The Room of Requirement far more versatile than he'd ever imagined. It could be just about anything that James wanted; it could become a study hall, a gym, even a full-sized, Olympic pool if he wanted, and without the chlorine to boot. Right now, it was a tailor and a fitting room, where the Hogwarts elves, at their request, were making last-minute adjustments to their dress robes. It was a good thing that the Twins had been camping out here for the past couple of days, or the girls would've undoubtedly taken it for themselves.
"Longer or shorter?" said Tippy, the head seamstress of the Hogwarts house-elves, holding out James' sleeve for him to see.
"I think it looks fine…?" he replied uncertainly.
"Hmm. Wrong," she said, and James cringed. "I shall make it shorter. The styles for men favor showing more of your sleeves. Many duelists, either from wands or sabres, had scars on their hands… and the ladies wished to show them off, you see." Tippy giggled conspiratorially at that. "Master James has strong wrists and a strong scar! They must be seen."
James grimaced at the still-blackened skin around the puncture wound, the basilisk's cursed venom having marred him permanently. "It's not that attractive."
"It is not the scar," Tippy said matter-of-factly, as needles began flying in formations. "It is your survival over whatever inflicted it."
"Right," he said, stretching out the word. "Do people even duel anymore in the Wizarding World?"
"Not so much since Grindelwald," she said. "Which is why you and your scar will stand out even more!"
"Why don't you just take Tippy to the Yule Ball?" George called. "You seem to be getting along swimmingly!"
Tippy audibly gasped, covering her face with her hands. James flinched as the needles fell out of formation briefly before regaining composure. "H-how inappropriate!"
James glared at George, but the shit just sniggered. Thanks to those words, Tippy remained steadfastly silent for the rest of the session, except only to ask short, sharp questions, her face beet red the whole time. Ten minutes later, she cried, "All done!" and disappeared with a pop before James could even thank her.
"What the fuck," said James, but George just gave him a cherubic smile.
"Just broadening your horizons, is all."
"If I wanted to broaden my horizons I'd be talking to your mum instead," James snapped, but George only laughed.
James huffed, before pulling on his robes atop his altered shirt. The robes were of a royal blue, with bronze trimmings, reminiscent of the Ravenclaw crest; half-sleeves ending at his elbows, revealing his bare arms; a blue, suede leather belt with an artistically carved bronze buckle in the shape of a feather; and a heavy half-cape that flowed over his shoulders.
"Oi, oi, what are you wearing there, Mr. Diggory?" Fred said, bouncing towards Cedric.
Almost immediately, Cedric drew his wand and wiggled it in Fred's direction. "Not a step," he said seriously.
"Aw, come on, Ceddy boy, I just wanted to admire your scarf," Fred jeered.
James tilted his head. Cedric was wearing a loose white shirt, with many folds and frills, with a wine-colored cravat. "What's wrong with it?" he said.
Cedric glared at James as Fred threw an arm over James' head, his grin wide.
"See his shirt?" he said. "It's not actually a shirt. It's actually lots of sheets of fabric held together at the belt, and the scarf." Fred grinned. "Which means, if you rip the scarf off, his 'shirt' peels like a banana and he's left standing in the nude. Well, the top half, anyway. Didn't take you for an aspiring stripper, Ceddy."
"Seriously?" James furrowed his brows. "Why would you dress up as a banana?"
Cedric flushed a little. "It's not a banana. Are you really going to believe him?"
"It's supposed to be more of a flower," said Fred, rolling his eyes. "But I reckon the banana metaphor works just as well, if not better."
"Alright, but you still haven't told me why you would want something that falls apart like that, Ced," said James. "Especially in the presence of Fred Weasley."
Fred leaned in. "Cho's supposed to be the one who pulls the scarf."
James' eyes widened as Cedric scowled. "Oh, I see. Okay. That's clever, actually." A smirk spread across his face. "You've gift-wrapped yourself for Cho."
Cedric flushed a little, before flipping Fred the bird. "If you do anything," he says, leaving the threat hanging.
"I'll behave, Ceddy," Fred called after him, before chuckling. "He gets so wound up about the little things."
"I think he has a pretty valid concern, to be honest. You're not exactly the most trustworthy fellow to be around."
