October in the Scottish Highlands did not arrive gently. It descended in a mantle of bruised purple clouds, icy gale-force winds, and a driving, needle-sharp rain that churned the Quidditch pitch into a sea of black mud.
The wind howled down from the jagged peaks surrounding the castle, rattling the wooden beams of the stands until the entire structure groaned like an old ship at sea. Rain lashed horizontally across the pitch, reducing visibility to little more than thirty feet and turning the distant goalposts into grey, towering phantoms against the twilight.
In the Gryffindor stands, Lily was wrapped in three layers of wool, her red-and-gold scarf pulled all the way up to her nose. Her green eyes peered out over the soft knit, watching the chaotic, waterlogged drill unfolding in the sky. Her breath bloomed in thick, steady clouds inside her scarf, her boots numb against the slush-covered floorboards.
Beside her, Mary was huddled under a massive, shimmering blue warming charm that crackled against the wind, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets as she shivered violently. "I have lost all feeling in my toes," Mary groaned, her voice muffled against her collar. "If my feet turn black and fall off, Lily, I want you to tell my mother I died for a sport I don't even like."
Across the deluge-soaked pitch, the Ravenclaw front line was executing a tight, synchronized three-man weave. Leading their Chaser formation was Dorcas Meadowes. Even three hundred feet up in a freezing, horizontal downpour, Dorcas flew with an infuriating, razor-sharp elegance that made the gale look like a mild spring breeze. She pulled her broom into a steep, effortless arc, her long, dark braids flying out behind her like ribbons of wet smoke as she cleanly intercepted a sloppy pass, spun mid-air, and flipped the Quaffle behind her back with casual perfection.
Down in the Gryffindor stands, Marlene’s grip on the timber railing tightened so hard her knuckles turned stark white. A strange, strangled, breathless sound escaped the back of her throat, somewhere between an outraged gasp and a squeak.
"Breathe, McKinnon," Mary shouted over the deafening roar of the wind, her lips twitching into a wicked grin from beneath her warming charm. "She’s just catching a ball."
"I am breathing!" Marlene barked back instantly, a fierce, brilliant crimson blazing across her cheeks despite the sub-zero wind lashing her skin. "She’s just—her broom control is utterly reckless! It’s bad sportsmanship to look that relaxed in a storm like this!"
"Right," Lily cracked softly, her green eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "Extremely bad sportsmanship. It’s practically a crime against the game."
Up near the central goalposts, James and Sirius were hovering with absolute, terrifying calm.
Where the other flyers fought the ferocious mountain crosswinds with white knuckles and straining shoulders, the two of them held their positions as effortlessly as if they were fixed in stone. Water streamed in rivulets off the tail-twigs of their brooms, and the gale tore violently at their soaked scarlet robes, but neither boy so much as swayed in his seat.
Sirius rested his heavy, iron-bound Beater's bat casually across his thigh, his long fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm against the wet ash wood. Rain ran down the sharp line of his jaw and dripped from his dark, plastered hair, but his storm-grey eyes, fixed entirely on Dorcas Meadowes’s incoming dive, were sharp, hungry, and completely unblinking.
Beside him, James hovered half a broom-length ahead, his chin tilted directly into the biting Highland wind. His wire-rimmed spectacles were slick with water, yet his gaze remained locked onto the play with predator-like precision. He didn't adjust his grip on his cleansweep, nor did he shift his weight against the turbulence.
While the storm raged around them and the stands trembled below, James and Sirius simply waited, two boys completely in their element, holding the high air with the effortless authority of those born to command it.
James’s soaked scarlet robes whipped around his broad shoulders as his gaze parsed the chaos of the pitch in real time.
When Dorcas feinted left with that signature, fluid grace, attempting to draw him out of alignment, James didn't bite. He held his ground, staying low in his broom and signaling with a sharp, lightning-fast snap of his wrist to Weasley, who dived instantly into position to seal off the wing lane.
A split second later, a rogue Bludger tore through the freezing crosswind like a cannonball, screaming on a direct collision course for Weasley’s exposed flank. James didn't even flinch. Without taking his eyes off the Quaffle, he clipped Sirius’s shoulder with a brief two-finger sign. Sirius rocketed past in a blur of dark leather and spraying water, swinging his heavy ash bat in a lethal, precise arc.
The heavy iron ball vanished back into the grey gloom, smashed fifty yards downfield away from the play.
Gryffindor’s defense was no longer just four flying teenagers in a storm: it was an impenetrable, disciplined wall of red and gold. Every rotation was seamless, every lane covered, every threat neutralized before it could bloom.
When the long, shrill blast of the silver whistle finally cut through the howling gale, Gryffindor’s Seeker snatching the golden Snitch just six feet above the churning black mud, the stands erupted into a deafening, thunderous roar that shook the wooden timbers to their core.
Down on the field, as the flyers landed in the churning, rain-soaked mud, a wave of cheering Gryffindors surged past the wooden barriers. Lily stood near the lower steps, her boots caked in cold slush as she watched a Prophet stringer and a cluster of wide-eyed third-years try to surround James, shouting victory praise. Remus came jogging up from the touchlines, throwing dry towels over their shoulders while Peter cheered from the barrier.
For a brief, quiet second, James turned his head. Through the blur of steam, rain, and cheering students, his eyes met hers.
There was no theatrical flourish, no arrogant hair-flip, no boastful call across the mud. Just a simple, grounded look. He gave her a brief, respectful nod, then turned right back to his boys, slinging an arm around Remus and Sirius as they began the soggy trek toward the changing rooms.
The Gryffindor common room was a chaotic, suffocatingly warm sea of red and gold.
Outside, the rain lashed viciously against the high tower windows, but inside, the massive stone hearth roared with a crackling wood fire that threw dancing amber light across the squashy armchairs and thick scarlet rugs. The victory party was in full swing, foaming tankards of butterbeer were being passed around, a stack of enchanted records was playing upbeat jazz from the corner, and the air smelled rich with buttery pastry and woodsmoke.
Lily sat in the corner of a long, deep sofa near the fire, her knees pulled up to her chest, her fingers wrapped around a glass of butterbeer.
