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The Marauders go on, and you tell yourself you've spent enough time dissecting them. You let go. There are certain things you still can't help but notice—the fondness behind Remus' exasperation when Sirius bumps their hips together playfully, how James grins sheepishly at someone backstage when he's handed yet another drumstick—but for the most part, you just experience the music.

It goes by faster than usual. The songs are mostly the same ones you've heard at every show thus far, though the sparkle of those hasn't worn off for you either. All too soon, the boys are ending on Sweet and Easy, the crowd screaming for more even after they've repeated the riff at the end twice.

You're left buzzing, that raw feeling coursing through you, feeling the best you have in days. You figure you have some time before Lily rounds everyone up to go back to wherever you're staying tonight—you think it's still Birmingham one more day, if James' Cadbury World plans are any indication, but Lily said something about switching hotels—so you go outside to smoke with a gangle of fans.

In addition to a bummed cigarette, you get some half decent material from them. The feature isn't likely to include fan quotes, but if the band flakes on you and you need to fluff it up, these will be useable. You manage to sneak in a few questions about the direction The Marauders might go in without letting anything slip about new music, and the fans don't suspect you of knowing anything worth letting slip anyway. They just want to talk about a band they adore, and you're more than pleased to let them.

Even later, you won't know exactly how it began. The street in front of the venue has been crowded since you stepped outside, but suddenly it's crammed with bodies. You drop your cigarette on instinct when somebody pushes past you. Not two seconds later, someone going the other direction stamps it out. Voices rise, a familiar, foreboding thrum charing the air: anger.

You squash down your panic, looking for an exit route. These things happen. Riots are common at rock concerts. Back when you were going to these gigs in a more regular fashion, you would have remembered to find your way out quickly afterwards, before any could break out. You don't know who's fighting who at this one, or what side you might be presumed to be on. You should go before you find out.

The crowd is near impossible to move through. You find the venue doors locked, and your chest tightens. Any other time you'd just go, but you need to get inside to meet up with Mary, Lily, and the boys. You try to make your way around the building—weathering a few stepped-on toes, a wayward elbow, and a powerful shove.

The last one nearly sends you to the pavement. Another stranger grips you around the elbow to haul you back up, you gasping out a thanks while your ankle twinges and the man who shoved you doesn't so much as look back.

You find the side entrance you'd come in with the band, knocking on the door and trying to muster whatever professionalism you'd lost in the cigarette-smoggy mayhem a few feet behind you.

A security guard pokes his head out.

"Hi," you say. "Are The Marauders still inside?"

He huffs a laugh, already going to close the door again. "Nope."

You shove your foot in the way. Force down a wince—you must have tweaked your ankle when you almost fell. "I'm from Spellbound Magazine." You show him your press pass. "I'm with the band."

The security guard looks right past the piece of plastic, unimpressed. "The band's gone. You can catch them at another show, but not here."

A bolt of panic goes through you. You do your best to smother it. Security does this sort of thing all the time. He thinks you're someone who's not supposed to be here, so he's lying to get you to go away. You just have to prove yourself.

The guard looks down at your shoe, still wedged in the door, then at you, and you know you have a short window.

"If you find Mary—or anyone who works with the band, they'll tell you I'm with them. I came in this door a few hours ago, I just stepped outside."

"You can find see band somewhere else," the security guard says. He gives the toe of your shoe a kick—not even a hard one, but your ankle smarts and it does the trick. "Night."

The metal door shuts with a clang.

Deja-vu.

You don't have much time to think of another plan before commotion from the street catches your attention. The shouts are getting louder and angrier, and you know what that means even before the first shrill whistle pierces the air. The police have arrived.

You step closer to the alley wall, hoping to escape notice and hunker down here until someone you know eventually comes out, but it's not long before people are flooding the alley. There are so many of them you don't think they can all have been at the show. One of the fans you interviewed earlier grabs for you.

"Come on!"

"Oh, no, I—" You mean to let them pass, but the police are advancing behind, arresting those at the back of the crowd. You don't know if the same press pass the venue security disregarded a minute ago is going to make much difference to them. "Shit."