"Well, both can be true," said Fred, before turning to him. "On the same topic, though, you're looking sharp there, Jimmy. Vicky'll love that, I'm sure."
James stared at him for a moment. "Are you taking the piss? Are you going to make a suggestive comment about Narcissa helping me choose my robes as well?"
"You know you want her," said Fred, bouncing his eyebrows. "We all do. But no, I'm not taking the piss. I reckon we all look rather gentlemanly today."
James hummed. Fred had gone for all-black, which was a bit of a surprise, given James had expected him to be flamboyant, but it fitted well and looked reasonably impressive for someone of Fred's stocky stature. George, on the other hand, had gone for wine-colored satin robes with gold accents. Moe had gone for mid-blue and cream, both colors that complemented his slightly darker skin tone, and Roger Davies had gone for black robes over a white shirt and ivory-colored cravat. Though at the rate he was kicking up dust, those black robes might very well be grey.
"Cut it out, man," Fred said. "You'll wear out the carpet."
Roger Davies stumbled mid-step, and he looked as though he was forcing himself not to pace. "I'm nervous," he said defensively, glancing into a wall mirror. "My hair's not fucked?"
"If you keep fiddling with it, it will be," said Lee Jordan. "Relax, bruv, we're all nervous here. Just go with it."
"And you're not going with Fleur Delacour," Roger said, his usual cockiness returning some. "Sorry, but I reckon that's a bit different from going with Sarah Pritchard."
"Oi!" said Fred.
"Get off your hippogriff," Lee sneered. "You know she only settled with you because she realized there was nobody else to reject."
"Better than getting rejected at all," Roger sneered back, referring to Lee's own attempt to woo her.
"At least I'll have a date that appreciates me. She'll just dump you after the dance to hang out with her girlfriends."
"You're lucky you're a melt," Fred said, sniggering. "She'd rejected every other eligible bloke by the time you'd gathered your wits about you."
"Roger," said James, "quit being a prat."
"Fine," he grumbled. "I'm sorry for implying Sarah Pritchard isn't worth getting nervous over."
"Dickhead," Lee offered, but his tone was light.
"Probably best not to say anything that might get you hexed when you finally got that greasy mop of hair ready," Moe said.
"You could always wear those pointy hats that Dumbledore's generation seems to love if you're so worried about ruining your hair," said Cedric, and the boys groaned.
"Well, if you're so nervous," said Fred, slapping his knee as he stood up, "maybe you can help with the finishing touches for tonight's after-party."
"What else is even there to do?" Moe complained.
The dance floor had been set up, after all, and appropriate sound-proofing charms around that; the bar was stocked and manned by two of the Hogwarts elves; there was a balcony with a number of private rooms overlooking the dance floor. Food had been stacked on tables along the far wall, and loveseats were present all over the room. And, of course, the 'surprise' was hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, ready to be lowered for when the party really got started.
"I was thinking we could throw in some of the Wicked Whizzbangs, George, what do you think?" Fred said, raising his voice at the end.
"The ones with love potions?"
"You read my mind, mate!"
James frowned. "Love potions?"
Fred rolled his eyes at him. "Quit being so fussy. It's not like we brewed Amortentia. Do you really think it's any dodgier than the stuff Roger's drinking right now so he doesn't immediately stutter like a moron in front of Fleur?"
Several pairs of eyes flickered to Roger, who froze in the middle of making himself a gin and tonic.
"But you can choose to get drunk. Love potions in fireworks? That'll lower everyone's inhibitions, whether they want it or not."
"So do my mother's scented candles, supposedly, but I don't hear you moaning about that. Relax, James, they're not that bad. All it means is that everyone's in a bit more of a partying mood, you know?"
James grunted. "Whatever."
"It won't be a problem, you worrywart."
He sighed. Not that his input would change anything, and he'd just have to trust that the magical world had some sensible precautions in place. It did help that witches were just as dangerous as wizards, and transactions of the more effective love potions like Amortentia were illegal, but when combined with their love of Obliviation of Muggles and other things…
"What's the time?" said George, sitting down in one of the loveseats nearby.
Cedric, who had come of age a month and a half ago, glanced down at his new watch. "Quarter to eight."