Beside her, Marlene was halfway through a wildly dramatic re-enactment of Arthur Weasley's third goal, using a half-eaten pumpkin pasty as a substitute Quaffle. "So Weasley comes in at a sixty-degree angle, completely ignoring the crosswind, mind you, and just swipes it past the keeper like this!" Marlene declared, thrusting the flaky pastry through the air with a vicious swoosh that narrowly missed Mary’s nose.
Mary was leaning back against the plush cushions, her face flushed from the hearth heat as she laughed softly, shaking her head. "Marls, if you drop pumpkin filling on this rug, Lily is going to make you scrub it with a toothbrush."
"It's about the art of the play, Mary!" Marlene insisted, though she hastily caught a stray crumb before it fell, shooting a quick, sheepish glance at Lily.
Across the crowded room, James was standing near the mantelpiece, surrounded by third and fourth-years asking about Quidditch drills.
He had changed out of his muddy flying gear into a dark burgundy jumper and plain charcoal trousers. His hair was still a bit damp, sticking up at odd angles. He was smiling politely at a younger student, nodding with genuine patience as he explained a Chaser maneuver, but every few minutes, his eyes drifted away from the crowd.
It wasn't the loud, obnoxious staring of their lower years, the kind where he’d catch her eye from across the Hall, blow a theatrical kiss, or mess up his hair to demand her attention.
It was different now. Maybe it was the heavy, sweet haze of smuggled liquor lingering in the air, or the soft lull of the rain outside, but the sudden warmth creeping up Lily's neck had nothing to do with the roaring hearth fire.
Every time Lily looked up from her glass, she found James’s eyes already on her across the warm, golden gloom of the room. He didn't turn away when she caught him, nor did he smirk or pull a face for Sirius's benefit. He simply held her gaze for a quiet, suspended second, his expression soft, grounded, and entirely unreadable, before casually looking back to whoever was speaking to him.
It was infuriatingly unhurried. There was no grand gesture in his look, no demand for an answer, no invitation to bicker. It was just a quiet, steady presence that made the surrounding chatter of the party fade into a low, distant hum.
Lily took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink. She tried to convince herself it was merely the firelight playing tricks, or that he was simply scanning the room out of habit as Captain. But every time her eyes drifted back over the rim of her glass, his gaze was right there waiting for her: steady, calm, and utterly undeniable across the crowded room.
It made Lily’s pulse pull a sudden, erratic stutter against her ribs. She took a quick, deep sip, feeling a strange, prickling heat rise to her cheeks.
Maybe he was back to being who he used to be?
Before Mary could see or suspect her further, a shadow fell over their table.
Sirius swung himself over the back of the neighboring sofa, landing with effortless, cat-like grace on the cushions right beside Marlene. He was holding a wooden tray stacked high with contraband butterbeers from Hogsmeade, his eyes shining with that familiar, infectious vitality. Remus stepped in right behind him, dropping into the deep armchair at the end of the table, his cardigan sleeves pushed up, his posture relaxed. Peter hovered near the armrest, happily holding a plate of cauldron cakes.
James followed a second later, walking over with his hands casually shoved into his pockets. Instead of crowding into Lily's space or taking the seat right next to her, he sank gracefully onto the rug at the edge of their circle, resting his back against the side of Remus's armchair, his long legs stretched out over the carpet.
"We brought offerings," Sirius declared, sliding three foaming tankards onto the low table in front of the girls. "Directly from the cellar of the Three Broomsticks, courtesy of a very generous seventh-year who shall remain nameless."
"You mean courtesy of your disillusionment charm," Remus corrected dryly, adjusting his sweater, though a faint, affectionate smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Semantics, Moony," Sirius waved off, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa and leaning in closer to Marlene. "So, McKinnon. I couldn't help but notice you nearly threw yourself off the stands when Ravenclaw's Chaser line took the field today."
Marlene nearly choked on her butterbeer. "I did not!"
"Oh, you absolutely did," Sirius grinned, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he leaned closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "You were practically hanging off the railing. If Meadowes had looked up, she would’ve seen you mouthing 'please hit me with a Quaffle.'"
Mary let out a sound like a dying teakettle, burying her face in the velvet sofa cushions to muffle her hysterical laughter.
"I was analyzing her broom technique!" Marlene hissed, her face burning a brilliant, undeniable scarlet that rivaled the Gryffindor tapestry behind her. She shoved hard at Sirius’s shoulder, though it didn't budge him an inch. "She’s our competition!"
"Right," Sirius nodded slowly, his stormy eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. "Her flight paths.”
"I was analyzing her flight vectors!" Marlene shouted over the music, her face flushing a brilliant, fiery red. "She flies dangerously close to the hoops! It's a tactical observation!"
"A tactical observation." Mary snickered, resting her chin on her hand.
Peter burst into a high squeak of laughter, and even Remus couldn't hide his quiet, amused chuckle behind his tankard.
Lily laughed out loud; a bright, clear sound that seemed to cut through the heavy noise of the common room.
They sat together by the fire for over two hours, sharing stories about ridiculous assignments, debating the worst pranks in Hogwarts history, and complaining about the mountain of essays waiting for them on Monday.
Sirius and Remus kept up their seamless, quiet dance, Sirius constantly leaning into Remus's space to steal food off his plate, and Remus casually swatting Sirius's hand away while never actually pulling back. When Sirius bumped his knee against Remus's under the table, Remus didn't move an inch. Mary caught Lily’s eye across the table, offering a knowing, amused eyebrow raise that made Lily bite her lip to keep from smiling.
And through it all, James remained grounded.
He didn't try to dominate the conversation. He listened, really listened, when Mary talked about her Muggle family's reaction to magic, and he laughed softly at Lily's sharp, dry wit. Every now and then, when the room got particularly loud, James’s gaze would drop back to Lily, holding her eyes with a quiet, protective warmth that felt entirely new, and entirely unfeigned.
When the clock on the wall chimed midnight, the party began to wind down. Students drifted up the staircases, leaving the common room quiet, bathed in the soft, glowing embers of the hearth.
Lily stood up from the sofa, smoothing down her skirt, feeling lighter than she had all term.
"Night, boys," Marlene said, stretching her arms over her head with a yawn. "Try not to set the common room on fire before breakfast."
"No promises," Sirius winked, tossing his empty tankard into the air and catching it.
Lily gathered her empty glass, stepping toward the spiral stairs. As she reached the bottom step, she turned around one last time.
