420 Marauders Fest

“I’d like to remind everyone—no boxed goods at the bake sale. Homemade only.” Narcissa stares down at Lily’s brownies with a scrunched nose and pushes them away with the back of her pen.

All eyes are on her. She should have expected it by now, Lily supposes. The last thing she’d wanted was to deal with the PTA, but she’d had little choice in the matter since Harry volunteered her for the bake sale, not that she could blame him for trying to be helpful. The excuse of her job didn’t even hold up since the university was off for spring break. “The kids can’t tell the difference between Valrhona and Betty Crocker,” Lily grumbles and pushes the dish back toward Narcissa.

Lily only needs to hear the scoff to recognize who’s behind her. “Speak for yourself. Daphne and Astoria both have sophisticated palates.”

Lily sets her jaw and turns to face Alethea. “Oh, please, they’re what—nine and seven? How sophisticated can they be?” There’s little use arguing and she knows it, and yet, the words spill out of her mouth before she can stop them. Alethea simply rolls her eyes.

There are plenty of mothers she gets along with. Not all of them are WASPs with country club memberships that cost more than Lily spends a year on groceries. Even among the PTA, not all follow Narcissa Malfoy blindly. Molly, the mother of Harry’s closest friend, frequently lists her grievances with the Particularly Terrible Adults—as she calls them—over coffee. And Alice is too kind to pass judgment on anyone. But unfortunately for her, neither of them volunteered for the bake sale.

“It’s a matter of allergies,” someone to her right says. “You can’t trust the ingredients on baking mixes. They could be contaminated.”

If she didn’t know it was an ill-disguised attempt to put her down, Lily would be willing to hear it out and follow its logic, but she’s not about to waste any more energy or time arguing over boxed brownies. She bites the inside of her cheek as she tries to remind herself that she should conserve her energy for the papers she has to grade once she gets home.

“Fine.” Her skin crawls as she reaches down and picks the dish up off the table. “You win.” The words taste bitter in her mouth, and she can feel her tongue itching to take it back and replace it with something biting. Before she loses what little self restraint she has, Lily turns on her heel and walks out the door.

Petty suburban politics have never been her scene. They’d only moved here so Harry could go to a better school. Lily had been skeptical, resistant even to the idea that Harry would grow up surrounded by privileged children with backwards values, but James had insisted. He had, after all, grown up going to such schools himself. That almost counted as a strike against James’s point, Lily thought, considering James was a pompous ass when they met their first year in college, but she trusted that they could figure it out. As long as they raised Harry right, it wouldn’t be a problem—James had promised her. The way he cared for Harry, like he mattered more than anything else in the world, she believed him.

But James just had to die and leave it all in her hands, and since he was dead, she couldn’t even be mad at him for it.

Lily isn’t in much of a mood to grade papers by the time she gets home. The dish hits the counter too hard, and the noise of the glass against the marble rings in her ears. With pressure building in her temples, she presses the palms of her hands against her eyes. She’s certain that she’s written research papers for work less stressful than this.

“Fuck it.”

Lily glances at her watch. She has several hours to herself. The papers can wait until later when Harry’s asleep. She’s too restless now to concentrate; it’d take her twice as long.

So she makes her way to the kitchen instead and pulls a chair over to the cabinets. Even when she stands on it, she has to stretch to reach the top shelf, but after a moment of feeling around, her fingers close around the small mason jar and the small, plastic bag beside it.

There’s hardly more than a dime of weed in the jar, but it’ll do. If it’s still any good, her mind supplies. It’s been nearly a year since she smoked, not since last summer when Sirius and Remus had offered to take Harry for a week and give Lily some time to herself.

Unsurprisingly, it’s dry, but it works to her advantage when she grinds it between her fingers and it falls apart easily. Perhaps she should be more precise in pulling out the stems, but she doesn’t have the patience. Instead, she takes the glass, multi-colored pipe and the lighter out of the bag. The second she opens it, she’s hit with the stale smell of smoke.

