Archive of Our Own

Summer 1978

Emmeline Vance is not a pretty girl.

This is the first sin.

The second sin comes in August of 1978, when she is sitting on a hospital cot at St. Mungo’s, watching Mary Macdonald run a wand slowly down her forearm to knit the skin back together. The second sin comes as Emmeline watches Mary purse her lips and knot her brow, as Emmeline tries not to shiver from the strange, tingling sensation of magic mixed with blood mixed with pain. The second sin is that Emmeline looks at Mary Macdonald and thinks, before she can even try to stop herself,

I’m in love with you.

Mary looks up, and catches her staring. She smiles.

“What?”

You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life, Emmeline thinks. She clears her throat.

“Nothing. Just—are you done?”

Mary tuts, shaking her head, turning her attention back to Emmeline’s arm. She adjusts her grip, fingers wrapping lightly around Emmeline’s wrist, and Emmeline feels each point of contact like fiendfyre bursting beneath her skin.

“Patience,” Mary admonishes, “Or else there’ll be a scar. Just give me a moment…”

Her voice trails off, the way it always does when she’s focusing on something. Emmeline recognises that cadence, recognises the pinched expression on her face, the knotted brow. It’s the way Mary always looked in Astronomy, squinting into the telescope and then pursing her lips as she turned down to scribble notes on her star chart, leaning forward so that stray curls fell forward to brush at her cheeks. Emmeline remembers those evenings so clearly—an entire night sky of stars off the edge of the tower, and yet the only thing she could ever gaze at was Mary Macdonald.

She’s staring again. She blinks, and forces her eyes away.

Normally, Emmeline would be better prepared. Normally, she’d see Mary Macdonald at carefully specified times—in their shared Astronomy class, across the Great Hall at mealtimes, browsing the aisles of Honeyduke’s on a Hogsmeade weekend—where she knew what to expect, knew how to walk the line between stolen glances and moon-eyed gazing. Emmeline has had lots of practice keeping her eyes away from the things she wants.

But she wasn’t expecting this. She wasn’t expecting Mary here, in St. Mungo’s, wearing those stupid lime green robes that she somehow still looks radiant in. She knew Mary was planning to train as a healer, yes, and she knew, theoretically, that that meant Mary would likely be spending quite a bit of time at St. Mungo’s. But somehow…well, somehow Emmeline had just sort of figured that once they both left Hogwarts, they’d never see each other again.

And that was fine.

That was fine.

It wasn’t like they were ever anything more than the loosest of friends, forged only in the fires of convenience and coincidence. There were very few students in their year who continued on with Astronomy for NEWTs, and so when they both showed up to the first day of class and found everyone else paired off, it just made sense that the two of them would sit down at the same empty desk. It just made sense that Mary would smile, and say hi, Emmeline, right? It just made sense that Emmeline’s heart would jump in her chest. It just made sense.

But that was Hogwarts. And this is not. This is summer, 1978, and Emmeline is training to become an Auror, and living in a small, dingy room, and attending secret meetings where she has to answer questions or give passwords at the door. She is fighting for something bigger than herself, even if her self is the only person that she’s fighting for. Everyone’s got their reasons for joining a war, and Emmeline doesn’t really think it matters if hers are better or worse than anyone else’s.

“There,” Mary says, smiling again like the sight of her crooked teeth isn’t enough to stop Emmeline’s heart in her chest, “All done.”

Emmeline looks down at her forearm, skin unblemished and smooth. Mary’s fingers are still wrapped around her wrist.

“Excellent work, Healer Macdonald,” Emmeline says, lips twisting into the dry smile she’s perfected over the years. Mary’s nose scrunches up a bit, the way it does when she’s pleased but trying not to show it.

“I’m not a healer yet,” she replies, rolling her eyes, still smiling. Emmeline quirks a brow, sardonic, because sincerity is not an option—not for girls like her. Girls like Emmeline learn young and fast that hearts are something to be buried beneath thick, thick skin, shields tough enough and hard enough to protect the fragile insides. The world is unkind to ugly girls. It tramples them underfoot; you become a stone or you shatter, and Emmeline is not the kind of girl who lets herself break.

Not even for someone like Mary Macdonald.

She opens her mouth to say something, but another trainee pokes their head in the room to tell Mary she’s being called to another wing, and Emmeline’s wrist feels cold as Mary releases her grip. She smiles back once more as she leaves, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes as she says,

“It was nice to see you, Emmeline. Take care.”

Emmeline nods, and watches her walk away.       

*  *  *

Autumn 1978

In September, she breaks her wrist. It’s an accident, of course—Dorcas Meadowes has only recently joined their Auror training, and though Emmeline remembered that she was a good student back at Hogwarts, she had no idea that the girl was so powerful. Emmeline gets a little too close during one of their drills just as Dorcas casts a confringo, and she finds herself flying back across the room and landing hard on her left wrist when she flings her arms out instinctively to catch herself.

Mary tuts when she sees her, sitting on the same cot in St. Mungo’s where she sat a month before. The training wing, where they send simple, non-emergency cases for the trainee healers to work on. The secretary at the desk told Emmeline there was a healer available in the spell damage ward, but Emmeline said it was alright. Might as well leave the experienced healers free in case an emergency case comes in, right?

“Thought I told you to take care,” Mary says, shaking her head as she moves over to examine Emmeline’s arm. Emmeline shoots her a dry smile and a one-shouldered shrug.

“Life of an Auror, Macdonald. Danger lurking around every corner.”

“Oh, please,” Mary rolls her eyes, “I’d think a Ravenclaw would be clever enough to keep out of trouble.”

“I’d think a Gryffindor would be more impressed by my daring feats.”

“You mean your lack of self-preservation? Hardly impressive.”

“Who says it’s a lack of self-preservation?” Emmeline raises a brow, “Maybe I just fancied a trip to St. Mungo’s.”

Mary snorts, finishing her diagnostic spells and summoning a potion from the cabinet in the corner.

“Here,” she says, pressing the potion into Emmeline’s uninjured hand, “Drink up.” She smiles smugly as Emmeline chokes down the skele-gro, raising a sarcastic brow and asking,

“Remind me why you’d fancy a trip to St. Mungo’s again?”

Emmeline shudders, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“For the pleasant company and delightful refreshments, clearly,” she croaks, tongue still bitter with the taste of the potion.

Mary laughs, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

“Right,” she shakes her head, chuckling, and begins to move towards the door, “It was nice to see you, Emmeline. Let’s hope we don’t do it again anytime soon though, yeah?”

*  *  *

In November, Emmeline attends her first ever Sirius Black Birthday Bash. His parties were always legendary, back when they were in school, but Emmeline never really strayed to parties outside the ones held in her own common room. They’re not in school anymore, though, and in lieu of the Gryffindor common room Sirius seems determined to cram every Order member under the age of 30 into his tiny, one-bedroom flat. Emmeline bumps into Frank Longbottom the second she steps through the door.

“Hello there, Vance,” he laughs good-naturedly as Benjy steps through the door behind Emmeline, elbowing her and causing her to jostle Frank even more.

“Frank!” Benjy crows, just as eager and delighted as he always seems to be about everything.

“Fenwick,” Frank grins, and the three of them manage to squeeze out of the narrow entryway and into the main living space of the flat.

Alice is already there, glancing back like she’s wondering where Frank went—when she spots Benjy and Emmeline, she smiles and waves. The four of them have been spending quite a bit of time together these past few months; Frank and Alice are some of the youngest Aurors in the department, and since both of them are in the Order it only makes sense that Moody pairs them up with Emmeline and Benjy whenever it’s time for the trainees to go and get field experience. Dorcas Meadowes often ends up tagging along, though as a latecomer to the program she was never assigned a set partner. She’s here, too—brushing a strand of Marlene McKinnon’s hair out of her eyes as the taller girl leans down to tell her something. There’s Lily Evans and her boyfriend, James Potter, over on the sofa, with Sirius squished between them and sitting halfway on Potter’s lap as he waves his hands in animated speech. Peter Pettigrew is off to one side, talking with the Prewett twins, and Remus Lupin is stepping out of the kitchen, levitating a tray of drinks with the help of—

Oh.

Emmeline pauses in the doorway, staring at Mary Macdonald.

The lime green healer’s robes are gone, replaced with muggle clothes—a mini skirt, hugging her hips and revealing soft, dimpled thighs. Emmeline’s mouth waters. She looks away.

Logically, it makes sense that Mary is here. She was friends with Sirius back in school—friends with just about every Gryffindor, really. But she’s not in the Order—Emmeline would have seen her at meetings, if she was in the Order—and everyone else here is, and Emmeline thought…

Well. She just wasn’t expecting to see her, that’s all.

She just might have dressed a bit differently, maybe. Something other than worn-out jeans and a baggy t-shirt. That’s all.

Really, that’s all.

Mary looks up, smiling, just as Emmeline looks back at her, and when their eyes meet a strange expression passes over the other girl’s face, smothering her smile momentarily. But then it’s back, in the blink of an eye, and she mouths hi from across the crowded room. Emmeline gives an awkward little wave.

It doesn’t take long for the drinks to disappear, only to be replaced by a bottle of firewhisky that makes its way around the room until it’s running dangerously low. Around midnight, Alice and Frank take their leave, and the Prewett twins follow not long after. Emmeline wonders if she should go, too—aside from Dorcas Meadowes, everyone left is a Gryffindor, and she feels a bit like she’s crashing some sort of house reunion. She tries to catch Dorcas’s eye, to see if the Slytherin feels the same way, but Dorcas is still glued to Marlene’s side, playing absentmindedly with a strand of her hair, expression faraway.

Huh. Emmeline watches the two of them for a moment, blinking.

“Emmeline!” Lily Evans calls her over to the sofa, where she’s seated beside Mary, “Come here! We need you to settle this debate.”

Emmeline does not settle the debate. She’s not even entirely sure what exactly the debate is about—some complex healing potion property that her drunken mind is too fuzzy to follow. All she knows is that she’s sitting on the sofa, her thigh pressed against Mary’s. She can feel the other girl’s body heat through her jeans, smell the scent of her shampoo every time she leans in a little to reply to Lily’s points. Emmeline keeps her hands on her lap, all too aware that if she moved her pinkie just a few centimetres she’d be touching Mary’s bare skin.

Remus and Dorcas slip out the door together. Sirius and Marlene begin singing along to Bowie. James finds a pack of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, and he and Benjy begin competing to see who can catch one in their mouth first. The conversation shifts away from potions and over to quidditch—specifically, Mary and Lily start to commiserate over the quidditch fever that the rest of their friends all suffered from in school, a topic which Emmeline can actually join in on. She never gave a toss about the sport either; like most of the muggleborn students who grew up with football, she found quidditch somewhat baffling.

Remus and Dorcas return, eyes suspiciously bloodshot. Dorcas leads a swaying Marlene over to the sofa, forcing everyone to cram closer together. Now Emmeline’s shoulder is pressed against Mary’s. As they keep talking, Mary gives a little sigh, leaning even closer so that her head is resting on Emmeline’s shoulder. Her curls tickle Emmeline’s neck. Her shampoo smells like citrus, bright and clean.

The people in the room come and go, reconfiguring their arrangements. Marlene disappears, at some point. So do Remus and Sirius. When Marlene reappears, she’s dragging Peter behind her. James switches spots with Dorcas. Benjy tries to do a headstand, for some reason, which draws both James and Lily off the sofa to make sure he doesn’t break his neck.

Emmeline is aware of it all, vaguely. She says goodbye to Benjy when he leaves—or at least, she thinks she does—and another goodbye to Lily when she heads out with both James and Peter. But it’s not until Marlene drags Dorcas, giggling, into the kitchen that Emmeline finally looks around and realises that somehow, she’s ended up alone on the sofa with Mary Macdonald.

Their legs are still pressed together. Mary’s head is still on her shoulder.

Emmeline clears her throat.

“It’s, um…getting late, I suppose.”

An understatement—it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning. She didn’t even realise how much time had passed.

“Mm,” Mary hums, nuzzling sleepily into Emmeline’s shoulder. She adjusts her arm, letting her hand rest on Emmeline’s thigh. Her skirt is riding up. Emmeline’s mouth is very dry.