James was still sitting on the carpet by the fire, gathering the empty glasses left on the table. He looked up just as she reached the stairs, his glasses catching the faint red light of the dying coals.
"Goodnight, Lily," he said softly, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet, empty room.
Lily paused, her hand resting on the smooth stone of the staircase banister. The word felt warm, steady, and strangely right in the quiet darkness.
"Goodnight, James," she replied softly.
She turned and walked up the stairs to her room, her heart beating a calm, rhythmic pulse in her chest, realizing that the long, cold war between them had finally come to an end.
The war outside Hogwarts was no longer a distant, abstract rumor confined to the smudged black-ink columns of the Daily Prophet. It had slithered through the castle's heavy doors, settling into the cold stone corridors like a persistent, unyielding dampness that no warming charm could quite touch.
Every morning when James walked down the marble staircase toward the Great Hall, the first thing his eyes searched out wasn't the Gryffindor table or the chaotic flutter of morning mail owls. It was the heavy wooden noticeboard pinned to the stone wall just beside the entrance doors. The parchments tacked to its oak frame changed daily, fluttering erratically in the freezing drafts that rushed up from the entrance hall like pale, dying leaves.
Ministry curfews enacted across Wiltshire and Kent. Updated emergency warding protocols for Muggle-born families. Missing person reports stamped with urgent, violet Ministry seals. Dark, heavy headlines tracking Voldemort’s quiet, ruthless expansion across the southern counties. Names James recognized: students who had graduated only a year or two prior, uncles of lower-years, shopkeepers from Diagon Alley were appearing in those narrow columns with terrifying regularity.
The atmosphere inside the castle was brittle, stretched so taut James felt as if a single loud noise might snap it clean in two. Even the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling seemed to absorb the grim reality outside, heavy with swirling, ash-grey clouds that dripped imaginary mist over the four long house tables. The usual morning roar of laughter and clattering silver cutlery was gone, replaced by a low, paranoid murmur of hushed whispers and the sharp, nervous rustle of newspaper pages.
He stood near the head of the long Gryffindor table, holding a half-eaten piece of toast he couldn't bring himself to finish.
Beside him, Sirius was staring straight ahead at a silver teapot, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched beneath his skin. Sirius never looked directly at the noticeboard anymore. He didn't have to; he already knew half the dark names linked to the attacks had the same blood running through their veins as he did. Across the table, Remus was methodically folding a copy of the Prophet, his eyes shadowed with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, while Peter quietly tracked the names on the corkboard from afar, his hands fidgeting with his napkin.
James looked past them, his gaze instinctively drifting down the bench.
Lily was standing by the noticeboard near the Great Hall doors, her dark woolen cloak pulled tight around her shoulders against the morning chill. She was reading a fresh notice, a Ministry advisory regarding Muggle-born safety precautions during term breaks. Her fingertips lightly brushed the ragged edge of the parchment, her green eyes sharp, fierce, and shadowed with a quiet, suffocating fear she was clearly trying to hide from the group of wide-eyed third-years clinging to her side.
A heavy, grounding weight settled deep in James’s chest.
Six months ago, he would have thought about war as an abstract concept; a grand, noble battle where courage, a flash of red light, and a clever spell would always win the day. Now, looking at the pale, exhausted faces of his friends, James knew better.
The danger wasn't coming; it was already here, seeping under the heavy oak doors of the castle, turning every corridor into a potential battleground.
James tossed his half-eaten toast back onto his plate and signaled with a subtle tilt of his head toward the side exit.
Without a word, Sirius stood up, his jacket squeaking against the wooden bench. Remus slipped his folded Prophet into his pocket, and Peter scrambled to keep up as the four of them retreated from the noisy bustle of the Great Hall into the quiet, shadowed alcove beneath the West Tower stairs.
Out of sight of the younger students, the mask Sirius wore in the Great Hall slipped instantly. He threw his back against the cold stone wall, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, his face pale and dark with an ugly, simmering rage.
"It was the McKinnons' neighbors in Somerset," Sirius said, his voice dropping into a raspy, quiet snarl. "The ones mentioned in the third paragraph. My dear cousin Bellatrix was probably holding the wand."
Peter swallowed hard, clutching his textbooks tight against his chest. "Are... are you sure, Padfoot?"
"Of course I'm bloody sure, Wormy," Sirius spat, though there was no real malice in it; just the raw, leaking poison of a wound that wouldn't close. "I know how her handwriting looks on a crime scene. She leaves the house burning. It's her little signature."
"Does Marlene know?" James asked quietly. He didn't ask how Sirius recognized the attack pattern; he trusted Sirius's knowledge of his family's dark methods implicitly.
Sirius shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair, leaving it even more disheveled. "Her parents sent a brief owl on Tuesday, told her there was a small fire down the lane and not to worry. They were trying to protect her. They didn't tell her the house was leveled."
"They're testing the perimeter," Remus said softly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he rested his shoulder against the damp masonry. "Somerset sits right on the edge of the Ministry's secondary warding network. If they breach those outer manors, the entire road to the West Country is completely exposed."
"Which means her family is in the direct line of fire," Sirius snarled, his fists clenching so tight inside his pockets that the leather strained. "And my bloody cousin is leading the charge."
"That isn't on you, Sirius," James said firmly, stepping directly into Sirius's line of sight, his voice leaving no room for debate. "None of that is yours to carry. Look at me."
Sirius blinked, his storm-grey eyes finally shifting away from the stone wall to meet James's steady brown gaze.
"We keep Marlene close," James continued, his tone measured and clear. "We make sure she doesn't go riding back to Somerset alone for the winter break. We talk to McGonagall if we have to, but we don't let her walk into a trap."
Peter swallowed heavily, clutching his textbooks tight against his ribs as he looked between the three of them. "Can... can we really stop them, Prongs? We're still students."
James adjusted the strap of his satchel, his jaw set in a quiet, unyielding line.
"Not for much longer," James said softly.
"And the Ministry's covering up the body counts," Remus added, his tone bitter and muted as his amber eyes fixed on the flagstones between his boots.
Peter whispered, his knuckles turning white around his satchel strap, "And we’re just... sitting in classes? Learning how to turn teacups into gerbils while people are being dragged out of their homes?"