A short silence stretched between. "I suppose we should be going, then?" Roger said, and the others nodded slowly, ambling to their feet.
"I don't suppose any of you know how to operate a camera?" said George, placing a rather flimsy-looking device held together with spellotape. "Mum wants to see, quote, 'all the handsome young men that my sons real and adopted have grown into.'"
Moe sniggered. "I suspect she has more than enough of her own."
"I told her as much, and that I'd rather shave my scrotum with safety scissors than call you my brothers, but she wasn't having it." He shook the camera. "Do you know how to use it?"
James took the object dubiously. "This looks extremely non-functional." He paused. "Your dad hasn't tinkered with it, has he?"
"If he has, we're about to find out."
James grimaced as he beheld the old Polaroid. It probably wasn't even all that old now, maybe twenty or so years before the current year of 1994, but to him, it might as well have come from half a century ago. He carefully placed the camera on one of the tables, set the timer, and then rushed back to the side of the lads.
"Say cheese," said James.
"Why cheese?" said Roger, and James rolled his eyes.
"It's supposed to help you smile, idiot," said George, and then the flash went off.
Inside the picture, everyone was staring at Roger, who looked terribly confused. James raised an eyebrow, Moe shook his head, Cedric chuckled, and Fred and Lee both grinned. George laughed, and tucked it almost reverently into his breast pocket, patting the cloth over it.
"That'll do," he said. "I can send you all copies as well, if you want, once we make our little portraits start moving."
"How do you do that?" said James, and George shrugged.
"Some sort of potion, I don't remember what. Mum knows how to brew it, though. C'mon, we'll be late."
They hurried down from the seventh floor towards the Great Hall, ignoring the resentful gazes aimed their way by the younger students not yet permitted to attend. Fred and George peeled off to return to Gryffindor Tower, while the others decided to wait in the entrance hall. Various students from fourth- to seventh-years milled uncertainly, most of them still missing their dates. Some seventh-year had Transfigured a wall-length mirror, and there was a long line of boys waiting for their turn to look at their hair or adjust their sleeves.
"You sure you don't wanna stand in line?" said James, nudging Roger.
"Fuck off," he said.
Conversation ceased then as they waited, with Roger pacing as he did earlier, Moe tapping a staccato with his foot, and Cedric shifting his cravat. Lee huffed, glancing every so often at the corridors, and James too could feel himself getting anxious. And then, Cedric elbowed James, pointing.
James took an unconscious half-step forward. Lyra, Larissa, and Marietta Edgecombe hung back briefly as Victoria and Cho continued on, an expression of nervous determination on their faces. James could feel his lips tugging upward as he, alongside Cedric, made to meet them halfway. Cho awkwardly dashed the last few steps on her high heels and jumped into Cedric's arms; Victoria, however, remained more composed, and stopped in front of him, looking him up and down.
She wore a high-collared, shoulderless dress of a seafoam hue, long and flowing; and approaching the hem, the fabric darkened to become a midnight blue, which with the aid of enchantments resisted the air, flowing like ink dropped into water. Her usual wire-rimmed spectacles were absent, revealing her ice-blue eyes in full, and her fair hair twisted into a side-braid that cascaded down one shoulder. While she did not wear jewelry, either on her throat or her earlobes, she had crowned herself with a single tiger-lily in her hair, a deep indigo with white edges, and silver speckles glittering like diamonds.
Noticing his lingering gaze, a nervous smile split her face. "Hey, James."
"Hey yourself," James said, smiling back as best he could. "You look really nice."
She reached up to touch her braid, not quite meeting his eyes. "So do you."
"I mean it. Really, really nice."
Victoria's cheeks turned pink, but her smile widened all the same. She placed a hand on his offered arm and they made their way to the entrance, whereupon McGonagall greeted them with raised eyebrows and, dare he say, a small, almost invisible smile.
"You both look wonderful, Mr. Stark, Miss Clearwater."
"Thank you, Professor," said James, because he couldn't in good conscience say the same about her tartan robes.
"Ah, Mr. Davies, Miss Delacour."