“Oi, sleeping beauty,” Emmeline says, trying to keep her voice dry and sarcastic instead of rotted soft with hopeless fondness, “D’you need some help getting home, or anything?”

Mary yawns, sitting up slightly to stretch. Her back arches, and Emmeline—Emmeline’s going to need another drink. She flushes, tearing her eyes away.

“Nah,” Mary mumbles, rubbing at one eye, “Marlene’s my roommate. M’just waiting on her and Dorcas.”

“Oh.” Emmeline blinks; then,

“Her…and Dorcas?”

Mary’s eyes pop open, and for a moment she looks guilty—but then her jaw sets, chin jutting forward slightly and she eyes Emmeline up and down with a wary look.   

“Yeah,” Mary raises a brow, “Why? Something to say about it?”

Emmeline nearly laughs. Look at me, she wants to say, Do I look like I’d have something to say about it? But instead, she just shakes her head.

Mary nods, once, and then they’re just sitting, just staring at each other on the sofa in Sirius Black’s living room. Emmeline swallows. Mary’s lips are slightly parted, soft and round, the bottom one slightly longer than the top. Emmeline has to stifle the urge to reach out and touch, to trace a finger around the edges, memorising their shape.

“How are you friends with Sirius?” Mary asks.

Emmeline’s eyes snap up. Mary is watching her, and Emmeline knows—she knows that Mary must have seen her staring, but she doesn’t pull back. She doesn’t move closer, either.

“What?”

“I didn’t know you were friends,” Mary tells her. Her voice is light, conversational, but there’s something heavy in her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Emmeline collects herself, falls back into her wry smile. “Apologies for neglecting to send you advance notice.”

Mary’s lips twitch, but her eyes remain steady, boring into Emmeline until she feels like a fish with a hook punched through its mouth.

“You know what I mean,” Mary says, lifting the hand on Emmeline’s leg to nudge playfully at her shoulder, and Emmeline thinks she does—thinks she understands the question, lying beneath Mary’s words, but…she’s not supposed to talk about it. None of them are; the only people meant to know about the Order are Order members. And Mary isn’t one. All of her friends are, but not her.

Emmeline wonders how that happened.

Mary’s still waiting for an answer, so Emmeline shrugs, casually, like she can’t still feel the lingering burn of Mary’s fingertips pressed against her shoulder.

“I dunno. Benjy’s friends with him, I guess, and I’m friends with Benjy, so…friends by association, I suppose.”

Mary watches her, for a moment, eyes lingering, like she’s searching for something.

“By association,” she echoes. The truth sits heavy, an elephant in the corner of the room.

Before either of them can say anything else, Dorcas and Marlene come stumbling back out of the kitchen, Marlene groaning and leaning heavily on Dorcas’s shoulder.

“C’mon,” Dorcas says, struggling to keep the taller girl upright, “If we don’t get her home soon she’ll be sick all over the carpet.”

Mary and Emmeline stand at the same time, stepping apart, and Emmeline murmurs,

“I should get going, too.”

Mary glances back at her as she moves to help Dorcas with Marlene, smiling, that same heavy something still lingering in her eyes.

“See you around, Emmeline,” she says, “Take care.”

*  *  *

Winter 1978-1979

“Please, Emmeline,” her mother begs, “It’s Christmas.”

Emmeline stares down at the dress laid out on her old twin bed. She swallows.

“Alright.”

Isabelle Vance is a beautiful woman. Even now, approaching fifty, she is still delicate, dainty, pixie-featured and silky-haired. Before she was a beautiful woman, she was a pretty girl, and she has always moved through the world with her beauty rolled out before like a carpet, announcing her presence even as it softens her footsteps.

Emmeline Vance is not a pretty girl, and she will never be a beautiful woman. She takes after her father—broad shoulders and squared features, hands with thick fingers and wide palms. Butcher’s hands. Better for holding a carving knife than a perfume bottle.

When she was little, her mother paid one of the women at church to give Emmeline piano lessons. She butchered it—hardly even managed Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, fingers clumsy against the keys. She’s never been any good at sewing, or crotchet, and she was always more interested in what happened when she mixed the baking soda with vinegar than she was in actually helping with any of her mum’s baking endeavours. Time and time again, she has watched her mother’s hands move, nimble-fingered, and failed utterly at any semblance of imitation.

Her mother’s frustration was never any secret in the Vance household. You’re not trying, Emmeline—if you just had a little patience, you’d be able to do it! In a way, the Hogwarts letter and the upheaval of their lives that came with it was almost a relief. (Here is what’s wrong. Here is the difference. Here is why you don’t fit.) At Hogwarts, at least, everyone wore the same robes. Nobody ever handed Emmeline a dress and demanded she wear it.

The church pews are full of the same people as always. Older women in their Christmas finery, pearls pulled like ropes of intestines from dusty boxes in the backs of closets. Young couples, people Emmeline recognises—the same kids that used to sneer at her on the playground, the girls that giggled behind small hands as the boys jeered at her. Are you a girl or a boy? Emmeline can still find the ghosts of those mean, childish smiles on their faces when they see her now, in this dress that sits wrong on her body, that clings where she doesn’t want it to, that offers her no protection. She is a gingerbread girl, left too long in the oven, baked out of shape; swollen and cracked and crumbling. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows it.

She hates coming back here.

The Lord Be With You, says the pastor.

And Also With You, echoes Emmeline, echoes her mother, echoes everyone festering in these pews. Her voice is only one out of many, but it rings like a gunshot through her throat all the same.

*  *  *

Spring 1979

In March, it’s a broken leg. Mary tuts and shakes her head and leaves her hand resting on Emmeline’s knee, even after she’s finished the diagnostic. She looks so good in lime green. How does she look so good in lime green?

In April, it’s tongue-tying curse, in the most literal sense of the term. Benjy sits in the chair beside Emmeline’s cot and cackles with laughter as Mary stares down in dismay at the horrible pink rope of Emmeline’s tongue, hanging out of her mouth and snarled into something resembling a snake trying to eat its own tail. Emmeline glares at Benjy, which only makes him laugh harder. Mary has to call in another healer to help unpick the curse. She places a hand beneath Emmeline’s chin to steady her as the more experienced healer gets to work, fingers firm against her jaw. Her hands smell like soap and nothing. They are warm—they are so very warm.

In May, the death eaters get creative with poisons, and Emmeline ends up in St. Mungo’s overnight after a mishap at a charity banquet that she and Alice were meant to infiltrate. Alice is good at that sort of thing—undercover work. Emmeline is not. She ends up in St. Mungo’s, vomiting until her stomach feels like a clenched fist, like a hard, angry stone, unrelenting. Mary stays with her, all night, even when Emmeline begs her to leave. She rolls her eyes and vanishes the mess (again, and again, and again) and pushes Emmeline’s sweaty hair away from her sweaty face, gently, palms cool against fevered skin.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Emmeline chokes out, so disgusted with herself that she wants to crawl out of her skin.

“Oh, please,” Mary huffs, like that is the most ridiculous thing she has ever heard in her life. Emmeline gags, and retches, and Mary raises a brow and lifts her wand, ready to clean up another mess.

In June, with the sunshine loud and bright, Emmeline gets hit with a horrible new cross between a full-body bind and a time-delay hex that the death eaters have started using, one that leaves her temporarily paralysed with no counter-curse. They’ve been using this one for a few weeks, so there’s already a protocol in place for it; apparate the paralysed agent back to Order Headquarters, where it’s safe to wait out the spell. Except Benjy is across the room, and Frank and Alice are fighting off four death eaters between the two of them, and none of them have time to get to Emmeline before the sadistic fucker she was duelling breaks three ribs, one hip, dislocates a shoulder.

At least—that’s the diagnostic she gets at St. Mungo’s. When it’s happening, all Emmeline knows is that pain is shattering her from the inside out, and she can’t so much as flinch. She passes out on the way to the hospital. She wakes up again, and Mary is there.

“Back again, Vance,” Mary says, smiling, though her voice is trembling slightly as she stares down at where her wand hovers just above Emmeline’s skin. Emmeline rolls her head to the side, because that’s the only piece of her left that she can move.

“Hey, Macdonald,” she croaks—her throat feels raw. Screaming. She remembers, then stops herself from remembering. “Come here often?”

Mary huffs a laugh, exasperated and tinged with something that might be relief.

“You gave me a fright,” she murmurs, as a bruise shrinks and melts away beneath her wand.

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

Mary rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. Her magic tickles the surface of Emmeline’s skin, mixing with the dull, throbbing ache and the cool air of the hospital room. Emmeline doesn’t ask about where her Auror robes have gone, trying not to feel self-conscious about the fact that there’s nothing but her underwear and a thin hospital blanket protecting her modesty. The vest she was wearing under her robes is old, sweat-stained, pushed up over her ribcage to leave her stomach bare. Even though she very purposely does not mention it, Mary must sense the awkward stiffening, because she glances up briefly with an apologetic grimace.

“I, er…I had to take some of your clothes off. To make sure I was setting the bones properly. Sorry—I’ll get you a gown, I’ve just got to finish this…”

“It’s fine,” Emmeline assures her quickly (too quickly?). She stares up at the ceiling while Mary finishes her work, just so that she doesn’t have to watch the other girl’s hands hovering centimetres away from her own bare skin.

A few minutes pass in silence. Emmeline grits her teeth. When Mary finally drops her wand, Emmeline releases a long, shaking exhale, trying to breathe through the lingering pain.

“Can you feel it?” Mary asks, a note of surprise in her voice.

“What?”

“Are you in pain?”

“Are—oh. Yeah. I…I can’t move, but the spell doesn’t take away…sensation.”

“Shit,” Mary mutters, frowning, “Why didn’t you say anything? I’d have given you a pain potion—hang on…”

She turns and mutters to herself, waving her wand and summoning a potion bottle into her hand. Emmeline swallows, feeling sheepish and chastened and sort of like she might cry.

“You were working,” she mumbles. Mary glares at her, stepping back over to the side of the bed and lifting the potion as though to pass it to Emmeline. When both of Emmeline’s arms remain, immobile, at her sides, Mary hesitates, the glare replaced by something more like embarrassment.

“Right—” she clears her throat, “Sorry, I’ll just…”

Mary hesitates for another moment, staring down at Emmeline, and Emmeline can do nothing but stare back up. Her heart is rioting inside her chest. If it throws itself against her ribs any harder, it’ll crack them again.

After an awkward pause, Mary clears her throat again, using her free hand to tug the blanket at Emmeline’s waist up so that it covers her torso. If she could move, Emmeline would shiver at the sensation of the cloth dragging across her skin. As it is, she just swallows, throat dry. Mary perches gingerly on the side of the mattress, her body hot like June sunshine, radiating. She leans forward, and slides her fingers under Emmeline’s chin.

“Tilt back a little,” she murmurs, voice suddenly quieter, words caught in the space between them. Emmeline tilts her neck back as much as she can against the pillows propping her up, and Mary whispers, “Good—like that.”

Emmeline breathes in, out. Mary says, “Open your mouth.”

Emmeline opens her mouth.

The rim of the potion bottle is cool against her lips, smooth, clear glass. Mary holds it carefully, allowing the weight to settle against Emmeline’s bottom lip, using her other hand to steady Emmeline’s chin. Her fingertips brush against Emmeline’s jaw, a gentle touch. Emmeline opens her mouth wider, accommodating, and feels her jaw shifting beneath Mary’s hands.

“Good,” Mary whispers.

She tilts the potion bottle, slowly. Cool liquid slides into Emmeline’s mouth, across her tongue, down the back of her throat. Emmeline closes her lips around it, careful not to let any spill, swallowing and swallowing, feeling the movement of her throat against Mary’s fingertips. Mary keeps tilting the bottle, not stopping, not giving her a break. Her eyes are on Emmeline’s mouth, on her working jaw, on her bobbing throat. There’s something dark in them, something dazed and sort of heavy, like she’s hypnotized—like she couldn’t stop if she wanted to. Emmeline keeps drinking, trying to breathe through her nose, because if she opens her mouth now the potion will spill from her lips, will dribble down her jaw and over Mary’s fingers, and she doesn’t want—she wants—

“Just a little more,” Mary whispers. One of her fingertips slides along the line of Emmeline’s jaw, like she’s stroking it. “You’re almost done.”