The question hung heavy in the cold draft of the stairwell, bitter and unanswerable.
James looked at Peter. He could see the terror quivering in Peter's frame; not cowardice, but the very real, sickening dread of a sixteen-year-old boy realizing the castle walls wouldn't protect them forever. In eight months, they would leave for summer break.
What would protect them then?
The answer sat cold and heavy in the pit of James’s stomach: Nothing.
Not the Ministry, not the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts, and certainly not the magical borderlines drawn on a map by politicians who spent their afternoons denying the dark.
James looked at the three of them standing in the shadowed alcove, the damp stone leaching the morning heat straight out of the air, and felt the suffocating, sudden weight of his own growing up.
For five years, James had treated Hogwarts like a grand chessboard where he was the star player. He had spent his lower years convinced that courage was loud, that victory was measured in Quidditch cups and Gryffindor points, and that bad things were just temporary disruptions to his own golden story.
Then July had come, and with it, Sirius breaking through the Floo grate at the Potter manor at three in the morning: bleeding, bruised, and smelling of dark magic and his mother’s vicious curses.
That night, watching his parents tend to Sirius’s wounds while the war raged silently in the headlines, James had realized the truth. The world outside wasn't waiting for them to turn seventeen. It was already knocking on their door, clawing at the edges, devouring everything good and quiet and decent.
He looked at Sirius now, leaning his head back against the icy masonry, his eyes shadowed with a lineage he was constantly trying to burn out of his own skin. He looked at Remus, whose knuckles were still loosely resting near Sirius’s wrist—the quiet, instinctual anchor that kept Sirius from flying apart. James knew the silent, agonizing terror Remus lived with every single month, the fear of the monster inside him and the dark world outside that would execute him for existing if they ever caught him.
And he looked at Peter, whose pale face was bathed in the dull grey light of the West Tower stairwell, terrified of a future he didn't know how to navigate.
By mid-morning, the heavy silence from the Great Hall had followed them all the way up the winding stone stairs into the High Tower classroom. Outside, the Highland rain lashed relentlessly against the narrow, lancet windows, casting a dreary, slate-grey wash over the high-ceilinged room. Inside, the chill was pervasive, smelling of old stone, dried lavender, and the sharp, metallic tang of ink.
In Transfiguration, McGonagall’s sharp, authoritative voice echoed off the high stone walls as she broke down the precise wand movements for human cross-species transfiguration. The crisp, rhythmic tap of her chalk against the slate board drew intricate geometric diagrams: arcs, vectors, and incantation stress points that felt impossibly complex, yet grimly necessary.
Beside Lily, Marlene was furiously taking notes, her quill scratching against her parchment with enough violent force to tear the delicate paper. Ink blotted in thick, dark pools at the turns of her letters, but Marlene didn't stop to blot them or dip her nib with her usual care. Her posture was locked tight, her knuckles stark white against the dark wood of her quill, her jaw set so hard the muscles in her cheek twitched with every stroke.
Lily watched her out of the corner of her eye, her own wand resting untouched beside her open textbook.
Marlene was pretending her parents’ owl that morning had been nothing; a brief, casual letter about a minor chimney fire down the lane in Somerset. She had even forced a brittle, airy laugh at the breakfast table, tossing the letter aside and complaining about how her mother always made a drama out of bad masonry.
But Lily had seen the way Marlene’s hand had trembled when she folded the parchment back into her pocket during breakfast. She had seen the faint, subtle grayness around Marlene’s mouth, and the way her eyes had darted frantically to the headlines of the Daily Prophet before burying her face in her pumpkin juice.
Across the central aisle, the rest of the sixth-year Gryffindors were equally subdued.
Sirius sat slouched in his chair, his head bowed over his desk. He wasn't taking notes. His eyes were fixed intently on the back of Marlene’s head, his expression drawn in a dark, agonized shadow that Lily had rarely seen on him. Beside him, James had his textbook open, but his brown eyes kept drifting away from McGonagall's chalkboard, alternating between a protective watch on Marlene and quiet, grounding glances toward Lily.
Even Professor McGonagall seemed to feel the invisible thread stretched to its snapping point across the room.
As she finished outlining the delicate wrist-turn required for partial facial transfiguration, her voice faltered for a fraction of a second. A heavy, unspoken shadow passed over the Professor’s stern face, a flicker of profound, devastating sympathy that she masked almost instantly behind her rigid professional demeanor.
"Precision in this branch of magic is paramount," McGonagall said, her voice dropping into a low, grave register that commanded total silence. "A distraction of even half a second during the incantation does not merely result in a failed attempt; it results in permanent, irreversible anatomical damage. You must keep your minds entirely present in this room."
Marlene’s quill snapped cleanly in half.
The sharp crack echoed through the quiet classroom like a miniature gunshot. A thick blob of black ink spat across her parchment, ruining three full columns of desperately scribbled notes.
Marlene didn't gasp. She didn't cry out. She simply stared down at the broken pieces of feather in her hand, her shoulders beginning to shake with a quiet, terrifying dread that she could no longer write away.
Professor McGonagall paused, her hand hovering over the chalkboard. She looked at Marlene’s bowed head, then let her arm drop to her side. Without a word of reprimand, she tapped her desk with her wand, softly brightening the lamps around the room.
"That will be all for today," McGonagall said softly, her voice stripped of its usual sharpness. "Pack your belongings. We will resume practical applications on Friday."
Before the rest of the class could even begin shuffling their parchment, Lily had already acted. She quietly reached across the desk, vanishing the spilled ink with a swift Scourgify and sliding Marlene’s ruined notes out of sight. Mary immediately wrapped her arms around Marlene’s shaking shoulders, steering her out the side door before the lingering crowd of students could stare.
They pulled Marlene into a recessed window seat in a deserted corridor two floors down. The rain hammered relentlessly against the leaded glass behind them, casting long, dark shadows over the stone bench.
"I'm fine," Marlene choked out, her hands pressed flat against her face as she tried furiously to pull herself together. Her voice was thin, trembling, and entirely stripped of her usual fierce swagger. "I'm being stupid. It was just a chimney fire. Mum said—"
"Marlene, stop," Lily said gently, kneeling on the cold floorboards in front of her and pulling Marlene’s hands away from her face. "You don't have to do that with us. You don't have to pretend."