“Lysol,” she mutters under her breath, hoping that the act of saying it aloud will help her mind remember to get it later before Harry comes home. She makes quick work packing the bowl. The lighter clicks, and she breathes in deep. When she breathes out, she closes her eyes, and her shoulders drop.

The relief, however, is short-lived.

The sound of the doorbell makes her jump, and Lily grits her teeth. As far as she can remember, she’s not waiting on anything or anyone, which means whoever it is can’t be too important. But they won’t give up easily. They ring the doorbell again, once, twice, and then lean on it.

The shrill buzz is too much to take, and Lily sets down the pipe and marches over toward the front door, frustration coiling in her stomach, and opens it.

Narcissa Malfoy stares back at her, lips pressed together in a thin line.

“What do you want, Narcissa?” Lily asks.

“You forgot your wallet on the table.” Narcissa draws a woven, brown wallet from her purse and thrusts it forward. “I tried to catch you before you left, but you practically fl—” She cuts off, and the corner of her lips curl upward. “Were we that stressful that you had to run home and smoke?”

Fuck. The smell must be sticking to her. It’s the sort of mistake she’s too old to make. If she’d been thinking more clearly, Lily knows she wouldn’t have answered the door like this. The last thing she needs is Narcissa running to the other mothers to tell them about it—as if their list of judgments couldn’t already fill a book. But she’s learned not to let her fears show in front of others, so Lily keeps her face neutral as she says, “What I do in my home doesn’t concern you.”

But Narcissa seems unfazed. “If it weren’t for me, your wallet would be stuck at the school’s lost and found. The least you could do is invite me in for a coffee.” 

It’s not the reaction Lily expects. Normally, she’d assume it’s some kind of trick, but if it is, Narcissa is doing a wonderful job at hiding it. While she looks amused as she scans Lily up and down and takes her in, there’s no malice to her expression. And strangely, Lily’s instincts don’t pick up on any either, and they’ve rarely led her astray. As much as she hates to admit it, it’s not an unreasonable request. Still, the prospect of Narcissa in her house doesn’t exactly thrill her.

Lily sighs, opens the door the rest of the way, and motions for Narcissa to step in. “Please, won’t you stay for a coffee?” Her voice comes out in a dull monotone.

“How kind of you to offer,” Narcissa says chipperly as she steps in.

Lily’s eyes dart from one mess to another, acutely aware of them as she walks Narcissa to the kitchen. Stacks of bills and other letters crowd the entryway table, Harry’s toys are tossed about the living room floor, a two-day old basket of laundry sits ready for her to fold—all things she’d meant to clean and organize during her time off. She braces herself for a clever insult, but it doesn’t come.

“I prefer Turkish coffee if you have a cezve.” Narcissa perches herself on one of the tall chairs by the counter and eyes the pipe. The back of Lily’s neck prickles, and she resists the urge to try to hide it and erase that it was ever there. It’s pointless.

“Actually, I do,” Lily says. “James’s mother used to make Turkish coffee for me. She gave me her cezve before she passed.” She’s not quite sure why she shares such an intimate detail. The overwhelming sense of loss threatens to swallow her whole, terrible and bottomless, and her eyes prickle as the lump grows in her throat. Lily turns her back toward Narcissa and bends down to search through the cabinets, grateful that she has an excuse to look away.

“It sounds like she was a good host.”

Although Narcissa isn’t wrong, there are dozens of compliments about Euphemia that come to mind before a good host, but Lily finds herself taking the path of least resistance and agreeing instead. “She was.” Her chest feels tight, and a knot forms in the pit of her stomach as she pictures Euphemia beaming at her.

The sound of pots and pans clanging saves her from having to come up with small talk, but after a few minutes, she finds the small, copper pot. Lily swallows, and the lump in her throat loosens just barely, along with the knot in her stomach. 

“I was beginning to doubt you had it. I’ll take a spoon of sugar, by the way.” Narcissa tilts her head slightly to the side, and she gives Lily a curious look, though she says nothing else.