Emmeline swallows. Mary watches her. The potion is wicking away all the pain, leaving behind something else—an embering heat, like the pit of her belly is suddenly full of hot coals. Inside her immobile body, Emmeline is twitching, shivering, thrashing like an animal. She wants to bite the neck of the potion bottle, to crack the glass with her teeth. She wants to lick the palm of Mary’s hand, and every sacred finger.

The last of the potion disappears down her throat. The pain goes with it. The heat remains.

For a moment, Mary’s hands linger, pressing the empty bottle against Emmeline’s lips. Then she draws it away, carefully. Emmeline licks her lips, the medicinal taste still lingering on her tongue. Mary’s eyes follow the motion, stuck on her mouth. Emmeline doesn’t think either of them are breathing.

“Um—”

Mary clears her throat, cracking the silence, like breaking a spell. She jerks herself off the bed, turning away, voice a bit strangled as she says, “That should help—”

“Do you want to get coffee with me?” Emmeline blurts. Mary freezes.

Fuck, Emmeline thinks, Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. She feels disgusting, like something cringing away from itself, a grindylow crawling out of the muck with grasping, webbed fingers.

Then Mary says, “The coffee they serve in the café here is shit,” and Emmeline’s heart restarts in her chest.

“Well,” she says, trying hard not to sound so breathless, “I suppose we’d have to go somewhere else then.”

Mary grins.

*  *  *

Summer 1979

They get coffee. Once, twice, then again. It’s like being back in the Astronomy tower, sort of, except there’s no professors to shush them, no star charts to complete, no telescopes to squint through—just quiet, happy chatter, conversation that comes easier and easier, until hours slip through their fingers like water and they’re leaning so close across café tables that their noses nearly touch.

As July begins to blister, heatwaves that send sweat skittering down their necks like beetles, they swap coffee for ice cream, trying every single flavour at Florean Fortescue’s and walking through Diagon Alley with sticky hands wrapped around wafer cones. Mary tells Emmeline about her hometown and her family, her little sister and her big brother, her mum and her dad and her grandparents. She talks about why she chose healing, the beauty and the joy and the fear of holding someone’s life in your hands, of feeling your own power to hurt or to help so acutely, of choosing, every time, no matter what, to help. Mary talks about the dirty looks she sometimes get, the handful of patients who have requested a different healer, the one man who demanded, over and over again, to know who her parents were, and called her a mudblood once she finally gritted her teeth and said they were muggles.

“You’re a better person than me,” Emmeline scowls, kicking at a bit of loose cobblestone under her feet, “I’d’ve let him bleed out right then and there.” Mary laughs like she’s joking.

She’s not joking.

Sometimes, they talk for so long that the sun starts to set, dappling orange light over Mary’s skin until she is Midas-touched, golden and glowing, a bonfire of a girl. Sometimes—more and more often—they’ll find themselves in parks, dodging lazily buzzing bees, pausing at the edges of ponds to watch the sunset get caught in the water’s surface. Sometimes, Emmeline will say something that makes Mary laugh, and she’ll duck her head and her curls will fall forward and she’ll look up at Emmeline through her eyelashes, somehow, even though they are almost the exact same height. She’ll look up, and Emmeline will look down, and the centimetres between their lips will feel like a breath that is being held by all four of their lungs.

I’m in love with you, Emmeline thinks, and she knows that is unforgiveable.

But she stopped searching for forgiveness a long, long time ago.

There’s a Friday in August where Emmeline and Benjy are leaving the Auror office at the exact same time as Alice and Frank—no missions for the evening, miraculously—and Alice suggests that they all grab a pint at the Leaky. Dorcas is heading out too, and Alice grabs her arm and says,

“C’mon, get out of your bloody shell for once!”

Dorcas rolls her eyes, looking down her nose at them.

“Why the hell would I want to spend any more time than I had to with you lot?” she asks, sneering ‘you lot’ with the same intonation that a particularly snippy grandmother might lambast the ruffian neighbourhood kids trampling all over her flowerbeds.

Alice says, “Fair point,” while Benjy swoons dramatically, clutching his heart, and Emmeline shoots her a dry smile. Dorcas’s lips twitch, like she’s holding back a smile of her own, and Frank shakes his head.

“None of you have any manners,” he sighs.

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Longbottom,” Dorcas says snidely, with an overdone posh accent that makes Alice cackle.

“I think we’re being very polite!” Benjy protests, “It’s good manners to help your friends be less boring!”

“Not your friend, Fenwick,” Dorcas calls over her shoulder as she strides towards the floo. Benjy clutches his heart again, and she rolls her eyes as she disappears into the green flames.

“At least I’ve got you, Em,” Benjy sighs, leaning heavily on her shoulder as he finishes pretending to stumble back with the force of his breaking heart. Emmeline shoves him, and he yelps, and Alice laughs again as she claps her hands.

“Drinks then, c’mon!”

“Er—hang on, sorry,” Emmeline interrupts, as the other three head towards the floos, “I’m supposed to meet a friend tonight…”

“Invite them along!” Alice shouts, pointing at her. “We’re already down a man tonight, Vance; I won’t have us losing another!” With that, she throws a handful of floo powder into the fireplace, and Emmeline watches as she’s swallowed by the green flames. She bites her lip, wondering if she should just ditch the others—but Alice always gets what she wants, one way or another.

So that’s how Emmeline ends up at the Leaky Cauldron, squeezed into a booth between Benjy and Mary as Alice slides in next to Frank on the other side and sets down the drinks she’s levitated over from the bar. Emmeline is so, so aware of Mary’s leg pressed to her thigh, of Mary’s breath against her cheek, the warmth of it when she laughs. She is so aware of Mary. She feels foolish, like a moth, something stupid and drawn to heat.

They drink. Too much, maybe—probably. It’s fine. Alice spills into Frank’s arms and out the door, and Benjy is only wobbling a little by the time he sees himself out. Emmeline shoves her hands into her pockets and stands next to Mary in the doorway, trying desperately to think of a reason to stay here, together, just a little bit longer.

“Do you smoke?”

Emmeline blinks.

“Yes.”

She’s never touched a cigarette in her life.

Mary takes her hand and guides her back, into the alley, throwing a smile over her shoulder like a knife. They lean against a dirty brick wall, and Emmeline thinks that Mary Macdonald is probably the prettiest thing that has ever touched this sour-smell, shadow-sunk stone.

“Here,” Mary says.

Emmeline sticks the cigarette between her lips, the way Mary’s done, and then Mary says,

“Come here,”

And suddenly their heads are close, so close, nothing but two cigarettes between their lips. Mary tugs on Emmeline’s t-shirt a little, until the tips of their cigarettes are touching, and then she holds her wand beneath them and mumbles a spell under her breath that makes a tiny flame leap to life. The cigarettes glow orange, bright, and Mary sucks in a breath, so Emmeline does, too. She can taste the smoke in her mouth—harsh, acrid—but she can’t feel it in her lungs, so she thinks she’s probably doing something wrong. Mary blows out a stream of white smoke, and raises an eyebrow at the rapidly fading glow of Emmeline’s sputtering cigarette.

“Thought you said you smoke?”

Emmeline puts the cigarette between her fingers, letting it go out.

“I don’t,” she confesses—because she’s had too much to drink tonight, maybe. Probably. Mary exhales more smoke. It smells awful. Emmeline wants to kiss her.

She doesn’t know what part of her face is betraying her, but Mary must see something there, because her eyes drop to Emmeline’s lips as though she’s reading her mind. She brings her hand up to her mouth, takes the cigarette out, tip still glowing like an ember. She exhales. More smoke. She leaves her mouth open, just a bit.

Emmeline sways forward, and then her hand is wrapped around the back of Mary’s neck, and Mary’s got one hand fisted in her t-shirt, and their noses are pressed together, foreheads touching, lips—

“Wait,” Mary gasps.

Emmeline freezes. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and Mary’s forehead against hers is burning like a fever. Their mouths are so close that she can feel the movement of Mary’s lips as she speaks, even when her voice is nothing more than a whisper, nothing more than a breath, exhaled like smoke.

“Wait.”

“Mary,” Emmeline says. Please, she thinks, please.

“I need you to tell me something,” Mary whispers. Her voice is a frayed thread, something about to snap. “First.”

First. The word feels like a shockwave all down the length of Emmeline’s spine—the unspoken implication beneath it, the confirmation that she can hardly bear to let herself believe. Mary wants this, too. Mary wants her, too. They want each other, and there is so little space left between them, and it would be so easy to just—

“Tell me you’re not in the Order.”

Emmeline swallows, searching for her voice. Her eyes are still squeezed shut—some part of her feels like this moment might break if she opens them.

“What?”

“Tell me,” Mary repeats, slowly, “That you’re not in the Order.”

Emmeline closes her mouth, and opens her eyes. The silence between them is a jaw, yawning wide, greeting them with an eager, open throat. It grows, and grows, and grows.

Emmeline doesn't speak. 

It swallows them.

“Right,” Mary whispers, releasing her grip on Emmeline’s t-shirt, taking a step back. “I…that’s what I thought.”

“Mary—”

“I think we should stop.”

“Stop…what?”

Mary gives her a hard look, jaw set.

“You know what.”

“I—why? What? Just because I’m…just because—”

“You can have me, or your war. You can’t have both.”

“What?” Emmeline is angry, now, a fast-acting poison that sours her voice. “It’s not my war—what the fuck are you on about? I’d think that you, of all people, would understand—you know what will happen to people like us if the death eaters get their way, you know—”

“Don’t,” Mary hisses, voice low, “Don’t you dare. Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch every single one of my friends get fucking…eaten by this? Do you have any idea what it’s like to beg—to fucking beg the kids I’ve known since we were—since we were eleven—” her voice cracks, and the anger drains out of Emmeline as quickly as it flared. She steps forward instinctively, hand raised, but Mary jerks back.

“Don’t.”

She sniffs, rubs a hand roughly across her eyes. The cigarette’s gone out in her hand; she drops it.

“I’m not choosing someone who can’t choose me,” Mary says. Her voice is still trembling, slightly, but the words are careful and precise. “I already…I already let this go on for longer than I should have." She shakes her head, takes another step back. “I’m sorry, Emmeline. I have to go.”

Emmeline stands in the alley, and doesn’t try to stop her.

*  *  *

Autumn 1979

Emmeline Vance is a butcher’s daughter. More than that—she is a butcher’s daughter who spent summer holidays avoiding her mother, trailing behind her father to his shop, feeling stupidly grateful when he placed a carving knife in her hands and showed her how to use it and pretended that they both didn’t know why she was here, mopping blood off back room floors instead of spending time with friends, or making lemonade for the church social, or going anywhere that  her mother tried to invite her. Leonard Vance looked at the little girl who had inherited his heavy hands and craggy features and seemed to accept, in a way her mother could not, that sometimes the kindest way to love an ugly girl is to give her a hiding place.

So when Emmeline finds herself in an abandoned barn, lying on the scratchy cot that a panicked Benjy transfigured out of a hay bale, she stares up at the mouldering rafters and imagines herself on a hook. At the end of the day, meat is meat is meat is meat, and this is not the first time that Emmeline has held the slippery ropes of intestines between her fingers. The fact that these ones are her own is concerning, of course—and of course, trying to keep them inside a body is much more work than trying to take them out. But if she just doesn’t think about that part, if she just closes her eyes and imagines her father’s shop and tells herself that it is blood and meat, just blood and meat, then it feels a little easier to separate herself from the agony ripping through her like a carving knife.

“Oh fuck,” Benjy mutters, pacing frantically back and forth, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck—”

“Bandage,” Emmeline croaks. Somehow even speaking hurts. But Benjy gets the message—he crouches down, and his face goes white as soon as Emmeline moves her hands a bit, blood bubbling between her fingers. But he manages to conjure the bandages, at least, which helps—it keeps things mostly inside, for now. Emmeline just needs to hold out until Dorcas gets back with a healer, and everything…everything will be…

In the corner, Benjy is dry-heaving. Emmeline grits her teeth.

“Go,” she hisses, words forced out, “Go outside, Ben. Go—stand guard. Guard.”

“Are you—”

“Go.”