"She was lying to me, Lily," Marlene whispered, a tear finally spilling over her lashes and tracking down her flushed cheek. "My mum's handwriting... she was shaking when she wrote it. She never shakes. And the Prophet this morning—"
"We know," Mary murmured, pressing her forehead against Marlene’s hair, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. "We know, Marls."
Heavy, slow footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Lily looked up, expecting to see a Filch or a patrolling teacher, but it was Sirius. James and Remus were standing thirty paces back near the top of the stairwell, quietly keeping watch to give them space, but Sirius had walked over alone.
He had his hands shoved deep into his trousers' pockets, his hair falling wildly over his forehead. For once, there was no smirk on his face, no theatrical swagger in his stride. His eyes were fixed on Marlene with a grim, fierce understanding.
"Black," Marlene rasped, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her robes, trying desperately to armor herself again. "If you're here to joke—"
"I'm not," Sirius interrupted quietly, stopping a few feet away. He pulled his hands from his pockets and crouched down so he was at eye level with her.
He didn't offer a soft comfort he couldn't back up, nor did he tell her everything was going to be alright. Instead, he looked at her with an absolute, unyielding intensity.
"My family are monsters, McKinnon," Sirius said, his voice low, raspy, and dead serious. "I know how they think, and I know how they strike when they want to send a message. But you listen to me: you are not going down to Somerset alone. If your family needs help, if you need a place to go, you have us. All of us. We won't let them touch you."
Marlene stared at him, caught completely off guard by the sheer, protective fury burning in his eyes. The last brittle wall of her defense crumbled, and she let out a long, shuddering breath, nodding weakly.
"Thanks, Sirius," she whispered.
Sirius gave her a brief, solid nod, reached out to clamp a hand over her shoulder for a brief second, and then stood up, turning to rejoin James and Remus at the end of the hall.
Lily’s chest tightened with a strange, unbidden warmth. They weren't making a scene out of Marlene’s grief. They weren't turning her family’s danger into a Gryffindor crusade. They were just... standing there, ready to hold the line. She smoothed down her robes, taking a breath to step over to Marlene, when three figures stepped out from the shadowed recess of the stairwell.
"Look at this," a smooth, cruel voice sneered, cutting through the chatter of students leaving Transfiguration. "The Gryffindor saints playing heroes in the hallway."
Mulciber and Avery strutted out into the light, their traveling cloaks heavy around their shoulders, their hands resting casually near their wand holsters. Mulciber’s face was twisted into a bitter, arrogant smirk, his eyes burning with a malicious, simmering heat that focused instantly on Lily and Marlene.
Standing five paces behind them, half-dissolved in the deep shadow of a vaulted window arch, was Severus.
Lily’s breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes locked onto Severus for a terrible, agonizing second. He didn't step forward. He didn't say a word. He stood motionless in the gloom, his long black sleeves folded over his chest, his pale face unreadable, his eyes fixed firmly on the stone floor at his feet.
"Move along, Mulciber," Lily said, stepping sideways to block Marlene from his view, her voice dropping into a firm, commanding register as her hand moved instinctively to her wand. "Class is over."
"Heard about the fires down south, Evans?" Mulciber mocked, taking a slow, menacing step into her personal space. "Must be terrifying, knowing your kind is being hunted down like feral dogs outside these walls. You think a little silver badge is going to keep you safe when the real fight starts?"
"Mulciber," Lily said, her jaw clenching, her fingers closing tight around the smooth wood of her wand. "Back off."
"It's disgusting," Mulciber spat, stepping closer until the tip of his wand was drawn and hovering three inches from Lily’s face. The air between them turned instantly foul with the faint scent of ozone and dark magic. "Filthy Mudbloods shouldn't even be allowed to hold a wand, let alone walk these corridors. It's only a matter of time before—"
"Lower your wand, Mulciber."
The voice didn't come from a distance. It didn't shout. It was a cold, terrifyingly calm directive that cut through the drafty corridor like a steel blade.
James stepped into the space between them.
He didn't draw his wand with a dramatic flourish. He didn't throw out a cocky taunt or demand an audience. He simply placed his broad frame squarely in front of Lily, taking Mulciber’s wand tip onto his own chest like a solid stone wall.
Mulciber’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. "Get out of the way, Potter. This doesn't concern a pure-blood traitor like—"
Before Mulciber could finish the sentence, James moved. It was a movement so fast, so fluid, and so devoid of hesitation that it barely seemed real. Without drawing his wand from his hip, James flicked his wrist from inside his sleeve.
A silent, blinding flash of scarlet light erupted between them. Mulciber’s wand flew instantly from his grip, shattering against the stone ceiling above them. Before Avery could even raise his hand, James took one authoritative step forward, his wand tip resting precisely over Mulciber’s sternum.
The corridor went dead, suffocatingly quiet.
James’s eyes behind his spectacles were completely devoid of their usual warmth. They were hard, sharp, and icy cold—the eyes of a young man who was done playing games.
"If you ever point a wand at her again," James said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made even Avery take an involuntary step back, "I won't bother disarming you. Now take your friend and get back to your dungeon."
Mulciber massaged his bruised hand, his face pale with humiliation and fury. He shot a vicious glare at James, then at Lily, before turning on his heel. Avery hurried after him down the dark stairs, their heavy robes snapping around their ankles as their frantic footsteps faded into the hollow echoes of the lower dungeons.
In the deep shadows of the window arch, Severus stayed still for one terrible, agonizing second.
The pale, silver moonlight cutting through the leaded glass illuminated the sharp, gaunt lines of his face. His eyes flicked to Lily; raw, hollow, and overflowing with a dark, bitter shame that cut deeper than any physical blow. He didn't look at James. He didn't look at the wand James had drawn. His gaze was fixed entirely on Lily, searching her face for something: forgiveness, anger, or perhaps just a remnant of the friendship they had once shared.
But he said nothing. He didn't utter a single word in her defense, nor did he step out of the shadows that claimed him. With a sharp, silent turn, he retreated down the corridor, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he vanished into the gloom without ever having raised his voice to protect her.
Lily stood frozen in the hallway, her hand clutching her wand so tightly her fingers ached. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, the ringing silence in the corridor suddenly louder than the confrontation that had just ended.