Fleur was like a goddess amongst men, her already nearly-inhuman beauty highlighted further; her hair shone like burnished silver and her aquamarine eyes looked like they were almost glowing. Roger was staring like a complete idiot, not that James could blame him. He tore his eyes off of her and turned back to Victoria, who too was staring at her, her expression somewhere between awe and resignation, and he suppressed a frown. He bumped into her, stealing her attention.
"So… is this the first time I've ever seen your shoulders?" said James, half-seriously.
Victoria startled. "What?"
"You know. Your arms?" He shrugged. "Whenever I picture you, you always come with robes by default."
She just stared at him, uncertain if he was serious. "What's wrong with my robes?"
"Nothing! I'm just commenting on how mildly interesting it is that I've known you for five years and had literally never seen your arms until now."
Victoria furrowed her brows. "Um, okay?"
He just grinned at her. "So, can you dance?"
"…Not as well as I wished, admittedly," she said, deciding not to comment on the previous topic. "Can you?"
"Mrs. Malfoy taught me."
James took a moment to savor the memory in his head; where dearest Auntie Narcissa , after helping to pick out his dress robes, had more or less dragged him back to Malfoy Manor, and had volunteered to be his dancing mistress — and partner. He dearly hoped neither Lucius nor Lyra would ever find out that he'd held Narcissa by the waist and spun her around until they were both huffing and red-faced (for different reasons), with her permission — no, with her invitation — because that would be very awkward and they'd probably both try to kill him, but at least if they did, he'd die a happy man.
He shook his head clear of such thoughts and turned back to Vicky. "To be honest, I have no idea how much of that lesson I absorbed."
"At least we'll both be incompetent, then," said Victoria, before leaning in a little and lowering her voice. "If things go really badly, then I'll just ask you to discreetly hex Fleur's shoes for me."
"I doubt that's even necessary. If you look really close, you can see Roger's last brain cell dying of asphyxiation."
She giggled.
"And the last pair," said McGonagall. "Excellent. We may now begin. Follow me."
James craned his neck to find, once more, Viktor and Hermione. The former, for once, had an expression that wasn't dour; and the latter looked resplendent. She gave James a polite smile, and a much warmer one towards Victoria.
"You look wonderful, Vicky," she said sincerely, and Victoria smiled back.
"As do you."
"Thank you again, James," said Viktor, nodding at him.
"It's nothing," James said, but Vicky tilted her head.
"Whatever for?" she said curiously.
"He introduced me to Herm-own-inny," he said, glancing to Hermione, who raised a single neat eyebrow at this admission. James sighed out his nose as he turned back around, keenly feeling her gaze on the nape of his neck as they stepped out into the Great Hall to applause.
"That was kind of you," said Victoria, as they neared the high table, where the judges sat. Dumbledore was beaming at all of them, Karkaroff wore a forced smile as he tried not to stare too hard at Hermione, and Madam Maxime appeared a little bored. Bagman, of course, already looked a little tipsy, and Barty Crouch would clearly rather be doing anything else, considering the fact that he'd brought a stack of reports with them and was filling them out at rapid speed.
"I guess," he said.
He quickly guided himself and Victoria towards Dumbledore before he ended up in the unenviable position of sitting next to Crouch. James felt a bit of awe as Dumbledore himself chose to fill their goblets with some sort of white wine, giving them a conspiratorial wink.
When it came time for the food to be served, a number of menus appeared on the tables, and Victoria leaned in close, their shoulders touching, to read it together. James ran his finger down the list cuisines from various regions were arranged in no particular order. There were a number of soups and salads as appetizers, with the mains consisting of roasts — poultry, ham, duck, pork with crackling, and various stews with regional flairs.
"Butternut squash soup," Dumbledore said, and a cup of steaming soup appeared in front of him. James and Victoria glanced at each other.
"Caesar salad," said James, as Victoria said, "Garden salad." But strangely, it did not appear on their tables for several awkward heartbeats, long enough that Dumbledore and Maxime both looked at them in confusion, until Dobby popped into existence right behind them and almost startled them out of their seats.
"Hello, Master Stark!" he said, bouncing on his toes, still dressed in his concierge outfit. "James Stark is Dobby's second-favorite, sir, so Dobby volunteered to be in charge of James Stark and Ravenclaw Miss' host, sir!" Then his ears drooped. "But Dobby was very busy serving Mistress Lyra and the other Ravenclaw Miss…"
"That's okay," said James, his lips twitching. "We both appreciate you working as hard as you do, Dobby."