Benjy leaves, and then it’s just Emmeline and the rafters and the blood, but she’s used to blood. The smell is familiar, like home. She could be in the back of her father’s shop, wiping down the table; she’s not hurt, it’s just summer, and the pain is only the pain of an ache, only the pain in shoulders from an afternoon spent hacking and carving, chopping through gristle and bone, and it doesn’t hurt—it doesn’t hurt, she just needs to breathe, that’s all. That’s all. Just breathe.

Just…

“…told you to keep her awake!”

Voices. Dorcas. Fuck. It hurts, everything hurts—

“She told me to stand guard!” Benjy. Dorcas is back, and she’s shouting at Benjy. That’s normal. Everything’s normal. It’s fine.

“He was gonna puke…” Emmeline croaks, shifting without thinking, forcing her eyes open. Fuck, it hurts.

“I was not!”

“Stop moving!”

Oh. Oh, Emmeline knows that voice. She opens her eyes, and Mary is there, kneeling beside the cot. She is so, so close. Her hands are moving, doing something with the bandages. It hurts.

“Hi, Mary,” Emmeline breathes, because she needs to make it okay—needs to reach out, needs to smooth the crease between Mary’s brows. “Are you going to fix me?”

“Shut up,” Mary hisses. She’s angry. She’s always angry, now. “Jesus, Em, they gutted you…”

“Tried to.”

Em. Emmeline loves it when Mary calls her that. Em, like a tiny taste of her name, bitten off and tucked safe between Mary’s teeth. I would feed you my name, Emmeline thinks, just to hear you spit it back at me. She is not entirely coherent, possibly. Whatever Mary’s doing is making it very hard to ignore the pain.

“Dittany!” Mary barks, except she’s not talking to Emmeline anymore—she’s talking to Dorcas, to Benjy. “I need essence of dittany, and blood-replenishing potions! Can you get me those?”

She is so beautiful. Oh god, she is so beautiful, and everything hurts so much.

“Yes,” Dorcas says, from somewhere behind Mary, and then she and Benjy are leaving, and everything still hurts, and Emmeline is trying very hard to focus on the sensation of Mary’s hands instead of the things she’s doing with them—moving things around, gripping a wand with blood-slicked fingers, casting spells so that Emmeline can feel the magic tugging on her, and she squeezes her eyes shut because it is meat, it is all just meat, but fuck it hurts.

And then, so, so slowly, it starts to hurt less. Emmeline breathes, forcing her lungs to keep working, and cracks open her eyes again. Everything that’s meant to be inside of her appears to be tucked back inside, so maybe that’s why the pain is fading—though honestly, it’s difficult to be sure, what with all the blood. She no longer feels like she’s about to pass out, at least.

Mary is crying. That hurts in a different way.

“I’m sorry,” Emmeline whispers, because she doesn’t know what else to say. Mary sniffs, wand still moving steadily over Emmeline’s abdomen.

“I don’t want your fucking apologies,” she mutters, without looking up.

“I know,” Emmeline breathes—and then she winces, and Mary’s lip trembles, and a sob slips out of her throat.

“No, no, hey, don’t—it’s okay, I’m fine, it’s okay.” Emmeline tries to sit up a bit, wanting to reach out, to wipe the tears off Mary’s cheeks. Her own hands are too much of a mess to do it. “Please don’t cry. It doesn’t even hurt that much, see?”

Mary scowls at her, shoving her back against the cot, bloody handprint on her shoulder. Emmeline lifts her own hand immediately, covering Mary’s. She’s a butcher’s daughter. She’s used to bloody hands.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Mary hesitates, just for a moment, eyes wide and wet and crawling up to meet Emmeline’s. There’s anger in the dark of her pupils, but there’s something else, too.

“You can’t keep doing this, Em.”

Em. Em, Em, Em.

“But then there’d be no excuse for you to touch me, would there?”

It’s the wrong thing to say—she knows that. But there isn’t anything right, and there’s no avoiding the resentment that they cradle between them like a child. Emmeline hates that the only way Mary will let them be close anymore is like this, with wounds open between them; Mary hates that Emmeline refuses to stop letting herself be wounded. Emmeline can’t turn her back on the war and Mary can’t turn her back on Emmeline and so one of them always has bloody hands, these days, when they touch each other. When Mary lets them touch each other.

“Fuck you,” Mary hisses.

Dorcas clears her throat.

Mary jumps, and Emmeline does too—then flinches, pain slicing through her, hand moving immediately to the wound on her stomach. Mary sees the motion and smacks her fingers away, and then they’re not touching at all anymore, and there’s nothing but space between them.

“Here,” Dorcas says, face a blank slate, “Dittany and blood replenishers, as requested.” How long was she standing in the barn?

“Cheers,” Emmeline croaks, trying to smile. Mary’s gone stiff, shoulders hunched up around her ears, and Emmeline still doesn’t understand why—doesn’t understand why Mary seems so intent on hiding this part of herself, when Emmeline knows by now that Dorcas Meadowes spends most nights in Mary’s flat anyway, all wrapped up in Marlene McKinnon. As far as Emmeline knows, Mary doesn’t have a problem with it, with them—and still, even before that night in the alley when everything fell apart, Mary always kept Emmeline so carefully secret. It makes Emmeline wonder, sometimes, if it’s really just the war stopping Mary from touching her.

“I’ll…be outside, if you need me,” Dorcas tells them. She leaves, and the silence grows teeth in her wake.

*  *  *

Winter 1979-1980

Mary is laughing at something that Benjy said. Again. Emmeline watches them, from across the room, and when Mary looks up and their eyes meet, her smile falters for a moment. Then she leans forward, placing a hand on Benjy’s arm, eyes on Emmeline the entire time. The clock ticks closer to midnight, and Benjy leans down and whispers something in Mary’s ear, and she giggles and nods.

Emmeline knocks back the last of her firewhisky. She’s wearing a suit. She feels so fucking stupid. The clock strikes midnight, and it’s 1980, and Mary Macdonald is kissing Benjy Fenwick and laughing when they break apart.

So, so fucking stupid.

She stumbles into the hallway, searching for the bathroom—it’s locked, and nobody answers when she pounds on the door, so she keeps going. She ends up in a bedroom, bed unmade and piled with coats. But it’s empty. That’s all she’s looking for.

Emmeline shuts the door behind her, staggers over to the mirror. She sets her glass down, hard, and leans forward, staring at her reflection. Her mother threw a fit over her hair at Christmas—Emmeline’s been wearing it cropped short for months now, after Benjy taught her some of the spells he uses. He didn’t make fun of her, didn’t judge her, just helped her clean up her first attempt and smiled in that stupid, simple way of his and said, “Looks good on you, Vance.” Because that’s the kind of person Benjy is. He’s nice. He’s a good guy. A good boy. A good man.

Emmeline presses an arm across her chest until it hurts, drags a finger over the flat skin of her throat. She feels stupid. She feels so incredibly stupid. She just wants to feel like anything other than a kid playing dress up.

The door opens. Emmeline turns around, and Mary Macdonald is there.

They stare at each other.

“I’m just grabbing my coat,” Mary says, after a moment. But she shuts the door behind her. Emmeline watches her walk over to the bed.

“I knew it was bullshit.”

Mary pauses, coat in her hands.

“What?”

Emmeline turns her back on the mirror, folds her arms.

“Just the war, right?” she bites out, “Just the Order?”

Mary doesn’t say anything, and Emmeline feels the anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach, acidic, like bile in the back of her throat.

“If you don’t want me, just—fucking say that. Say that. I get it, okay? I get it. You wanna…ride off into the sunset, with fucking…prince charming, or whatever, just say that. But don’t act like we both don’t know that Benjy is just as much in this as I am, and you—that doesn’t seem to be a problem for you, when it’s with him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mary’s voice is low, dangerous. Emmeline doesn’t care.

“I don’t know? I don’t know? What is there to fucking know, Mary? You won’t kiss me, right, but you’ll kiss him? Got it. It’s pretty fucking simple.”

“I’m just trying to have fun at a goddamn party, Vance. Jesus, just—drop it, alright?”

Emmeline laughs, humourless. “Right,” she mutters, shaking her head, “Just having fun. Right.”

“Why do you have to fucking—be like this?” Mary snaps, twisting the coat in her hands like she’s trying to strangle it. “We’re not together, Emmeline, okay? There is nothing between us and that was your decision, so just…fuck off. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“My decision? How the fuck was it my decision?”

“I gave you a choice!” Mary’s voice is rising, pitching up in her throat, “I gave you a choice, and you didn’t choose me! I’m not going to apologise for not—begging you to change your mind. I’m not going to fucking beg.”

“And did you give Benjy that choice? Hm? Is that what you were whispering to him? What, you think he’s gonna stop fighting tomorrow? You think any of us actually get a choice in whether we leave this war behind?”

“That’s different.”

“I know!” Emmeline feels hysterical, shoving her hands through the cropped strands of her hair, blinking back the tears in her eyes. She wants to hit something. She wants to throw her whisky glass at the wall. “I know it’s different! I’m telling you to just fucking say that! Just say it! Just say that it’s different, because he’s a man and I’m—I’m—”

Are you a boy or a girl?

Mary is staring at her, just staring at her, and Emmeline wants to crawl out of her skin. I’ll be your man, she thinks, desperately, I’ll do it, please please please. Please just let me. Please just give me a chance.

“That’s not it,” Mary says. Emmeline laughs like her throat is cracking in two.

“Sure, Mary,” she mutters, “Sure it’s not.”

“I mean it.”

“Whatever. Have fun with Benjy.”

“No—look at me, Em. You don’t get to do this. Look at me.”

Emmeline looks at her. She is the kind of beautiful that scrapes you raw from the inside out.

Mary.

“I can’t kiss you, because I’ll fall in love with you.”

Emmeline blinks.

“…what?”

Mary stares at her, scowling, eyes glistening with tears that get caught like dewdrops in her mascara.

“I’m not saying it again,” she says, voice brittle.

Emmeline shakes her head, slowly, trying to understand.

“You…”

“I have spent months, Emmeline. Months. Watching you come in and out of that fucking hospital. Do you have any idea what that does to me? Do you have any idea? I told myself that I wasn’t going to let you get under my skin, I told myself it was a bad idea, but you’re so fucking stubborn—I couldn’t stop you, and now you’re here, and you’re in the hospital, and you’re smiling and coughing up blood and begging me to touch you and every time it is just one more reminder that I could lose you in a second. A fucking second. So if you want me, choose me. But I’m not going to let you destroy us both for this godforsaken stupid fucking war. I won’t do it. I won’t fall in love with you just to watch you die, so stop trying to make me.”

Mary takes her coat, and goes home with Benjy.

*  *  *

“Okay,” Benjy says, plopping into the seat beside Emmeline’s, “Out with it.”

Emmeline winces, scooting further away, wishing she hadn’t agreed to come out. But Dorcas finally agreed to grab a drink after work, and Alice was so excited about the prospect of all of them being there (never mind the fact that she can’t even drink herself, what with the baby on the way)…Emmeline didn’t have the heart to let her down.

The problem is that she doesn’t have the heart for much of anything, these days. January’s nearly over, and it’s been a shit start to 1980 all around. The raid on Order Headquarters still feels fresh, the losses they suffered at the beginning of the month still stinging—Ophelia, Theo, the Prewetts…it’s been a mad scramble to find a new space for meetings with what’s left of the Order, to recover from this latest blow. And with Crouch’s new reforms and the authorization of Aurors to use unforgiveables, things have only been busier and busier at work.

“What?” Emmeline asks, trying to hide behind her butterbeer and searching the pub for Dorcas. Alice slipped off to the bathroom, and Frank’s gone to get more drinks, but Dorcas should still be around…

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Benjy says.

Emmeline scoffs. “No I haven’t.”

(She has.)

“You have.”

“Have not.”

“Have too.”

Where the fuck did Dorcas go?

“I see you at work every day, Benjy,” Emmeline sighs, rolling her eyes, “Excuse me for wanting a moment to myself sometimes.”

Benjy watches her like a kicked dog. Emmeline hates when he does that. She turns away, taking a swig of her drink, but he just keeps watching her, earnest.

“Look,” Benjy says, after a moment, leaning in a bit closer, “I…think I know what’s going on, alright?”

Emmeline swallows, keeping her eyes glued on the table in front of her.