Every instinct honed over five years of relentless bickering screamed at her to prepare her defenses. She waited for James to turn around with that old, familiar smirk, waiting for him to toss his hair back, boast about how easily he’d handled two seventh-years, or make some insufferable joke about how she owed him a favor now. She expected him to use Severus's silence as a weapon, to slide seamlessly back into his theatrical persona and demand her gratitude.
But the boast never came.
Instead, he smoothly slid his wand back into the inner pocket of his robes, his posture steady and completely devoid of arrogance. He stepped closer, stopping a respectful few feet away, far enough to give her space, but close enough to keep her safe in the dark.
His brown eyes searched her face, quiet, grounded, and filled with a gentle, serious concern.
"Are you alright, Evans?" he asked softly, his voice low and calm, carrying none of the performative edge of his younger years.
He didn't mention Severus. He didn't bring up Mulciber. He didn't demand an acknowledgment of what he had just done. He simply stood there in the freezing draft of the West Tower, an unyielding anchor in the dark, waiting only to make sure she was safe.
Lily swallowed hard, her hand still trembling slightly against her wand holster as her long-ingrained defenses kicked in. "I... I had it under control, Potter. You didn't need to—"
"I know you had it under control," James interrupted gently, his tone holding not a trace of sarcasm or condescension. He adjusted the strap of his satchel on his shoulder, his gaze lingering on her face for a quiet, respectful moment. "You didn't deserve that vile rubbish from them. Take care of yourself, Evans."
Without waiting for a response, without asking for a thank you, and without looking back, James turned and walked back to where Sirius and Remus were waiting, his solitary footfalls echoing off the flagstones until he rejoined his friends.
Horace Slughorn’s quarters were stifling. The air was thick with the scent of pipe tobacco, heavy floral perfume, and the sickly-sweet aroma of crystallized ginger. Charmed glass lanterns hovered near the ceiling, casting a warm amber glow over dark mahogany tables laden with silver platters of dragon-tartlets and goblets of elf-made wine.
James tugged slightly at the high collar of his charcoal dress robes. He hated these things.
Slughorn had kept the invitation list for the sixth-year class ridiculously tight tonight; only three of them had made the cut. Lily for her undeniable genius in Potions, Snape for the exact same reason, and James simply because Slughorn couldn't resist a Potter with a famous father. Sirius had laughed when the gold-embossed parchment arrived in their dorm, telling James to bring him back three pasties and a flask of firewhisky, but standing here without Sirius or Remus to trade sarcastic glances made the room feel twice as suffocating.
James stood near a high bookshelf, holding a butterbeer he hadn't touched, his hazel eyes scanning the room over the top of his glasses.
He hated the way Slughorn collected people. To the professor, students weren't teenagers with fears, flaws, or futures; they were investments. James’s father, Fleamont, had warned him about these dinners years ago: "Horace means well, James, but he trades in potential. Don't let him put a price tag on yours."
Across the velvet-draped room, Snape stood lurking near Slughorn’s private apothecary cabinet, pretending to examine a glass jar of pickled Bicorn horns. He looked as out of place as James felt. Every so often, Snape’s black eyes would flicker toward the far window, toward Lily, before snapping back to the cabinet with a raw, agonizing twitch of his jaw.
James watched the exchange with a quiet, hyper-aware stillness. He saw the way Snape hovered on the periphery, desperate to be valued by Slughorn’s influential guests, yet entirely incapable of shaking off the dark shadows already wrapping around him.
He shifted his gaze to the far window.
Lily was standing in simple, tailored burgundy dress robes that made her auburn hair look like spun copper in the lantern light. She looked completely out of her element among the chatting seventh-years and visiting Ministry officials, her fingers clenching her goblet tight.
James knew exactly why she was holding her breath. Slughorn had spent the first twenty minutes of the evening parading her around the room, introducing her to a senior official from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes with his usual well-meaning, utterly patronizing spiel: "A Muggle-born, mind you! Absolute natural talent!”
Lily had smiled politely, nodding through her teeth, but James had seen the muscle jump in her jaw. He knew how hard she worked. He knew she spent hours in the library dissecting theoretical chemistry alongside magical synthesis, earning every single mark through pure, relentless brilliance. To have it framed as a curious anomaly, a parlor trick for a Muggle-born, was an insult wrapped in silver foil.
She shouldn't have to stand there alone, he thought, his knuckles tightening slightly against his glass.
James didn't need to make a spectacle. He didn't need a bravado-fueled rescue. He just needed to use Slughorn’s own massive vanity against him. He didn't draw his wand or make a scene. He simply set his untouched glass down on a side table and walked straight into the circle, placing his broad frame squarely into the gap between Lily and Slughorn.
"Professor Slughorn, forgive the interruption," James said smoothly, his voice pleasant and completely relaxed. He flashed Slughorn a polished, charming smile; the kind his father had taught him to use at formal Ministry dinners. "I was actually hoping to catch you before dinner."
Slughorn blinked, turning his round face away from Lily. "James, my boy! What is it?"
"My dad sent an owl this morning regarding the volatile crystallization process of African Sea-Salt in the Draught of Living Death," James lied effortlessly, stepping further into Slughorn's field of vision to cast a broad physical shield in front of Lily. "He mentioned you two had a massive debate over heat thresholds back in '52, and I promised him I’d get your definitive word on it."
Slughorn’s eyes lit up like Christmas candles. His vanity instantly swallowed the bait. "Fleamont said that?! Ha! Typical Fleamont! He always insisted on three hundred degrees, but any master knows the salt breaks at two-eighty! Come, James, let me explain the balance!"
Slughorn threw a heavy, affectionate arm around James's shoulders, steering him away from the window toward the center of the room so he could gesticulate wildly about thermal thresholds and potion stability. The Ministry official eagerly followed them, hungry to hear more ancient gossip about Fleamont Potter.
As he was led away, James shifted his weight just enough to look back over his shoulder.
Free from the suffocating circle, Lily stood near the velvet drapes, her shoulders dropping as she took her first real, deep breath of the evening. Her fingers slowly unclasped from her goblet.
Through the golden haze of the floating lanterns, her green eyes met his. James didn't wink, he didn't smirk, and he didn't take credit for the maneuver.