Eager to change the subject, Lily asks, “I thought you were staying for the bake sale?” Even though it’s been more than four years since she’s made coffee this way, the muscle memory kicks in.

“Let’s just say that I was grateful you left your wallet behind and gave me an excuse to leave. I was certain to get a migraine being around that many children with sugar in their systems.” Narcissa’s tone is so matter-of-fact, and the honesty catches Lily off-guard. Her brow furrows, but when she glances over at Narcissa, her face gives nothing away.

Yet her gaze is still fixed on the pipe. “If it offends you so much, I can put it away,” Lily snaps and reaches for it.

“Before we had Draco, Lucius and I would occasionally partake.”

Slowly, Lily removes her hand and frowns. Although she steps back toward the stove, curiosity crawls under her skin like a persistent itch until she can no longer hold herself back. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“You think you’re better than us.”

Heat crawls up Lily’s neck, and she clenches her jaw. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, please. You don’t do much to hide it. We all know it’s because you have a job, and most of the PTA are stay-at-home moms.” Narcisa folds her hands on the counter and shakes her head disapprovingly.

“That’s not why!” When Narcissa smirks, Lily curses under her breath and tries to correct herself. “Not what I meant. I don’t think I’m better than you. If anything, it’s you lot who think you’re better than me.” She pulls the boiling coffee off the heat and scrapes the foam off the top into two cups she’s prepared before setting it back on the stove.

“Oh, I never denied that.” Narcissa chuckles. Perhaps it’s the slight high from her one hit earlier or the absurdity of the situation, but something bubbles up in Lily as well. Her throat tickles, and her hand begins to shake. As she turns off the heat, laughter spills out of her in earnest. Once she starts, it’s impossible to stop, and she lifts her hand to cover her mouth. And when she looks at Narcissa, her perfect, poised demeanor breaks as she begins to follow suit.

It takes them a minute to settle—Lily more so than Narcissa. Her stomach slightly aches as she pours the coffee between their cups and slides Narcissa’s over across the counter. “Money doesn’t make you better than anyone.”

“It’s not the money. It’s class, a certain level of— Well, it’s difficult to put into words, but you know it when you see it.”

“Still elitism,” Lily says. “Miserable, gross elitism.” 

Narcissa shrugs, brushing it off. “So be it, if that’s what you want to call it.” Despite the fact that her drink must be scalding hot, she lifts it to her lips and takes a sip. “You did a good job with the coffee.”

“Should I be expecting my tip in cash, or… ?”

Narcissa quirks an eyebrow and takes another sip. “Georgiana was genuine with what she said about the allergies.” Ah, Zacharias’s mom—Lily should have known.

“Was she?”

“Maybe not entirely, but she could have been.” The way she sits straighter and smoothes her hair, the amusement with herself seeps through. Somehow, Lily doesn’t entirely despise it.

Acting on an impulse she asks, “Did you want to smoke with me?” The question seems ridiculous even to her own ears, in no small part because of who her present company is.

But Narcissa’s answer catches her more off-guard than her own suggestion. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Lily blinks slowly and tries to disguise her surprise. “Did you want to go to the living room?”

“Let’s.” Narcissa stands. “I usually stick to wine,” she admits, her voice betraying a slight thrill.

“I’m not surprised. You strike me as someone who’s been gifted one of those corny glasses that say things like wine about it or don’t talk to me until I’ve had a bottle or mom fuel.”

Judging by the look on Narcissa’s face, she guessed correctly. “Alethea,” is all she says.

They make their way over and sit on the couch, Lily’s knees pointed toward Narcissa, and Narcissa’s knees facing forward, her torso turned toward Lily. “You can use the magazine as a coaster. I need to toss it anyway,” Lily says, and Narcissa wrinkles her nose.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised considering…” Narcissa gestures across the floor to all of Harry’s toys.

