut with purpose. The fourth bed—Peter's—remained undisturbed, its occupant curled up and snoring softly.

James leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, wand rolling back and forth between his fingers.

"Tomorrow night," he said, voice low and flat. "We do it."

Remus nodded, brushing a hand through his hair. "I've been working on the compulsion charm. It won't be strong enough to make him do anything obvious—but just a nudge. A late-night walk. Enough to get him to the fifth-floor corridor, maybe around midnight."

"Macnair the Midnight Roamer," Sirius muttered, smirking. "He won't even realize what dragged him out of bed."

"He won't realize anything until it's too late," James said. His voice was calm—eerily so. "I'll wait under the Cloak. You two stay in the Entrance Hall. As soon as I'm done, you'll know."

Remus glanced over, hesitant only for a breath. "You're sure about the Transfiguration?"

"I've practiced it," James replied. "And I've reviewed the margins of every damn text we've studied. If I do it cleanly wrong—subtly—it'll scar. Reversible if you're careful. Irreversible if you're not."

He gave a wicked smile. "I'm not planning on being too careful."

Sirius's grin widened. "I've got the rope. We'll string him up by his ankles in the Entrance Hall. That way, the whole school can see what happens to bastards who carve up little girls."

Remus looked between them. "We're not just doing this to scare him."

"No," James said. "We're doing this so every one of them—Snape, Rosier, all of them—thinks twice the next time they even consider pulling their wands."

Sirius looked toward Peter's sleeping form and rolled his eyes. "What do we do about him? Should we let him in on this?"

James's eyes narrowed. "No. I love him but…He's been… twitchy lately. He warned us about Snape once, but I'm not sure if I trust him on this. Too much risk."

Remus gave a tight nod. "He can hear about it in the morning like the rest of them."

Silence settled over them again, broken only by the soft crackle of dying coals.

"You're really going to do the boar and lizard?" Sirius asked after a beat, eyes glinting with a mix of awe and amusement. "Why not something prettier, like a flobberworm?"

James snorted. "He's already got the flobberworm brain. I want this to last. I want him to wake up every day and see it in the mirror."

Remus's lips curled into something not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. "It'll be a mess when they find him."

"Good," James said softly. "Let it be a message."