Dobby perked up again. "Sir's and Miss' salad will be right here, James Stark sir!"
And with that, he popped away. "An elf with clothes?" said Maxime, sounding utterly mystified.
"He was mistreated in the past, from what I understand," said Dumbledore, "but he has turned what most elves would consider a weakness into his greatest strength."
The salads appeared in front of them, with a small, separate jug of salad dressing. It looked great, but the croutons were arranged in a… figure of seven? James tilted his head, and glanced at Victoria's plate, which also had the cherry tomatoes arranged in a strange pattern such that if they decided to push their plates closer they would form two halves of a heart—
He quickly scattered the croutons and covered them in salad dressing before she noticed.
"…Is nuzzing," he heard Fleur say. "We 'ave ice sculptures all around the dining chamber at Christmas, and they are each ten metres tall, and we 'ave nymphs to serenade us as we eat… And we do not 'ave poltergeists, if we did, we would have expelled 'im like zat!" She slapped the table in emphasis.
"Uh… yeah," said Roger, nodding frantically. "Yeah, yeah. Like that."
Victoria pulled a face. At Fleur or Roger, James couldn't tell; probably both.
"Going to class with Peeves causing mayhem is an admittedly appealing thought," said James idly.
"It might be, but you'd also have to go to class with her," said Victoria, tilting her chin towards Fleur.
James hummed neutrally.
The food kept coming, and James decided to go for one of those Baltic stews, pork and potatoes and caramelized onion, stealing a couple of rolls of sarma from Dumbledore's plate as well. He was going to miss Hogwarts for many reasons, but the food was definitely going to be a big one. Victoria didn't speak much, perhaps feeling a little awkward being sandwiched between two Headmasters, and she wasn't as close to Dumbledore as James was, but it was never uncomfortable.
"I don't think I can dance anymore," James groaned, as he nonetheless dragged another piece of Yorkshire pudding to himself.
"You must," said Dumbledore gravely. "You should have known this when you stole my cabbage rolls, James."
"Yeah, I should have…"
As the food disappeared, Dumbledore stood. James too forced himself to his feet with a huff of exertion, and Victoria rolled her eyes at him.
"I trust you have all filled yourselves satisfactorily," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I would like you all to please stand."
The students stood, and Dumbledore waved his wand, sending the tables zooming along the walls, and despite the number not a single one fell out of formation, or tripped over each other. If James had tried to cast such a spell on so many pieces of furniture at once, a few would probably have ended up missing legs from collisions or crashed into splinters against the walls.
"And please welcome our bards for tonight… whom, I believe, many of you should recognize."
The Weird Sisters entered to wild applause that they did not even acknowledge. James was vividly reminded of the emo subculture that wouldn't become mainstream for another few years. Victoria gently tugged on his hand and he followed her with a smile down onto the dance floor, alongside Viktor and Hermione, and Fleur and Roger.
"Don't trip," James told Roger as he passed them by.
"Everybody's watching," Victoria added, unable to resist putting her own jab in. She turned to James, and they briefly smirked at each other.
She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he planted his own hand on her waist. The first dance was slow-going, and while Victoria was clearly not feeling entirely comfortable with all the gazes on them, James thought it made for a good warm-up as they got into the stride of things. Viktor, it seemed, was a pretty good dancer, and Hermione was doing her best to keep up with his sweeping movements; Roger, predictably, was a little too focused on Fleur's face and not enough on his feet.
"I like the flower, by the way," said James, for lack of anything else to say. "Where did you get it?"
Victoria smiled at him, then. "From my mother's garden," she said. "She does a bit of horticulture as a hobby."
"She has some impressive green thumbs, then."
"Green thumbs I sadly did not inherit," she said. "But at least I'm no worse than Penny. One of our watermelons tried to bite her hand off when she tried to pluck it."
"I'm sorry, did you say a watermelon tried to bite your sister's hand off?"
"It wouldn't have succeeded either way," said Victoria, with a shrug. "Watermelons don't have teeth."
"Right…" James shook his head. "I envy you. Growing up in the magical world seems… well. I don't think I have the words to describe it."