She should have known better than to think that she could get away without Narcissa commenting on the clutter. Lily doesn’t doubt she’s spotted every small imperfection, mess, or spot of dust. “Normally, he’s better at cleaning up after himself. I don’t have the energy. James was always better at this part anyway. That man was born to be a father.” Something twists in her chest, sharp and uncomfortable, and Lily brings the pipe up to her lips and lights it. Three years, and her chest still hurts when she thinks about him. She breathes in and holds it.

“I’m sorry.”

Lily shakes her head. The last thing she wants is to talk about her grief with Narcissa. “Here you go,” she says instead and passes the pipe to her.

There’s something comical about watching Narcissa lift the pipe to her lips. It looks out of place in her hands, the bright colors of the glass stark against her pale, well-manicured fingers. “I had a job too before we had Draco,” she says, and lights it.

“What did you do?”

Slowly, Narcissa exhales, letting out only a small amount before she forms her mouth in an o-shape and produces a ring of smoke. “I was a ballet instructor. I’d wanted to be a dancer when I was younger, but I hurt myself one too many times, and—well—that was that.” 

“Did Lucius make you quit to take care of Draco?”

Narcissa snorts. “Don’t be so archaic. No, I decided to quit. I’d always wanted to be a mother. I didn’t think I could take proper care of him and work at the same time, no offense.” 

Despite Narcissa’s disclaimer, it’s hard not to feel as though the comment is pointed in some way. Lily lifts her chin and hums noncommittally. If there’s anything she’s learned from Harry about Draco, it’s that the boy is a bully. Still, there are lines she won’t cross, not if she wants to enjoy her high, so she sticks to safer subjects. “You must have smoked more than occasionally if you can blow rings like that.”

Thankfully, Narcissa takes the bait. “Lucius and I used to have fun together.” She quickly corrects herself, “In this way, I mean. We have fun in other ways now.” A distant sort of sadness lingers in her voice, and Lily can’t help but wonder if the first statement was more accurate. Used to—past tense.

“It’s not easy to find time with kids,” Lily echoes. “It’s been almost a year since I last smoked.”

“And I just happened to come over the one time you were? You don’t need to lie about it. I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’d be a stupid thing to lie about,” Lily says curtly. “And I don’t appreciate being called a liar in my own home.” She plucks the pipe from Narcissa’s hands and frowns.

“I suppose I just have good timing.” Narcissa’s eyes scan Lily up and down, and she smirks. “Lucky me.”

“I don’t have to share with you, you know.” Lily huffs. When she breathes out the smoke this time, the haze begins to envelop her, and she sinks into the couch. But looking at the pipe, she can see that the majority of the weed has turned to ash. The handles of the coffee spoons form small points at their ends, so she grabs hers and prods at the bowl to better expose the bits of bud that are still green.

“I mean it,” Narcissa says. “Lucky me.” She smiles, and her face relaxes into something softer. For the first time, Lily sees Narcissa as she truly is. No stiff posture or taut forehead or thin lips. It’s as if Narcissa has always been bracing for something bad to happen, carrying the tension of a tightly pulled string. Here, among the soft lighting, the slight wrinkles by her eyes and mouth visible, she looks more human than she ever has. 

“Do you want the last hit?”

“Let’s share it.” This time, she pulls slowly and holds the smoke in her mouth. Narcissa sets the pipe down on the corner table beside her and leans forward.

Even as she floats, Lily’s heart races, and she suddenly finds her palms sweaty. It’s been years since she’s done this—not since she and James were young—but it isn’t a precise art. She parts her lips and leans forward as well until their noses bump clumsily together. They hover, their faces less than an inch apart, and Narcissa reaches up. Working on a delay, Lily doesn’t have time to brace or wonder what it’s for before she feels Narcissa’s fingers against her cheek, her skin warm and smooth, and she pushes Lily’s hair behind her ear and out of the way. And then she breathes out.

The smoke lingers between them for a moment before Lily breathes in, pulling it into her lungs. She feels it pass in the air between them, and her mind races from the feel of Narcissa’s skin against hers to her growing light-headedness, and she pulls back, a small, disappointed noise leaving her lips as Narcissa’s hand drops to the couch.