“There’s nothing going on, Benjy.”

Beside her, Benjy blows out an exasperated breath, tugging a hand through his hair.

“This is about me and Mary, isn’t it?”

Emmeline tightens her grip on her cup.

“Is there a you and Mary, now?” She keeps her voice breezy, cool and uninterested. She feels more than sees Benjy wince.

“Come off it, Em,” he pleads, keeping his voice low, “I—look. I saw the way you looked at us at that party, alright? And I…”

Emmeline waits, shoulders stiff with tension, as Benjy searches for words. After a moment, he blows out a breath.

“I’m not stupid, okay? I know what this is.”

“Do you?” The question is hard, clipped.

“Yes,” Benjy insists, sounding more and more distressed as he continues to speak, “And I—I care about you, Em, alright? Seriously, I mean, you’re…you’re one of my best friends, okay? You’re like a sister to me. But I…just…don’t see you in that way, y’know? And I…I thought you understood that; I thought you felt the same, but if I…if I’ve hurt you, somehow, by…starting this thing with Mary, then—”

“Hang on,” Emmeline interrupts, wondering if she’s hearing correctly. She turns to look at the boy sitting next to her, and his face is all earnest sincerity, eyes wide and beseeching.

“Benjy, I don’t have feelings for you,” Emmeline tells him, still half-wondering if this is some sort of elaborate joke. But Benjy’s shoulders sag immediately, genuine relief sweeping his features—which is just as quickly replaced by confusion, brow furrowing as he frowns at her.

“But I…don’t understand. You’ve been avoiding me ever since that party. Did I…do something? Can you just tell me what I did?”

“You didn’t do anything, Benjy. Just forget about it.”

“Then why’ve you been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t.”

“Come on, Em. We’re supposed to be partners—please, I must have done something, just tell me and I’ll…try to fix it, or—”

“Stop,” Emmeline cuts him off again, pressing a fist to her forehead as though that can stave off the headache she feels creeping along her temples. “Just—stop. Benjy, I—” she sucks in a breath, steeling herself. Christ, might as well have it out.

“It wasn’t you,” Emmeline says, quietly, “That I was looking at. During that party.”

Benjy continues to stare at her. “I don’t understand.”

Emmeline squeezes her eyes shut, and takes another breath.

“It was Mary.”

“But…Mary’s a girl.”

“Ben.”

“Yeah?”

Emmeline forces her eyes open, forces herself to meet Benjy’s gaze. She raises her eyebrows, waiting, and after a moment she can see the light go on behind his eyes.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Emmeline huffs, reaching for her drink, “Oh.” She rolls her eyes, like acting as if this is a casual conversation will somehow stop her heart from trying to hammer its way out of her chest. “Honestly, Benjy, look at me. Is this really a shock to you?”

“I—I dunno,” Benjy sputters, defensively, “Alice said we shouldn’t make assumptions!”

Emmeline snorts. “Alice is full of shit.”

Benjy chuckles, weakly. “Yeah,” he murmurs, reaching for his own drink, “S’pose that’s true enough…”

They’re quiet, for a bit, and despite herself, Emmeline feels her shoulders beginning to relax.

“Mary, huh?” Benjy asks, softly, a thoughtful expression on his face. Emmeline tries to ignore the pang that goes through her, hearing him say her name. It’s not fair of her to feel this way—she knows that. She does.

“It’s not your fault,” Emmeline sighs, tracing one fingertip in a meaningless pattern on top of the table. Benjy makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat.

“Still,” he replies, brow still scrunched in thought, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not—look, Benjy, whatever’s going on with you and Mary is between you and Mary, alright? Don’t involve me. Just—do whatever makes you happy, okay?”

Benjy studies her, eyes scanning her face. They’ve been partners for nearly two years now; they’ve spent hours growing attuned to each other’s expressions, and voices, and body language. All the tiny signs you can find in a person that they might not be okay—that they might need help. They’ve had to. They’ve spent almost two years in a war, trying to keep each other alive.

“Being your partner makes me happy,” Benjy says. He puts his hand on top of Emmeline’s on the table, and smiles, and squeezes. Emmeline shakes her head.

“Idiot,” she mutters. But she’s pretty sure that Benjy can hear the lump in her throat, because he keeps smiling anyway.

One week later, Emmeline is watching them lower his coffin into the dirt.

*  *  *

It’s fitting, in a way. Benjy was always giving pieces of himself—a bright smile, a kind word, a helping hand. Fitting, then, that that’s how he would die.

Pieces.

In pieces.

He was there, and then he was not. One second—one fucking second—and then Emmeline felt the gore spatter, and looked at the place where Benjy was standing, and saw a leg, and an ear, and something that might have once been a hand. It was hard to tell.

It was very hard to tell.

At the funeral, she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even know if she blinks. She watches them lower the casket—closed, of course—into the earth, and when Dorcas wraps an arm around her shoulders and guides her away, she doesn’t fight it.

She finds herself back at their flat. Their flat—Dorcas, Marlene, Mary. Except Marlene isn’t here, and Emmeline can hear the sounds of Dorcas retching in the bathroom, and Emmeline blinks and realises that she’s standing in the entryway, swaying, staring down at Mary Macdonald’s outstretched hand.

“You can stay,” she says, quietly, “If you like.”

Something crumbles inside Emmeline—resentment? Resolve?—and then she’s surging forward, throwing herself into Mary’s arms, letting the tears rip their way out of her eyes because it hurts, it hurts so much and Mary is here, Mary is safe, Mary is going to fix it. Mary always fixes it. Mary always knows how to stitch up the wound.

“Okay,” Mary whispers, holding her tight, “Okay, I know, shhh…”

Emmeline cries, and clings to her, and allows herself to be led like a child to bed. Mary tugs her down, and Emmeline buries her face in her shoulder, and sobs while Mary strokes her back. She thinks this kind of crying could kill someone. It feels like she’s suffocating.

Mary holds her, and holds her. Emmeline waits for her to make it stop hurting.

It doesn’t stop hurting.

Time passes.

The tears run out, eventually, because the body always fails at some point. Emmeline’s throat feels raw; her eyes feel swollen; her skin feels itchy and dry. She pulls back, slightly, and Mary looks at her, lifting on hand to brush a few strands of hair out of Emmeline’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Emmeline whispers, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

Mary shakes her head, squeezing her tight.

“It’s okay.”

Emmeline shudders through a dry sob, shoulders shaking, fighting down the lump in her throat. She can still feel him on her. The pieces. Hot blood on her cheek. Her robes. Staining. Different shades of red.

“Em,” Mary says, and their foreheads are touching.

They are so, so close.

“Mary—”

“Emmeline—”

Mary’s voice catches in her throat, and her eyes are swollen, too. She still has tears left to cry. Emmeline can see them, shimmering in her eyes.

“Emmeline,” Mary whispers, like someone’s ripping the words out of her throat, “Please.”

Emmeline shakes her head. She doesn’t understand.

“Please,” Mary says, clinging to her so, so tight, “Don’t you—do you see? This is what I…this…”

“Mary,” Emmeline whispers.

“Please,” Mary begs, “Please, Emmeline. You need to get out. You need to leave, while you still can.”

The anger feels less like healing and more like triage—but still, it’s something. Like cauterising a wound, fire licking at the open mouth of grief, sealing it and burning the blood. Emmeline draws back so sharply that it feels almost violent, and Mary makes a small, wounded noise in the back of her throat.

“Don’t.”

“Please—”

“DON’T!”

Emmeline rips herself away, out of Mary’s arms, off of the bed. She twists her fingers in her own hair, where Mary’s fingers lay moments before, and tugs, like the pain needling in her scalp will do anything to swallow any other pain.

“How the fuck can you say that?” She feels burnt, hysterical, “What the fuck, Mary? What the fuck?”

“Please,” Mary begs, and she’s crying, now, “Emmeline you saw it happen, you know it could be anyone, it could be you—”

“Benjy is dead, Mary! The death eaters killed him! And you want me to what—run away? Run away, when he—he’s—”

“I want you to live,” Mary sobs, wrapping her arms around her own body. She looks so small like this, curled into a knot on the mattress. “Please, I want you to live—”

“I’m not doing this,” Emmeline mutters, blood buzzing under her skin, adrenaline begging her to run, “I’m not doing this, I can’t—I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this. No. Mary, no. I’m not. Doing this right now. I’m not.”

“Please,” Mary begs, again, over and over. Again. “Please.”

*  *  *

Spring 1980

Her hair is growing out. It’s long now, shaggy. It tangles. It gets in her eyes. It feels wrong, all wrong, but whenever Emmeline lifts her wand and looks in the mirror she hears Benjy’s voice.

It looks good on you, Vance.

That stupid smile.

That stupid, stupid smile.

Dorcas is her Auror partner, now. They get along like thunder and lightning, like storm clouds and rain. They are both very good at hurting things. They are both very good at bringing death eaters to their knees.

This makes sense, of course. Dorcas is powerful in a way that Emmeline has never seen before, and still doesn’t entirely understand. She explodes like a bomb in every battle, and still, Emmeline gets the sense that she’s holding back.

Emmeline is not holding back.

Emmeline is in the Ministry interrogation rooms, watching Bartemius Crouch question a death eater who hardly looks old enough to be out of Hogwarts. He should be studying for his NEWTs, Emmeline thinks. But the mark on his arm leaves no room for sympathy.

“Again,” Crouch says, without even glancing at Emmeline. She raises her wand like it is nothing, like she is just a machine.

“Crucio.”

Dorcas stands guard at the door. She can’t cast this particular spell—none of them can, except Moody.

Moody, and Emmeline Vance.

On the ground, the boy—man—death eater—is screaming, twitching, wetting himself. His body is all in one piece.

The problem with unforgiveables is that you have to mean it. Every time they’re cast, you have to want it—truly. Sincerely. And so although the Ministry has authorised Auror use of the spells, the department is still hard-pressed to find anyone who can reliably cast a crucio, hard-pressed to find anyone who can consistently, dependably, want to cause pain.

“Please,” the death eater begs, “Please.”

“Again,” Crouch says.

Emmeline raises her wand.

Afterwards, she vomits into the toilet while Dorcas leans against the sink, smoking a joint. They’ve locked the door, as usual, and every other stall is empty. Emmeline can hear the sounds of her own sickness echoing off the tile—the horrible retch of her throat, the spatter of bile against porcelain. Dorcas doesn’t seem to mind. She exhales lazily.

“You could tell Moody to fuck off, next time,” Dorcas says, when Emmeline finally flushes the toilet and moves to rinse out her mouth in the sink.

Emmeline spits. “Right,” she croaks, “The same way you could tell him to fuck off?”

Dorcas shrugs, nonchalant. “Maybe I will.”

Emmeline snorts. She won’t—they both know she won’t. Whatever reasons they had for joining this war, it doesn’t matter now. They are both of them stuck at this butcher’s table, bloody to the elbows, buried in viscera and filth. Emmeline can still feel all those pieces of Benjy, like they’ve sunken through skin and taken root, hundreds of tiny tumours, a sickness that festers and grows and crawls up the back of her throat as a curse. Dorcas has her own cancers, her own evils, and that is the only reason that either of them can stand to look at each other anymore. They both know they are not the heroes of this story. They both know what that means—they can win this war, and be absolved of their sins, or they can die.

Even winning, Emmeline thinks, might not be enough anymore.

*  *  *

Summer 1980

“You’ve fucked that kid over, you know,” Emmeline says, with her feet kicked up onto Alice’s bed, nodding at the tiny bundle of a baby in her arms. Alice smiles, exhausted and glowing with pride.

“Shut up,” she groans, “Or I’ll tell Frank to kick you out.”

“I mean, Neville Longbottom? The kids at Hogwarts are gonna have a fucking field day with that one, I’ll tell you right now.”

“I like the name Neville!”

“I know! That’s the problem! You think it’s actually good!”

“Are you harassing my wife?” Frank asks, stepping into the room with a tea tray levitating in front of him.

“No,” Emmeline says, at the same time that Alice cries, “Yes!” Frank raises an eyebrow.

“I’m trying to make her see sense!” Emmeline protests, “I mean, come on—Neville Longbottom? Frank, you already had to make it through adolescence with the name Longbottom; imagine if your first name had been Neville!”