The formal dinner table in Slughorn’s quarters was draped in heavy, dark velvet, lit by floating silver candelabras that cast a flickering, golden glow over the polished mahogany. Silverware clinked against fine china, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted duck, warm spiced wine, and Slughorn’s endless, boisterous laughter.
Lily sat near the middle of the table, feeling the suffocating weight of the room. Across the wide table, Severus sat in stiff silence, his dark eyes fixed on her with that familiar, desperate intensity. Every time Slughorn paused for a breath, Lily braced herself for Severus to speak, her fingers clutching her napkin in her lap.
Then, James shifted in the seat right beside her.
Because Slughorn had only invited three sixth-years, James had smoothly claimed the chair to Lily’s right at the start of the meal, effectively placing his broad shoulders between her and the rest of the room. At first, Lily had been grateful for the buffer. But as the dinner wore on, a new, far more disorienting feeling began to take root in the pit of her stomach.
James had unbuttoned the collar of his charcoal dress robes against the heat of the hearth, rolling his sleeves back by a single cuff to reveal his forearms. The candlelight caught the rich, warm bronze of his skin, a striking, golden undertone against the stark white of his tailored shirt.
Lily’s eyes involuntarily flicked down as he reached for the heavy silver pitcher in the center of the table.
He tilted the vessel, leaning slightly closer to fill her empty crystal goblet with cool, spiced pumpkin juice. As he lifted his arm, the fabric of his sleeve pulled taut. Lily’s breath hitched in her throat. She found herself hyper-fixated on the movement: the long, elegant fingers gripping the silver handle, the subtle flex of muscle beneath his tanned skin, the faint blue trace of veins along his wrist, and the clean scent of rain, cedar, and soap radiating off him in the warm air.
"There you go, Evans," James murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear it beneath Slughorn’s loud tale of a Ministry duel.
Lily swallowed hard, her throat suddenly feeling bone-dry despite the drink in front of her. "Thanks," she managed, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.
As he pulled his arm back, his shoulder brushed casually against hers: a brief, electric point of contact through the fabric of their robes that sent a sharp prickle of heat straight down Lily's spine.
She didn't move away. Neither did he.
The surrounding dinner chatter, Slughorn's booming laughter, the clinking of silver spoons, and the Ministry official’s soft murmur of agreement all seemed to drop off a cliff, fading into a distant, muffled hum.
Lily slowly turned her head to look at him. Up close, stripped of his usual theatrical posture or Quidditch mud, James was... terrifyingly handsome.
She'd have to be a fool to not realize that.
His dark, thick hair was as unruly as ever, sticking up at the back from his habitual tugging, but in the dim, golden glow of the floating candelabras, it framed a sharp, structured jawline that had lost every last trace of boyhood softness over the summer. His spectacles sat slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose, and behind the glass, his gaze was locked entirely onto hers. James didn't say anything. He simply held her gaze in the quiet, suspended space between them, his breathing slow and steady against the frantic, erratic pulse fluttering in her own throat.
Slowly, effortlessly, a small, quiet smile tugged at the corner of his lips; not the arrogant smirk he used to flash at the entire Gryffindor table, but a private, devastatingly intimate smile meant only for her. His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, dark and liquid, filled with an unhurried, grounded warmth that made Lily’s heart give a violent, uneven thud against her ribs.
Her eyes dropped, traitorously, to his mouth, then back up to those deep brown eyes.
She felt a sudden, frantic wave of heat flush up her neck and flood her cheeks.
Across the table, Severus said something in a quiet, tight voice, trying to catch her attention. But Lily barely heard him. The clinking goblets, Slughorn’s roaring voice, and the dark shadow of the war outside the castle all seemed to blur into static background noise.
All she could feel was the steady warmth of James’s shoulder pressed lightly against hers, the lingering scent of cedar in the air, and the overwhelming, terrifying realization that James Potter wasn't just growing up; he was becoming something else entirely.
Lily barely tasted the roasted duck on her plate or heard a single word of Slughorn’s boisterous stories about his favorite Ministry connections. Every nerve in her body felt hyper-tuned to the man sitting beside her.
She tried desperately to tied herself in her old defenses, reminding herself of every arrogant thing he had ever said in their lower years. But every time she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, the illusion shattered. His deep brown eyes, rich and dark as dark amber beneath his spectacles, held a steady, unhurried warmth. He was so completely, undeniably there, anchored in his own skin, offering her a silent sanctuary without ever demanding a single thing in return.
By the time Slughorn finally called an end to the evening, raising a final glass of port to his "extraordinary young talents," Lily felt practically dizzy with relief and a strange, lingering restlessness.
"Allow me, Evans," James murmured as they stood up from the mahogany table.
He slid her chair back for her with effortless grace, his fingers brushing lightly against the small of her back, just enough to guide her smoothly out of the crowded room, his broad frame casting a protective shadow between her and the lingering gazes of the older students.
The heavy doors of Slughorn’s quarters clicked shut behind them with a dull, heavy thud, cutting off the stifling wall of pipe tobacco, roasted duck, and boisterous laughter in an instant.
They stepped out into the long, drafty stone corridor of the dungeon level. The night air here was blissfully, cuttingly cold, washing over Lily’s heated skin like ice water. She closed her eyes for a brief second, taking a long, deep breath that burned sweetly in her lungs, smoothing down the front of her burgundy dress robes as she tried to force her erratic pulse back into a steady rhythm.
Her neck and cheeks were still flushed with heat, not from the stifling hearth inside, but from the quiet, terrifying intensity of the last twenty minutes at the table.
"You alright?" James asked softly.
He paused beside her in the torchlit hallway, keeping a respectful distance of a few feet. His glasses caught the soft flicker of the wall sconces, framing an expression that was gentle, attentive, and thoroughly grounded. There was no teasing in his tone, no hidden demand for an invitation into her thoughts, just an easy, quiet concern.
"Yes," Lily said, her voice coming out softer, lower than usual. She looked up at him, her green eyes meeting his in the dim light. "Much better now that we're out of there. I think if I had to listen to Professor Slughorn explain the theoretical applications of dragon dung for another five minutes, my head would have exploded."
A small, quiet smile touched the corner of James’s mouth: soft, genuine, and entirely free of his old arrogance. "He means well, Evans. He just... likes the sound of his own voice a bit too much."