The living room is quiet except for the birds chirping from the tree outside her window. For a second, Lily’s certain that Narcissa’s eyes are on her lips, but then they glaze over, and she swallows thickly. “It’s strong,” she mumbles, though her gaze stays unfocused.

“It is.”

“If it weren’t for Draco, I don’t think that Lucius and I would still be together.” Narcissa speaks in a dull, detached voice, as if narrating a dream. “Did you ever doubt your relationship with James?”

“Of course,” Lily says, ignoring the pang of guilt in her chest. “I think everyone has moments of doubt when things get stressful, but at the same time, I always knew and felt secure if that makes sense.” The words spill out in a jumbled mess. 

“None of the other wives would ever admit that. It’s all about appearances. Doesn’t matter if their husbands cheat or scream and throw things at walls.”

“Does Lucius—”

Narcissa shakes her head. “Nothing like that. But sometimes, when I look at him, I can’t help but wonder: Is this really it? Is this what the rest of my life looks like? It feels as though I must have made up how nice it was before, but I know that isn’t true. We did love each other when we met.” Just as the words settle, Narcissa blinks out of her stupor. Her face flushes pink, and she turns away from Lily as she lets out a forced chuckle. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Narcissa’s brow furrows and her eyes dart about as inches toward her side of the couch, putting distance between them. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.” Lily places her hand on top of Narcissa’s, and Narcissa stiffens, though she doesn’t pull it back. “If you want to talk…” Lily holds her breath and waits for the inevitable—for Narcissa to compose herself and announce that she has to leave or throw a cruel remark her way. But she doesn’t.

She takes a deep breath and looks up to meet Lily’s gaze. “The only time I don’t feel lonely is when I’m with Draco.” It strikes Lily that the look on Narcissa’s face is fear. She squeezes Narcissa’s hand.

“I feel the same with Harry. I shut everyone out after James died. They still try, but I almost wish they wouldn’t. And work is a welcome distraction, but when I’m with Harry, I genuinely feel something. Not quite happy but—”

“Like it’s the only thing tethering you to—not reality, exactly, but if it weren’t for him, you might have given up by now.”

Lily nods. And then Narcissa leans in once more.

Her eyes close just as Narcissa’s lips touch hers, and her breath catches in her throat. Her tongue traces against Narcissa’s lower lip, easing her mouth open. She tastes like smoke and coffee and smells like expensive perfume, and Lily’s head rushes. It’s been so long since she’s felt anyone this close to her—the warmth of another body, the feel of someone reacting to her touch. Under other circumstances, Lily might spiral with the realization that this is Narcissa Malfoy, but then Narcissa’s lips part, and she shifts her weight and places her other hand on Lily’s thigh.

The haze from the weed plucks the thoughts from her head, and Lily lets herself drift and focus on the sensations instead. The taste of Narcissa in her mouth and the weight of Narcissa’s hand on her leg, thumb pressed against the inside of her thigh, along the seam of her jeans. A low heat coils in the pit of her stomach, and she clenches her legs. She’s rewarded when a small, breathy whine escapes Narcissa’s lips, and she presses forward, deepening their kiss. Narcissa’s hand lifts from Lily’s knee to the back of her neck, weaving through her hair until her nails scrape lightly against Lily’s skin, just below her hairline, and Lily gasps, her eyes flying open.

Narcissa’s are still closed, and her brow furrows in concentration. From this distance, Lily can see how long Narcissa’s eyelashes are and the freckle below her right eye, barely peeking through her carefully applied concealer. Lily kisses the corner of her mouth and watches, enraptured, as Narcissa’s head tilts back and her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip. She presses another to Narcissa’s jaw, and Narcissa’s cheeks flush pink.

It’s too much, too fast, and although her body aches for more—she wonders what Narcissa might do if she pressed a kiss to her neck—a nagging voice in her head tells her to slow down. So, Lily pulls back, chest rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath. Narcissa’s kiss lingers against her lips, a phantom touch, and Lily reaches up, brushing her fingers against them.