Frank shrugs, unperturbed. “Making it through adolescence with the last name Longbottom builds character,” he says, passing one mug of tea over to Emmeline and setting another on the bedside table where Alice can reach. Emmeline narrows her eyes.

“So you agree it’s a horrible name.”

“I never said that.”

Emmeline groans, and Frank and Alice grin at each other. Neville continues to sleep soundly, curled up in his mother’s arms.

“At least tell me you’ve given him a decent middle name,” Emmeline says, sipping her tea. Alice looks down, her smile faltering for a moment.

“Benjamin,” she replies, quietly, “Neville Benjamin.”

The tea suddenly tastes sour in Emmeline’s throat.

“Oh,” she says. Neville Benjamin.

Emmeline imagines a little boy at Hogwarts, with his mother’s round cheeks and his father’s quiet laugh, smiling and chattering with friends.

Benjy.

“He’d agree with me, you know,” Emmeline says, forcing the words out like it doesn’t hurt to talk about him. Alice laughs, a little teary-eyed, and shakes her head.

“No, he’d agree with me.”

“He’d agree with whichever one of you terrorised him the most,” Frank cuts in, smiling fondly, and Emmeline’s laughing, and she’s rubbing tears from her eyes, and she’s sipping her cup of tea.

Well. Neville Longbottom.

Neville Benjamin.

*  *  *

Autumn 1980

“I’m getting Mary,” Dorcas says, and Emmeline groans.

“Don’t—”

“Shut up. Don’t move. I’m getting Mary.”

They try not to use St. Mungo’s anymore. Too many people; too many eyes. No way to know which ones belong to Voldemort, and there have been too many ‘accidents’—patients suddenly disappearing, or dying abruptly when they seemed poised to recover—for anyone in the Order to really trust it anymore. The Ministry insists that they’ve got it all under control, but Emmeline and Dorcas both work for the Ministry, and so they know that’s bullshit.

Emmeline slams her head back against the armrest of the sofa, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. Stupid—it’s just a fucking splinching. They should be able to deal with it themselves, but the Order’s been running low on healing supplies for months, and the only healer they’ve got left is on a mission with James and Sirius.

Emmeline glances at the coffee table next to her, where her big toe is sitting along with a few small bones, a chunk of muscle, a bit of skin. Her foot looks like something a dog’s chewed on. Fuck. It hurts. She should be used to that by now—but then again, maybe the whole point of pain is that there’s no getting used to it.

Mary doesn’t seem all that surprised to find Emmeline lying on the sofa in her living room, but she does clench her jaw, just a bit.

“Right,” she mutters, all business as she strides over, “I’m on my lunch break, so I’ve got to make this quick.”

“I have to go back,” Dorcas says, hovering in the doorway, “I’ve got to—are you alright here? Is that—?”

“Yeah,” Mary says, shortly, “It’s fine. Go on.”

There’s a crack, and then Dorcas is gone. It’s quiet, no sound in the empty little flat.

“Hi Mary,” Emmeline says. Mary scowls.

“I don’t have a pain potion on me,” she mutters, casting a diagnostic spell over Emmeline’s foot like it’s as easy as breathing, “Does it hurt?”

“Just a bit.”

Mary gives her a flat look. Emmeline tries for a smile, but she winces halfway through.

“Right,” Mary mutters, turning back to her foot, “This is…okay. Right.”

“Can you fix it?”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“But can you fix it.”

“Yes, but—” Mary pauses, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, drawing in a deep breath through her nose. She exhales, slowly. She opens her eyes.

“I can put you to sleep,” she says, lifting her wand. Emmeline jerks back without thinking, and cries out when pain lances through her entire leg.

“No!”

She’s panting. Mary’s eyes crawl up to her face.

“Don’t,” Emmeline says.

“Em—”

“Please.” She doesn’t know why she’s crying, now, why she suddenly can’t stop the tears from falling. Her foot still hurts the same. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s different.

“If it hurts, you might move,” Mary says, voice low and steady, “If you move, I’ll mess up. I need you to be still.”

“I can be still.”

“Emmeline—”

“I don’t want to be asleep.” I want to be here. I want to see you. Please, please, please—we never see each other, anymore.

Maybe Mary can read minds, or maybe Emmeline’s just losing her grip. Either way, something softens in the other girl’s face, and she leans forward, hand outstretched, to gently wipe at the tear that’s escaped down Emmeline’s cheek.

“Hey,” she murmurs, quietly.

“Don’t put me to sleep,” Emmeline says.

There’s something twisting in Mary’s eyes, like a gathering storm.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” she whispers, “I just need to fix this first. Okay?”

Emmeline searches her face. “Promise? Just—before you go back? You’ll wake me?”

“I promise.”

Emmeline exhales.

“Okay,” she sighs, leaning back against the armrest, “Fine. Okay.”

Mary smooths the hair back from Emmeline’s forehead, and places her wand gently against Emmeline’s temple. The spell she whispers is soft and sweet, like sinking into a warm bath. Emmeline closes her eyes, and doesn’t dream.

When she wakes up, Mary is gone.

*  *  *

Winter 1980-1981

The next time Emmeline sees Mary, there is snow on the ground, and a line of mourners paying their respects, and it is probably some kind of sin to look at a girl dressed in black and want her so badly that even in the cold you feel hot. But everything’s shit, and James Potter’s parents are dead, and nothing is bringing them back. It doesn’t matter how many people stand crying in the snow.

Mary looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Emmeline asks if she wants to get a drink.

She says yes.

They go to a muggle pub, but that’s too quiet. They change scenes, find a club with jumping music and dizzy, flashing lights. The city’s gearing up for New Year’s Eve, and there are Christmas lights strung up in the corners, stupid cocktails on the menu named things like Santa’s Package.

“I want to dance,” Mary says, and so they dance. In the dark, Emmeline thinks, with her shirtsleeves rolled up, with her wide palms and broad shoulders, she is perhaps un-woman enough to be taken as a man, un-girl enough that nobody stops them or spits on them or says anything when she puts her fingers on Mary’s hips, slides them up her waist, hardly daring to breathe. Mary grinds back against her like they can’t be close enough, like the space between them is an offense that needs to be erased. Emmeline tells herself it’s the alcohol.

They’ve had one drink, each.

The song changes, and Mary turns around, grabbing the tie that’s come loose around Emmeline’s neck and pulling, tugging, insistent and needy. They stumble into the bathroom, entwined, and Emmeline has just enough time to cast a locking spell on the broken door.    

Then Mary’s on her, kissing her, open-mouthed and messy, and Emmeline—Emmeline has wanted this for so long, for so long, and she can’t stop herself from touching. Can’t stop herself from reaching out to clutch at Mary’s waist, fingers twisting in the soft material of her jumper, pulling her closer, kissing her hard. Mary’s mouth is open, and Emmeline wants her, presses her tongue past Mary’s lips and skims the crooked ridges of her teeth, thinking take me taste me let me in. Mary moans, and Emmeline can feel it all the way down the back of her throat.

And then Mary breaks away, shoving so violently that she stumbles back a step, jerking her jumper out of Emmeline’s grasping fingers. Her eyes are wide and dark and wet, slightly glazed, cheeks flushed, chest heaving like all it would take is one more kiss to tear her apart.

“We can’t—” she gasps, “We can’t, I—”

“Mary,” Emmeline says. She steps forward, and Mary spins away, turning her back on her.

“Please, Em, we can’t—do this, it’s not…it won’t—”

If Emmeline were kinder, she might leave. If she were a nice girl, she would walk out the door, and leave Mary to break down in peace. But Emmeline doesn’t feel nice—not now, not tonight, with the taste of Mary’s mouth still lingering on her tongue. She doesn’t even feel like a girl, particularly; more like an animal, something with teeth and a hunger burning in the pit of its belly, watching the most beautiful thing in the world tremble on the grimy tile two steps away. Like a snake on its belly in a garden, whispering how good it would feel to taste.

So she steps towards Mary slowly, deliberately. She gives her time to run.

Mary doesn’t run.

She stays.

She shudders as Emmeline wraps one arm lightly around her waist, pressing chest to back, leaning her head on Mary’s shoulder as she lets her fingertips skim lightly over the other girl’s ribcage.

“What is it, exactly,” Emmeline whispers, aware of the way Mary shivers when her breath tickles the back of her neck, “That you think we’re doing?”

“I…we….” Mary is breathing fast and hard, pulse thundering beneath the thin skin of her neck. Emmeline wants to bite it.

“What do you want me to do to you, Mary?” she whispers, pressing her lips to the fluttering pulse. A broken whimper escapes the back of Mary’s throat, and Emmeline can feel it against her mouth. She dips her tongue into the soft spot between jaw and ear, tasting warm, warm skin.

“Em, please—”

“You don’t have to kiss me,” Emmeline whispers, and her hands are moving now, one gripping hard at Mary’s hip to steady her, the other inching fingertips beneath the fabric of her jumper. She lets them rest there, on the overheated skin, the lightest, gentlest touch.

“Em—”

“Tell me to stop.”

Emmeline waits, feeling the brush of Mary’s hair against her forehead, smelling the faint scent of her perfume where her nose rests behind Mary’s ear. But Mary doesn’t say stop. She doesn’t say anything—just breathes, short, panting breaths, like everything is already too much. And then Emmeline’s fingers twitch, and Mary chokes out,

“Please—”

And that’s all she needs. All she needs to start moving, lips hot, breath damp, kissing and sucking at every soft spot she can find on Mary’s neck until the girl is twitching under her, small, aborted movements, like she’s trying to hold her body back from the brink of feeling everything it can feel. Emmeline can’t stifle the burning flare of anger, at that—thinking no. No, you don’t get to do that.

You don’t get to stop yourself from feeling.

The hand under Mary’s jumper snakes higher, light, gentle touches, blunt fingernails dragging over her ribcage until she shudders. She gasps when Emmeline’s hand finds her bra, knuckles dragging over her nipple again and again, tweaking and teasing through the fabric and turning Mary into a shaking mess, a breathy, whimpering thing with a voice that cracks when she begs,

“Please, please, please—” the words chanted like a prayer.

“You want this,” Emmeline murmurs, licking a stripe of wet heat all the way down to Mary’s shoulder, where she bites. Her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears, low and rough with desire. She circles her thumb again, and it punches all the breath out of Mary’s throat, makes her back arch obscenely, pressing Emmeline’s teeth deeper into her shoulder. Emmeline licks over the bite mark to soothe it, and something halfway between a moan and a sob cracks out of Mary’s throat.

“Shhh,” Emmeline murmurs, as she works her fingers past the wire of Mary’s bra, “Shhh…”

Mary’s hips are bucking, now, like she doesn’t even realise it, thighs rubbing together, legs trembling, and in the arm still steadying Mary’s hip Emmeline can feel the muscles flexing as she works to keep the other girl upright. Mary moans when Emmeline’s fingers brush against bare skin, but the jumper presses awkwardly down on her wrist—she makes a small noise of frustration, moving her other hand from Mary’s hip momentarily to shove her jumper up over her bra. This proves to be a mistake, as Mary stumbles almost immediately, pitching forward—luckily, she has enough presence of mind to throw out an arm and catch herself against the wall, shoulder bunched as she leans on the surface to remain upright. Emmeline chuckles, breathlessly, high on adrenaline and the fire coursing underneath her skin. Mary lifts her other arm to twist it behind her and pull Emmeline’s mouth back down her neck, chanting,

“Please, please, please—”

With Mary braced against the wall, Emmeline has two hands free, and she makes good use of them both. Mary’s bra comes off, sort of—Emmeline unclips it, but neither of them can be bothered to separate enough to actually get rid of it, so Emmeline just slides her hands back beneath the loosened fabric and groans at the weight of Mary in her hands, warm and breathless and making sounds that shoot straight down Emmeline’s spine to ember in her belly. Mary twitches beneath her, arching into her touch, shuddering and groaning low in her throat as Emmeline teases, and teases, and teases.

“Em, please—”

Mary sobs, and Emmeline pulls away from her neck for a moment to look at her face, realising with a blink of surprise that she is, quite literally, crying as she begs. Her cheeks are smeared with tears, expression dazed and rapturous, mouth open as she pants.