"A bit?" Lily echoed, a breathless, faint laugh escaping her before she could stop it.
For a fraction of a second, the heavy weight of the term seemed to lift from her shoulders. Standing here in the quiet, drafty corridor with James felt strangely safe, like stepping into a calm pocket of air in the middle of a gathering storm.
Before James could reply, a sudden, harsh rustle of robes echoed from the darkness further down the hall. The sound was sharp, abrasive, cutting straight through the quiet stillness.
A tall, dark figure detached itself from the deep gloom of a stone archway near the empty Alchemy classroom, stepping directly into the flickering ring of torchlight.
Lily’s smile vanished instantly. Her heart, which had just begun to settle, gave a hard, sickening thud against her ribs.
He stood in the cold draft of the corridor, his dark clothes draped heavily around his gaunt frame, his pale skin stark against the dark stone wall behind him. His hands were clutched tightly at his sides, his eyes were fixed on the two of them with an intensity so raw, bitter, and suffocating that it made the air in the hallway freeze.
He hadn't left after slipping out of Slughorn’s quarters. He had been waiting in the shadows.
Beside her, James didn't flinch. He didn't reach for his wand, nor did he slip into an aggressive, taunting stance. But Lily felt the immediate, subtle shift in him, his shoulders squaring, his posture locking into a quiet, vigilant readiness as he shifted his weight just an inch to the left, instinctively keeping himself between Lily and the shape in the hall.
"Severus," Lily said quietly, her voice steady despite the sudden tightness in her throat.
"Enjoying the party, Lily?" Severus asked, his voice low, raspy, and dripping with a bitter, venomous edge that echoed hollowly off the stone walls. "Is this what you've lowered yourself to?"
He took a sharp, trembling step forward out of the shadow of the archway, eyes locking onto her with a suffocating, possessive intensity.
"After everything? After all your speeches about arrogant bullies and their vanity? You sit at his elbow all night? You let him pour your drink?"
James took a sharp, deliberate step forward, his broad frame cutting off Snape's line of sight to Lily. His jaw was set so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.
"Severus, stop," Lily said immediately, her voice dropping into a low, firm warning. She tried to step around James, putting herself back between the two of them, her chin lifting in defiance. "You shouldn't be standing out here waiting for me. You have no right—"
"I saw how you looked at him!" Severus hissed, stepping closer, his voice cracking with an ugly, desperate rage that echoed off the cold flagstones. "I saw you at that table, Lily! You spent years treating him like filth—as he deserved—and now what? A few months pass, he stops shouting in the hallways, and suddenly you’re hanging on his every word?"
James’s self-control snapped. He stepped directly into Snape’s space, crowding the narrow hallway with a silent, terrifying authority. The warmth had vanished entirely from his eyes; behind his spectacles, his gaze was dim, razor-sharp, and burning with a deadly, quiet heat.
"That's enough," James growled. His voice wasn't the boisterous boom of his younger years; it was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated with suppressed violence. "You don't speak to her like that, Snape. You don't lurk in the shadows like a coward and berate her because you can't stand seeing her breathe without your permission."
Snape flinched back a fraction of an inch, his hand twitching instinctually toward his robe pocket, but James didn't give him room to breathe.
"You lost the right to speak to her months ago," James continued. His shoulders shook subtly with the sheer physical effort of holding himself back, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "She doesn't owe you an explanation for who she sits next to, who she looks at, or how she spends her night. So turn around and walk away before I forget that we're standing right outside Slughorn's door."
Severus flinched as if she had struck him across the mouth. His pale skin turned a mottled, sickly white, his eyes flickering with a terrible, hollow ruin. He didn't look at James. His gaze dragged past James’s broad shoulder, searching Lily’s face for a single sign of contradiction; a sharp reprimand directed at Potter, a denial, a sliver of the girl who used to defend him on the castle grounds.
Lily didn't contradict James. She didn't step back.
She stood her ground, her chin tilted up, her green eyes clear and filled not with hatred, but with a quiet, devastating finality.
"He's right, Severus," Lily said quietly, her voice cutting clean through the drafty corridor. "You don't get to lurk in shadows to corner me. You don't get to judge who I speak to, who I sit with, or how I live my life. You threw that right away by the lake."
Severus swallowed hard, his throat working tightly against his high collar. For a terrifying, silent beat, it seemed as though he might explode; as though the murky, poisonous grief boiling inside him would tear right out of his chest. His fingers twitched near his robe pocket once more, but when his gaze met James’s unyielding, razor-sharp glare, the fight vanished out of him, leaving only a bitter, hollow husk.
"You'll regret this, Lily," Snape whispered, his raspy voice trembling with an ugly, quiet malice. "You'll see what he really is. You'll see what all of them are."
Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel. His obscure robes snapped violently around his ankles as he retreated down the corridor, vanishing into the heavy gloom of the dungeons without looking back once. The echo of his retreating footsteps faded into the cold stone, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
James stood motionless in the center of the hallway, his posture still locked tight, his chest heaving as he fought down the lingering adrenaline. Slowly, deliberately, he uncurled his knuckled fists. He blew out a long, shaky breath that bloomed white in the freezing air, then turned around to face her. The terrifying, lethal authority in his expression vanished instantly, replaced by quiet, hyper-aware concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly, searching her face through his wire-rimmed spectacles.
Lily looked at him, really looked at him.
She saw the lingering tension strung tight across his broad shoulders, the subtle tremble in his hands, and the clear, grounding warmth in his eyes.
"I'm fine," she murmured, though her voice shook slightly as the adrenaline bled out of her system.
She cast one last glance down the dark, empty archway where Severus had vanished, feeling a faint, aching sting for the memory of a childhood friend who was well and truly gone, before turning her full attention back to James.
"Thank you, James," she said softly.
He blinked, caught completely off guard by her use of his first name, spoken without a trace of hesitation, annoyance, or the weary sigh she used to attach to it.
A faint, warm flush crept up the back of his neck, but he didn't smirk, and he didn't make a joke to deflect the moment. He simply gave her a small nod, stepping slightly to the side to give her room as they turned toward the stairwell.
"Come on, Evans," he said gently, his voice low and steady against the quiet draft of the hall. "Let's get out of the dungeons."
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