Her mind goes in too many directions for any of them to matter, and she floats, suspended in the moment until—

“I should go.” Narcissa’s eyes dart about as she tries her best to look anywhere but at Lily, and she smooths down her hair. Her lips are red and swollen, lipstick smudged around them and down to her jaw.

“Don’t.” She’s sure the same feeling will hit her as well in time, but for now, the thought of Narcissa leaving makes her whole chest hurt. “Stay.” As Narcissa begins to stand, Lily reaches out, taking her hand once more. “Please.” 

Narcissa finally meets her eyes and catches her pleading look. Although she does her best to hide the panic and the fear, Lily has seen too much to buy it and catches the way Narcissa’s jaw tightens and her shoulders tense. She nods curtly and sits back down. All the while, her hand stays in Lily’s.

“What have I done?” Her voice is smaller than Lily’s ever heard it, and she knows there’s no answer she can give Narcissa that will offer any comfort.

“If you want, we can pretend everything out there doesn’t exist until you’re ready to face it.” It’s not a promise she can keep. The desire to stay here forever is too strong. Once Narcissa leaves, everything will come undone.

“What do we do now?” Narcissa asks. Her hand trembles almost imperceptibly under Lily’s.

“I don’t know.” Lily swallows and slowly settles back into her body. “I’ll get the brownies. I know they’re not homemade, but I promise they’re good.”

“I know, right!” The words come out louder than intended, and she groans as her cheeks heat up. “Too eager?”

“Nah, it’s cute when you get like this.” They smile up at James and blow her a kiss. “Come here.”

“Alright.” She takes one final glance in the mirror and turns, sticking her hands in her pockets and striking a pose. A smudge makes her right hip look blurry. “I really should clean this.”

Regulus rolls over on their back, and their head dangles over the edge of the bed, staring at James upside-down. They lift the joint to their lips and breathe in. For a moment, James stares at them affectionately, watching as smoke curls around their mouth, and then she walks over and perches herself on the bed beside them. Regulus makes no move to sit up.

“I’ve been loving how much you’ve been feeling yourself lately,” Regulus says, running their fingers absentmindedly up James’s arm.

“Well, when you have a boyfriend who can’t go three minutes without complimenting you…”

“Oh, did you want me to stop? ‘Cause I can.” 

“No.” James plops down and dangles off the bed beside Regulus. From this angle, the room looks different, bigger. She hums and presses a kiss to Regulus’s jaw. “Can I have some of that?” she asks, nodding toward the joint. 

“Sure thing.” Regulus brings it to James’s lips, and James breathes in and closes her eyes. They hold it steady between hits for James until she waves her hand to gesture that she’s done with it.

“Are you still meeting up with Barty soon?” Despite her best efforts to contain herself, James scrunches her nose.

“I saw that.” Regulus rolls to their side and scoots up the bed so that they are no longer hanging off. They hold the joint between their index and middle finger, and with their thumb, they pick at the chipped black nail polish on their other hand. “You can think what you want of him, but you know our rule—you don’t shit-talk my friends, and I won’t shit-talk yours.”

“To be fair, my best friend’s your brother.”

“Exactly. Makes it even harder to be nice.” Although Regulus tries their best to sound like they’re teasing, there’s a slight, defensive edge to their voice.

“Fine.” James sighs and sits up. “I guess your rule’s fair.” She doesn’t entirely think so, but she understands the supposed logic behind it.

“And yes, I’m still seeing Barty.” Regulus follows suit and grunts as they prop themself up and turn their body to face James. If James’s gut tells her anything, it’s that Barty isn’t good news—impulsive and reckless, with few lines he’s not willing to cross. It’s admirable how loyal Regulus is, but coupled with their stubbornness, there’s little she can do. She chews the inside of her cheek and finds herself lost in thought when Regulus interrupts.

“I got the strap we were eyeing.”

They’ve always had an uncanny ability to catch her off-guard by talking about things like this when she least expects it. She’s not naive. She knows that’s the thrill of it for them—watching her eyes go wide as she squirms. Now is no different. James’s pulse quickens, and any concerns about Barty slip from her mind. “Which one?” she asks.