Emmeline hums, feeling a dark thrill of desire, and leaves one hand to gently tease as she lifts the other to Mary’s face.

Mary is putty in her hands, limp as Emmeline grips her jaw and turns her face to the side so that she can see her better. She flicks a knuckle over Mary’s nipple and watches her eyes flutter shut, fresh tears squeezing out as she begs,

“Please, please…”

Emmeline wants her to say it. She wants Mary to finish that sentence, to ask for what they both know she wants, the words she refuses to speak aloud.

“Look at me,” Emmeline whispers. Mary opens her eyes.

Emmeline moves the fingers from jaw to cheek, wiping at the tears, smearing saltwater over her fingertips.

“You’re so pretty like this,” Emmeline murmurs, feeling slightly dazed herself as she moves the same hand to Mary’s mouth, pressing wet fingers against her lips. “Did you know that?”

Mary whimpers, and her mouth opens, and it’s beautiful—she’s beautiful, always, but especially now, especially like this, especially with Emmeline’s fingers pushing past lips and teeth, unrelenting, until they find the soft heat of her tongue.

“Suck,” Emmeline whispers, and Mary does, and Emmeline can feel the burning wet heat of her, and she closes her eyes for a moment and wishes that she had been born into a body that would be easier for Mary to love. She thinks it would feel like this. Tongue between fingers, tongue against knuckles, tongue setting fire to skin. When Emmeline pulls her fingers out spit follows, and she rubs it into Mary’s lips, across her chin.

“You want this,” Emmeline tells her, trailing wet fingers down over Mary’s stomach. Mary shivers.

“You want this,” Emmeline whispers, using those same fingers to slip down to Mary’s thighs, prying them gently apart. Her skirt is already rucked up from the frantic grinding, and Emmeline pushes it up further, other hand still playing idly with her nipple as she runs her fingers over the soft texture of stretch marks. The tops of Mary’s thighs are hot and damp, sticky with sweat.

“Em—” Mary gasps as Emmeline trails fingertips along the edges of her underwear, slow and teasing touches. “Fuck, Em—please—”

It’s the magic word. Mary’s eyes roll back as Emmeline presses a hand to her cunt, and she grinds down shamelessly on Emmeline’s palm while Emmeline runs two fingers back and forth over the damp cloth further back.

“You’re really fucking wet,” Emmeline whispers—because she is, and it’s driving Emmeline a little bit insane.

“Don’t—ah—talk about it, fuck’s—oh, fuck, Em, please—”

Emmeline’s got both hands down at her thighs now, peeling Mary’s underwear down until it stretches taut above her knees. Mary practically keens when Emmeline wastes no time in moving her hands back up, elbows settling gently against Mary’s hips, bodies pressed flush together as Emmeline pulls her close and begins to work one hand over her clit, rubbing firm and steady, palm settled against coarse curls of hair. Mary grinds into it, hips jerking erratically, both arms braced against the wall to keep her upright, now. Emmeline feels drunk and high all at once, heat pulsing through her veins, intoxicated with the broken sounds that Mary can’t seem to stop making. High, breathy whimpers and pretty, punched-out moans.

“Em—” she gasps, raggedly, “Em, I—I’m—ah, fuck—I’m—”

“Not yet,” Emmeline whispers, lips against her earlobe, “I want you to come on my fingers.”

“Please—”

Her skin is so soft, so wet, so hot—all body heat, no resistance. Emmeline’s fingers slip inside with nothing more than a tiny nudge of pressure. Mary’s knees begin to buckle, but she manages to catch herself, shoulders shaking, palms pressed flat against the wall. Emmeline’s own breath is coming heavy, now, against the skin of Mary’s neck. It feels so intimate, more sacred than praying—she is inside Mary, and Mary wants her there, Mary is spreading her thighs and pushing back against her fingers and urging them deeper, wordless and messy and beautiful. Her body pulses with the unrelenting heat of a sun, of a universe, wrapped tight around Emmeline’s fingers, and Emmeline can feel the erratic contraction of muscles, the desperate twitch, like every inch of Mary’s body is begging for it—her thighs, her cunt, her mouth, when she says,

“Please, please, please—”

“Not yet,” Emmeline whispers, because she wants to hold this just a little longer; wants to stay inside, just a little longer; wants to hear all the ways Mary’s body will tell her the truth, even if Mary can’t speak it aloud.

Emmeline presses gentle kisses to the back of Mary’s neck, and works unrelenting fingers between Mary’s open thighs, and the girl in her arms cries out, cries tears, squeezes her eyes shut.

“No,” Emmeline grazes teeth against her jaw, a warning, “I want you to look at me. Look at me.”

Mary looks. Their eyes meet, and Mary shudders, and moans, and begs,

“Please—”

“Go ahead,” Emmeline whispers, because they both know exactly what it is that Mary wants.

*  *  *

Spring 1981

Emmeline can’t complain, really. She has no right. After all, how many times did she seek out Mary—injured, bleeding, in pain—and ask her to take it away?

When James and Lily get married in a small, private ceremony overflowing with joy, Mary doesn’t look twice at Emmeline. She doesn’t bat an eye.

When they go missing, two days later, Mary shows up at Emmeline’s door shaking, shouting about how nobody will fucking tell her anything, and she pounds a fist against Emmeline’s chest and says you have to know something, you have to, where have they gone?

Emmeline can’t answer. She doesn’t know any more than the rest of them. But she can swallow down Mary’s anger, like a potion poured into her throat. She can let Mary batter their bodies together until there is no space between, she can let Mary push her head down, she can let Mary twist fingers into her hair until it hurts. She can bury herself between Mary’s thighs until there is no air, until there is nothing but Mary, the taste of her and the sounds she makes and the needy fingers tugging at hair. Emmeline can do that. She wants to do that. She wants to do so much more.  

But this is just how it works. They go to each other hurt, and they fix what they can, and they don’t talk about the rest of it—all the things that get left broken. Mary doesn’t kiss her. Mary doesn’t stay the night.

If there wasn’t a war, Emmeline thinks—if she was just an Auror, and Mary was just a healer, and they’d met again after Hogwarts, then maybe things could be different. They could have fit together so gently, Emmeline thinks, before the world grew thorns and twisted them out of shape. It could have been so simple, so easy.

But.

Well.

*  *  *

Summer 1981

Marlene’s childhood bedroom is nice, Emmeline thinks. Sweet. There are a mix of muggle and wizarding posters on the walls, a handmade quilt on the bed, a broom in the corner of the closet. Emmeline never got to know Marlene very well, but she thinks maybe they could have been friends.

Maybe. In another life.

In this one, though, Marlene is cold on the floor. Moody is recording the usual information, the standard procedure they run through at any murder site with a dark mark left hanging above it. Alice and Frank are outside, standing guard.

They didn’t tell Dorcas.

Moody told them that they were not, under any circumstances, to tell Dorcas.

Emmeline stares down at the body on the carpet as Moody takes notes. Marlene started wearing her hair short recently, cropped like Emmeline used to wear hers.

We could have been friends, Emmeline thinks. If she had someone else to cut her hair, she wouldn’t have to use Benjy’s spells. Or—or she could have taught Benjy’s spells to Marlene, and then there’d be someone else to know them, to carry them, to take this piece of Benjy—

Outside, there’s shouting. Moody sighs, and shakes his head, and nods at the wand on the ground.

“Check that,” he grunts, “I’d better go see what the fuss is about.”

Emmeline nods wordlessly, rubbing at her eyes. She crouches down next to the wand, lifts it carefully, tests it to see the last spell cast.

Avada Kedavra. Marlene McKinnon was killed with her own wand.

From the hallway, there’s a horrible crash. Emmeline stands, leaving the wand where she found it, stepping out the door.

Oh.

“Dorcas?”

Oh no.

“Wait—Dorcas, please, you don’t want to—”

This is bad.

Emmeline slams into the wall before she can blink, hit with a stupefy that seemingly came from nowhere. She lies in a stunned heap, trying to breathe, as Dorcas walks straight past her and into Marlene’s bedroom.

This is very, very bad.

“Marlene?”

Don’t go in there, Emmeline thinks, desperately, Please, you don’t want to see—

She can hear screaming. Dorcas is screaming. One word, over and over.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

Emmeline grits her teeth, fighting through the lingering stiffness of the magic to push her body up. But by the time she stands, it’s already too late.

Inside the room, Dorcas is on the floor. She has Marlene in her arms, cradling the other girl’s body, hunched over so that their foreheads are touching. She’s rocking, half-screaming, half-chanting, something that sounds like come back. And her magic—her magic is electric, a thunderstorm, heavy in the atmosphere, creating a whirlwind of power that’s already starting to rip the posters from the walls.

“Stop!” Emmeline screams, trying to move forward, “Dorcas, st—”

She hits a wall. A shield. More magic. Dorcas didn’t even speak, didn’t even turn around to look—this is power like nothing that Emmeline’s ever seen, unleashed all at once. The walls are trembling. Dorcas Meadowes is going to bring this whole fucking house down if she doesn’t stop.

“What’s going on?”

Sirius appears, breathless, staring into the room in horror. When he sees Dorcas, he chokes out,

“Oh, fuck—”

“Moody?” Emmeline asks, “Where’s Moody?”

“With Alice and Frank,” Sirius says, quickly, “He told me to find you, he said…”

His voice trails off. The magic feels like it’s sucking the air out of the room, and no matter what Emmeline tries, the shield won’t budge.

“She’s going to kill herself,” Sirius whispers, staring.

She’s going to kill all of us, Emmeline thinks.

And then, all at once, it stops.

Emmeline nearly falls forward, unprepared for the sudden absence of the shield. She exchanges a look with Sirius—hesitant, frightened—and they walk inside the room slowly, cautiously.

Dorcas is still on the floor. Dorcas is still holding Marlene. But her voice is quieter now, words choked by tears, sobbing out I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Emmeline takes a step forward, and feels her heart turn to ice as she watches Marlene—Marlene’s corpse—lift a hand and place it on Dorcas’s cheek.

An inferius. Fuck. She’s made a goddamn inferius. Sirius looks like he might be sick.

Without speaking, Emmeline points to herself, then at Dorcas. Holding Sirius’s eyes, she points to Marlene—the inferius—and then at him. Sirius nods, and they move to flank the girl on the ground.

“Dorcas,” Emmeline says, quietly. She places her hand on Dorcas’s shoulder, but the other girl makes no sign that she’s even aware of her.

Emmeline tries again.

“Dorcas, come on. Not like this. She wouldn’t want it to be like this.”

Dorcas is silent now, staring down at the body in her arms like it’s the only thing she can see. Emmeline swallows, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Dorcas, that isn’t Marlene.”

She crouches, sliding her arms around Dorcas’s shoulders, tugging her gently back. Dorcas slumps like a puppet with its strings cut, crying so hard that it shakes her whole body.

“Shh,” Emmeline whispers, “It’s okay, it’s okay…shh…”

She glances up at Sirius, nodding slightly, and he leans down to take Marlene’s hand. The inferius goes without protest, letting itself be pulled to its feet, following where it’s led.

But the motion jerks something awake in Dorcas, who lunges forward so suddenly that Emmeline very nearly loses her grip. Dorcas snarls, baring her teeth, screaming,

“NO!”

“Dorcas, it’s alright—”

“NO! NO, NO, NO, N—”

Her voice shatters like glass, all at once, and Emmeline feels like the most heartless person in the world as she holds Dorcas back from Marlene. Dorcas thrashes, fighting her, but she is so incredibly weak—whatever magic she poured out of herself, it’s left her drained, physically unable to break Emmeline’s grip.

“Give her back,” Dorcas screams, words sounding as though they’re dragged over rusted knives, “Give her back, give her back—”

“Dorcas,” Sirius says, voice cracking like he’s about to start sobbing, too, “I’m sorry, but this isn’t—”

“You give her back to me!”

Emmeline presses her eyes shut, swallowing the lump in her throat. “That isn’t Marlene, Dorcas,” she whispers, “That’s just an inf—”

“You give her back to me, right now!” Dorcas screams—except it’s less like screaming, now, and more like begging. “You give her back to me, Sirius, please, please, please give her back, give her back, give her back to me please—”

Sirius is crying, now, shaking is head in horrified grief, still holding the hand of Marlene’s corpse. Still looking like he might be sick.