You let yourself be tugged down the alley, then propelled by the general mass of people when the one who tugged you loses their grip. You know for sure you messed up your ankle now. It throbs with every step, and it doesn't help matters that you often don't know where the next step will land, finding yourself moving left or right by the will of the crowd. Every time you try to break away, it seems like the police are right there, and so you keep moving.

Eventually, you aren't being chased anymore. Those around you disperse, going home or to whatever bars are still open. You go in the opposite direction of all of them.

It takes you longer than it should to retrace your steps back to the venue. When you knock on the metal side door, there's no answer. Not that you really thought there would be. There isn't a single light on inside or out.

It occurs to you far too late that you should have just found the bus. If you'd gone there earlier, rather than wasting your time arguing pointlessly with security…it's what a smarter journalist would have done. But the bus will be gone now. The Marauders have long since left you behind.

You're too hopeless to laugh, though you recognize the humor in it. After all your worrying about them sneaking off on you, you'd been the one to disappear. You practically gave them no choice.

You sit down on the foul-smelling concrete and try to steady yourself enough to think of what to do next. You can find them again. You might have some explaining to do, and possibly they'll be upset with you for leaving without saying anything, but if you show up at whatever venue The Marauders are playing tomorrow and catch the attention of someone you know you're sure they'll let you explain yourself. That doesn't give you anywhere to stay tonight, obviously. You'll be okay, though; sitting in this alley until morning doesn't sound particularly enjoyable to you, but you can do it. You're as safe here as anywhere, and it'll only be a few hours until the sun rises. You just have to stay awake.

The echo of a passing voice makes its way down to you, and you burrow closer to the wall to escape its notice.

"Hey? Hey!"

Your track record for successfully melting into the shadows of this alley is not a stellar one.

"Y/n!"

You look up in surprise. In the mouth of the alley, a familiar shape is jogging toward you, followed by others.

"Have you been here this whole time?" James sounds more out of breath than a short jog would do. "Where were you hiding?"

You stare up at him, sure you've fallen asleep and are dreaming. "I…"

James drops to a crouch beside you, concern written all over him even in the dark. Sirius and Mary are behind him a moment later, then Lily and Remus. They surround you, seeming perplexed when you don't stand.

"Are you alright?" asks Remus.

You burst into tears.

It's terribly embarassing, and very unprofessional, but you find that once you start crying you can't stop. You don't mean to shock them. James gets past his alarm the fastest, putting an arm around you, and Lily murmurs something that sounds like a placation.

"I'm sorry," you blubber. "I was—I tried to come back, but they wouldn't let me in, and then the cops were here—"

"We heard," says Sirius, his voice nearly as gentle as you've ever heard it. It reminds you of how he spoke to Remus after Remus got shocked by the mic stand, "about the riot. Figured you might've gotten caught up in it. Are you hurt?"

You manage to tell them about your ankle. Remus prods at it a minute—apparently, he's had enough minor injuries to be a de facto expert—and determines it likely sprained. Mary runs to get you a jacket from the bus, apparently still parked nearby after they stayed to look for you. Lily promises to make sure you always have the relevant addresses in case you get separated again, or maybe Mary can get you a press pass that looks more official somehow—but, she says, it'd probably be best if you stay nearby when you can help it in the future.

Through all of this, you're crying. You're waved off each time you try to apologize for the dramatics. James has resigned himself to sitting on the foul-smelling cement beside you so he can rub your shoulder, and Remus keeps a hand clasped loosely around your ankle while Sirius watches you with dark, serious eyes.

"You got it?" he asks when Mary comes back with your coat and you stand wobbily.

"Yeah." Your voice is a wreck. You put your coat on, and James lifts your arm, encouraging you to put it around his shoulders and let him take some weight off your ankle. You wipe your face. "Sorry for—"

"That's enough," says Remus, managing to sound more kind than stern.

You murmur anyway, "Thanks for waiting for me."

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