“The thick one.” With a small smile, Regulus drops their hand to James’s thigh and traces up along the inside. “You know what that means?” They keep their voice low, just quiet enough to make James have to lean toward them to make out the words.

The world around the two of them falls away, and James’s mouth goes dry. It’s impossible to concentrate on anything other than the heat and weight of Regulus’s hand through the cotton of her overalls. She imagines their hand inching higher until— 

The room closes in around them. Her chest feels tight, and she swallows hard. Just as she lifts her hips, Regulus removes their hand. James groans, and Regulus’s eyes darken. They straddle her, their legs warm and soft around hers, and splay a hand on her chest. James hardly has time to adjust to the new position before they push her backward, and she falls to the bed with a slight oof. 

“What does it mean?” she breathes. They both know that she knows, but she wants to hear Regulus say it. Her voice trembles, and she sucks in a breath.

“After I get home, I’m going to fuck you until your ass is sore and you can’t stand straight.” A smug edge slips into their voice, and they lift the joint to their lips. “We have to break it in, after all.” The tip burns orange. “I can’t wait to see you take it. To watch as I sink into you. To see your face when you’re stretched, full.” A cloud of smoke hovers between them for a moment in the stagnant, bedroom air, and a bead of sweat drips down the back of James’s neck. Regulus reaches down to James’s hair and wraps a curl around their finger.

A bit of ash breaks off and falls to James’s new clothes. Under other circumstances, she might care more, but now, it hardly feels important. She shifts, and her hand moves to Regulus’s side, pulling them down on top of her, careful to give them a warning tug first to let them set the joint down on the ashtray on the nightstand. Regulus lands face-first on her chest—something James suspects isn’t entirely accidental.

“Wait, are those naked women on your overalls?” Their voice is muffled by the fabric.

“Yeah, they’re kind of hidden unless you’re looking closely.” She laughs as Regulus props themself up and stares again at the design. Her body still hums under theirs, craving more, but Regulus has always been easily distracted.

“This may be your gayest outfit yet.”

“You know what would be even gayer?” James asks.

“Hmm?”

“If you fucked me now.” There’s a certain pleasure in being able to surprise Regulus and watch a flush enter their cheeks. It’s so rare she can pull it off. “We can see how many times you can make me come.”

Regulus groans. “I would love to, but I have to leave in—” They check their watch and curse under their breath, “—five minutes.”

“Coward.” James props herself up on her elbows and presses a kiss to Regulus’s lips. It’s the sort of moment she could sink into—the quiet of their room punctured only by the sound of Regulus breathing in sharply through their nose, their lips soft against hers, the smell of their cologne and sweat and the lingering smoke blending together until James floats in a haze. She reaches a hand up. Regulus’s boxy button-up is already undone down to the middle of their chest, but James fiddles with the remaining buttons until they pop open too and leave their chest on full display. James runs her tongue along Regulus’s lower lip and licks into their mouth, marveling at the way Regulus melts into her touch.

Slowly, she places a hand on their stomach, fingers spread wide, and runs it up, over the twin scars on their chest, tracing their collar bone. Even with her eyes focused on Regulus’s face, she’s memorized their body and knows it by feel alone. Her finger finds the freckle at the base of their neck, and Regulus moans into her mouth, nothing but hot breath and rumbling vibrations.

And then they pull away, their lips swollen and shiny with her lip gloss. “I can’t. Barty and Evan are going through a rough patch, and if I’m running late because I got caught up with you, I’ll feel like a dick.” James deflates like a punctured balloon. She’d never been good at keeping a poker face anyway.

“They’re always going through a rough patch.” The words come out angry and bitter, a jab she immediately regrets when she sees Regulus’s face. The electricity in the air fizzles out until it feels stale, and Regulus’s eyes harden into something unreadable.

“I’ll be back later,” they say, standing and reaching for the buttons of their shirt.