“Please,” Dorcas begs, “Please, Sirius. Please, please just give her back to me. Just give her back.”

“I can’t,” Sirius rasps, “Dorcas—I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Emmeline needs to stop this. She needs to stop this, before all three of them fall apart.

She presses her wand to the back of Dorcas’s skull, trying to breathe.

“You’re going to sleep, now, love,” she murmurs, words gentle and wrenched from her throat, “Just for a bit. It’s alright, shhh…just sleep for a bit…”

She whispers the charm, the one she remembers from Mary. Dorcas slumps in her arms, finally silent—and then there’s no one left but Emmeline and Sirius, staring at each other, and at the upright corpse of what was once Marlene McKinnon.

*  *  *

Autumn 1981

It’s amazing, how quickly things fall apart.

Dorcas makes it through most of September before going out in a blaze of glory, taking seventeen death eaters with her. The war drags itself on for one more weary month, and then it’s James, Lily, Peter. Voldemort. Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived, and Sirius Black is in Azkaban, and Remus Lupin is drinking himself into a stupor that none of them seem to have the strength to pull him out of.

Just when they think it’s safe, surrounded by Victory! headlines, it’s Alice and Frank—shells left in the Janus Thickey ward, baby Neville sent off in his grandmother’s arms. Emmeline goes to visit them, once, but ends up across the hall in the bathroom, vomiting like her body is trying to turn itself inside out. She looks up at the sink when she finishes, but Dorcas isn’t there to offer her a joint anymore.

They are dead.

All of them—dead.

It is November, and they’ve won the war.

*  *  *

Summer 1982

Months pass.

Emmeline keeps going into work, because she doesn’t know what else to do. They need all hands on deck for the trials, the arrests, the scramble to hunt down the last of the death eaters. Emmeline watches them, swearing that they were all imperioed, pleading for their lives. She spits on the ground when they’re carted off to Azkaban. She drinks with Alastor Moody, who grows more and more paranoid every day.

She does not try to see Mary.

Mary does not try to see her.

Still, the body has a way of seeking the things it wants. In July, Emmeline walks into St. Mungo’s with three of her fingers in a bag, and when they send her off to an exam room it’s Mary who walks in with a clipboard.

“Splinching?” she asks.

Emmeline sits very, very still as Mary reattaches the fingers. When she’s done, Emmeline slides their hands together, curling four palms into two fists.

“Mary,” she says, at the same time that Mary says,

“Em—”

And.

Well.

Who else do either of them have left?

*  *  *

Winter 1983

On New Year’s, Mary kisses her. The clock strikes midnight, and fireworks burst outside, and it is just the two of them in this whole, entire world. Mary is crying.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she says, which could mean so many things. I’m happy you lived. I’m happy we made it. I’m happy that there’s someone else left—I’m happy that I’m not alone, I’m happy that there’s a body to hold me, I’m happy that there’s someone else who wakes up every morning and has to carry this guilt. I’m happy we’re together. Here.

It does not mean I love you. Not yet.

But that’s alright—Emmeline can be patient.

*  *  *

Spring 1986

“Ugh,” Mary groans, throwing herself down onto the sofa, “I’m going to kill my professor.”

Emmeline pokes her head out of the kitchen to smirk, brows raised.

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

They’ve been living in Glasgow for almost two years now, while Mary studies at the university to get her teaching certification. Their flat is small, cosy, so Emmeline knows Mary can hear her laughter, even when she ducks back into the kitchen.

“It’s not funny!” Mary protests, raising her voice to be heard, “They all act as though they don’t know that exams are in two weeks—I mean, d’you have any idea how many pages of reading I’ve got to do this weekend?” Her voice gets clearer as she moves into the kitchen, coming up behind Emmeline to wrap arms around her waist.

“I mean, you’re supposed to be the bookish one,” Mary whines, resting her chin on Emmeline’s shoulder. Emmeline snorts.

“When have I ever been bookish?”

“You're the Ravenclaw.”

“Just because I like learning doesn’t mean I like reading!”

“Ugh, you’re no help at all.”

Emmeline laughs again, stirring the pot she’s got cooking on the stove. Mary presses a kiss to the back of her neck.

“Smells good.”

“Mm.”

“I’m so tired.”

“There’s still some wine left, in the fridge.”

“Really?”

Mary unwinds her arms, moving over to their little refrigerator and gasping in delight. Emmeline smiles, a little sheepish.

“I bought more,” she confesses, “I know you’ve had a rough week…figured you might need it.”

Mary sweeps back over, wine bottle in hand, and kisses Emmeline full on the mouth.

“I love you,” she breathes, smiling.

Emmeline smiles back.

*  *  *

Autumn 1991

It is still the hardest time of year—when the chill creeps in, when the leaves begin to change. Emmeline wakes up on September 1^st and sees Mary standing in the window, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“He’ll be going today,” she says.

Emmeline moves to stand beside her, snuggling both of them under the blanket, twisting to press a kiss to Mary’s cheek.

“They both will,” she replies, opening her arms so that Mary can sink into them, staring through the window at the early autumn sunshine. It’s been too long since she’s gone to visit Frank and Alice—she feels a kick of guilt as she thinks about their son, boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time. And Mary…well, Emmeline doesn’t need to ask to know what she’s thinking, that faraway look in her eyes that says her mind is a million miles away, stuck back somewhere in 1981.

They never talked about what happened. With Harry, that is. Emmeline knows he’s living with family, and on some of the worst nights Mary has raved about it—drunk and screaming that Lily wouldn’t want Harry with that woman, that she doesn’t deserve him, that it isn’t fair. The ranting always ended in breakdowns, Mary sobbing in Emmeline’s arms, apologising to a girl who couldn’t hear her, over and over.

I’m sorry, Lily, I’m sorry. I tried, I tried, I tried.

Emmeline doesn’t know what Mary tried. She doesn’t know if Mary went to Dumbledore in her grief, if she demanded to raise her best friend’s son herself. They were all just kids back then, is the thing. None of them were ready for a baby. Maybe Dumbledore understood that; maybe he turned her away. Or maybe he had other reasons. Maybe Mary never went to him at all.

There are some things they don’t talk about, and this is one of them.

The job helps, at least. Or—well, Emmeline thinks it does. Mary spends her days in a local primary school, surrounded by children, and when she comes home it is usually smiling, cheeks flushed, always with stains on her skirts from small, sticky hands. Their schedules aren’t always the best—Emmeline is going on her third year bartending at the same local pub, owned by a grizzled old man who doesn’t care if she has a shaved head and dresses in men’s shirts and doesn’t correct the patrons who call her lad. At this point, he’s given Emmeline her own set of keys, and trusts her enough to open and close on her own.

So Emmeline works nights, and Mary works days, but there are always a few caught hours in the afternoon after Mary gets home and before Emmeline leaves when they sit on the sofa, and drink tea, and talk about nothing at all.

They’re happy, more often than not. They have built a life here, in this city that is so far away from London and all of its battle scars. They’re in love, and that is more than Emmeline ever expected to get.

It is more than most of them got.

Still, on this September morning as they stare out the window, Emmeline can’t help but notice the way that Mary’s hands drift to her stomach, hovering there absentmindedly. She does that, sometimes. More and more often. And they don’t talk about it, but Emmeline thinks about how Mary spends all day surrounded by other people’s children, how much joy it brings her. They are both thirty, now, and it seems that everyone else their age has a family, a baby, a ring flashing on their left hand.

They love each other, but sometimes Emmeline can’t help but wonder whether that love is just another sacrifice she is asking Mary to make. Because Emmeline can shave her head, and bind her chest, and smile as people call her mister and sir, but even if that means that she and Mary can hold hands sometimes—carefully, cautiously—there are still so many things that it doesn’t change. She might be man enough for the men at the pub to call her lad, but she is not man enough to take Mary to the courthouse and slide a ring onto her finger. She is not man enough to give Mary a baby. A family. The life they see around them, every day.

Mary’s hands hover over her stomach, and Emmeline squeezes her just a little bit tighter.

I would, she thinks, If I could. She imagines, for a moment, what it would be like—Mary glowing and pregnant, Mary cradling their child in her arms.

But just as soon as she thinks it, Emmeline chases the thoughts away. They already have children to mourn for. It’s no use grieving one that will never exist.   

*  *  *

Summer 1995

“No,” Mary hisses. She is in the corner, spitting like a snake. It’s been years since Emmeline has seen her this angry.

“Mary…”

“No! How—how can you even be considering this?!”

Emmeline swallows, shakes her head. “If he’s back…”

“Who cares if he’s back?! We left that behind, Em—we don’t do that anymore! How long has it been since you’ve even picked up your wand?”

“He killed our friends, Mary.”

“That is exactly my point!”

“I can’t just let that go!”

“I’m not asking you to let it go!” Mary surges forward, some of the venom melting from her voice. She takes Emmeline’s hands in her own, holding so tight that it almost hurts.

“I’m asking you to stay,” Mary pleads, beseeching, “Let someone else do the fighting this time, Em. You’ve already—you did your part, okay? You fought, and you—you already fought. Let someone else fight this time. Let someone else do it.”

“They wouldn’t be asking me if they didn’t need me,” Emmeline whispers.

Mary makes a horrible, guttered sound of frustration, clutching her fingers even tighter.

“They don’t need you,” she insists, eyes hard, “You are one person. Okay? You are one fucking person and they don’t need you—I do, I need you, so just—just—”

“Hey.”

Emmeline untangles their fingers, gently, lifting her hands to cup Mary’s face. Mary sniffs, eyes sharp with tears, glistening like polished knives.

“I made it through one war,” Emmeline murmurs, “Didn’t I?”

Mary’s face twists in rage.

“Oh, fuck you,” she hisses, “Fuck you—no! Emmeline, no. You’re not doing this. I am not letting you do this to me again.”

“I have to,” Emmeline whispers. She can still feel those pieces of Benjy, sometimes.

“No! You don’t have to do anything! You are choosing to—you are choosing to throw away everything we have, everything we’ve built—”

“Hey, no,” Emmeline frowns, voice hardening, “Don’t. That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is! We have a life here, Em. A good life. I am begging you, okay? I am begging you. Please, please don’t throw it away.”

“Mary,” Emmeline says, helplessly. Mary shakes her head.

“I love you,” she sobs, glaring through the tears like it is the worst thing that anyone has ever done to her. “I love you. Don’t leave me. Not now. Not after everything.”

Emmeline can’t stop the wounded sound that slips from the back of her throat.

“I love you, too. You know that—”

“Then choose me!” Mary screams, raggedly, “Choose me! Please, Em, please—choose me this time. Please.”

Emmeline shakes her head, trying to breathe. Her chest feels tight, constricted, like all the air in her lungs has tied itself into a web.

“It’s not a choice,” she says.

Mary stares at her like Emmeline has just stabbed her in the gut. Her hands are over her stomach again, hovering, and Emmeline steps forward—

Mary spins away.

“Mary?”

Emmeline follows her to the bedroom, watches her rifle through the bedside table.

“Mary what—what are you doing? I—woah, hey—”

Emmeline takes a step back, raising her hands instinctively as Mary brandishes her wand. But Mary doesn’t point it at Emmeline.

She points it at herself.

“Mary, put the wand down,” Emmeline murmurs, trying very hard to keep her voice steady.

“I’ll obliviate myself,” Mary says.

She can’t—she can’t have heard right—

Emmeline shakes her head.

“What?”

“You have a choice, Em,” Mary tells her, “But you have to choose. You can have me, or you can have your war. You can’t have both.”

“It isn’t my—”

“Choose, Emmeline!” Mary snaps, interrupting her, hands shaking. The wand twitches where it’s pressed against her temple. “Fucking choose! Because I am telling you right now, if you walk out that door—if you go running back to Moody, to Dumbledore, after everything we’ve been through, then it is over. It is over, okay? I am taking every memory I have of you and ripping it out by the roots, and that’s it. Maybe you live and maybe you win or maybe you don’t, maybe you die, but I am not watching this destroy you again. I can’t do it. So you choose me this time, you choose me, or—or that’s it. That’s it. You don’t get to choose again.”

Emmeline stares at her.

“Mary,” she whispers.   

“Well?” Mary asks.