“Regulus…” James stands and grips their hand as her stomach plummets. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Regulus stops and stares into her eyes, unblinking, until James is certain she will melt into the floor. And then they nod. “I’ll be back later.” Although their posture stays stiff, something in their face softens. Regulus has always been exceptional at holding onto anger, but something tells her that this time will be different. 

Her heart pounds against her chest, and she wrings her hands as she watches as Regulus smoothes out their hair and walks over to the shoe rack to grab their black, combat boots. “Tell Barty that I hope he and Evan will be alright.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.” Their chuckle punctures the tension in the room, and James’s shoulders drop. “You should finish the joint while I’m gone.”

It’s not a half-bad idea. “Thanks.”

“And James?” They cross the room once more. “I love you.” When they smile, James returns it, closes her eyes, and leans their foreheads together.

Marlene couldn’t handle her parents’ funeral while sober. To be fair, she wasn’t sure she’d been sober since they’d died. A blue Ford Cortina crinkled in an unlucky accident, and she’d been made an orphan overnight. During the wake, behind her parents’ house, she measured time in deep inhales and coughing exhales. It made people clasping her hands and saying things like they’d keep her in their prayers slightly less awful.

Of the visitors and mourners, Dorcas was the only one who didn’t offer empty condolences. Her eyes were hard when she touched Marlene’s shoulder and moved on. Head buzzing, Marlene’s gaze followed Dorcas for the rest of the night. She sensed that they were similar in some way, built from the same stone. She was still watching her when Lily, whose cheeks were wet, came up and hugged her. She should’ve been crying too, but she couldn’t. Over Lily’s shoulder, she watched Dorcas talk to Remus, and kept her arms at her sides while Lily held her tightly. 

Later, wrapped in the dark, Marlene lay awake and stared at the ceiling. Her aunt was asleep in her parents’ room. They hadn’t spoken as they cleaned up together, but Marlene could sense the disappointment. Her parents deserved a better daughter. Yet, between the waves of grief and guilt that kept her awake, she found she could think of nothing but Dorcas.

The next morning, a familiar ghost lurked along the edges of her consciousness, but eventually, even that faded. 

It was a few weeks after the funeral before Lily could finally lure her out. They smoked a joint while walking to the bar and then crammed into a tiny booth with Mary and Pandora. Before Marlene had finished her first drink, Remus and Sirius came in tow with Dorcas. Marlene watched her walk all the way over, catching her eye as she sat down. 

“Hey, Marlene.” Dorcas gave her a small smile. 

The chatter of their friends and blaring music nearly drowned out their voices, but Marlene and Dorcas didn’t leave the booth at all that night. They talked until their throats were hoarse. Until Lily and Mary were dragging Marlene back to their flat. 

After that, it was happening constantly. She ran into Dorcas everywhere, until soon they were making plans to run into each other. They studied together, doing their own things, Marlene sipping a coffee, and Dorcas drinking green tea. They smoked and stayed up late watching movies, talking side by side on the bed until they fell asleep. 

When they weren’t together, Dorcas was trapped like a vision of perfection behind Marlene’s closed eyes. She swayed against the half-dark like a spectre, constantly haunting her in sleep and waking. She hadn’t imagined it would turn out like this, but with her parents gone, who was she hiding from? That old bastard and awful hag were six feet under; she had no one to answer to. Realising she was in love with Dorcas felt like beautiful revenge. Her parents had tried to destroy this part of her, and those cunts had fucking failed. 

Once she’d thought of it, Marlene could barely hold herself back. The words were on the tip of her tongue every time they were together. When they lay on Dorcas’s bed, giggling like school girls once the edibles kicked in, or when they were surrounded by friends passing blunts back and forth. When they were completely sober, sitting on the bus to the library, sunshine illuminating Dorcas’s profile—rounded nose and full cheeks, a million earrings on just the one ear, hair tied into a knot revealing the smooth nape of her neck. 

Marlene had the good sense to wait until they were back at Dorcas’s flat, cooking dinner together in the kitchen as if they were already a couple. 

“Dorcas.”