She tilted her head a little. "I forget you're Muggle-born, sometimes, with how much magic you know. Have you never visited a magical household?"
"Lyra and I were invited over to the Weasleys' a few years back," said James. "But that was only for a few days."
"I thought for certain you would have visited Lyra's house before."
"I have, but never for more than a couple hours at a time. Can you imagine me sitting down at the same table for dinner as Lucius Malfoy?"
"I suppose not," she said, pursing her lips.
As the song ended, the other couples began to stream onto the dance floor, with Angelina and Fred leading the way, the latter of whom vaulted over a settee. A faster, more upbeat waltz began to play, dragging more couples onto the dance floor.
"You know," said Victoria, as they dodged Fred and Angelina's violent flailing.
"Hm?"
"If you'd like, you could come visit my house over the summer," she said. "Penny brings her friends home all the time. I'm sure my parents would be happy to accommodate you."
James blinked, and felt his mind go blank. He struggled to recall what language was for a few moments. "What?" he managed to say finally.
Her cheeks pinked. "You're my friend, James. I'm not suggesting anything… out there."
He stared at her.
She laughed a little, though sounding a tad embarrassed. "I'm not — I'm only asking you to give it a think."
"Yeah, of course," he said. "I was surprised, is all. Sounds fun."
She smiled at him, and he felt himself smiling back.
They enjoyed themselves for a few more dances until Victoria begged off, and they found Larissa's table. James sat beside Lyra, and Victoria seated herself on his opposite side, taking off her heels for a moment and massaging her feet under the table. Larissa was chatting with her date, some sort of boy from Beauxbatons with an entirely unintelligible accent but that didn't matter because Larissa simply never stopped talking anyway. Lyra, meanwhile, sat with a drink in hand, hiding a frown behind the glass. Her eyes, naturally, were focused on the one pair that garnered the most looks from everyone else; that being Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies. A shit-eating grin tugging at his cheeks, he patted Lyra's arm, but she made eye contact with him, and slowly moved her arm away.
"Why so glum, chum?" said James, feeling an almost sadistic glee as Lyra stared at him. "Hey, maybe she just doesn't see your charm yet. You should talk to her some more."
She ignored him, but he noticed her lips tightening just a bit, and his heart soared at the sight.
"You might have to work on your personality a bit, though," said James. "You don't want her to see you glaring at her, do you? You also probably don't want to be seen bullying younger kids. Or the older kids, for that matter."
"James?"
"Yes, Lyra?"
"I know so many places where they would never find you."
James hummed, and turned to Larissa instead. "You look great tonight, by the way."
She turned to him immediately, leaving the poor Beauxbatons lad forgotten. "Thank you!" Her robes were black, silk and lace, but the hem, which ended just above her knees, was enchanted into a gradient of blue-green, an aurora borealis trapped inside the fabric. "Do you want to dance?" she said, completely ignoring her date.
"Sure, why not," he said, well aware that he was cock-blocking a Frenchman and, therefore, practicing a time-honored English virtue.
Larissa dragged him onto the dance floor. She wasn't much better a dancer than Victoria, though she more than made up for it in enthusiasm.
"You'll be there, right?" she said conspiratorially.
"At the after-party?" he said. "Yeah, of course."
"Good," she said, grinning. "We can't have one of our Triwizard champions missing. It would kill the mood."
"Don't you worry. Just try not to end up in a state where Lyra and Vicky have to carry you back again."
Her eyes twinkled at that. "Honestly, I just wanted to be tucked in."
James shook his head, smiling. "You're more devious than you present, don't you?"
"I'm a pretty good actor, yeah," she agreed. "Anyway, I'll see you there, alright?"
A force of nature, he reminded himself, that was what Larissa was; she came and left as she pleased, and there was something admirable about that. The punch line was empty, so he took the opportunity to scoop a generous portion of fruit punch into a tall goblet.
"James."
He froze in the middle of raising his goblet to his lips. Awkwardly, he lowered it again and turned to Hermione, who watched him with a neutral expression. He tried to meet her eyes, but he ended up staring at her earrings instead, as his fingers fidgeted with the cup.
"Hello," he said.
"Yes. Hi," she said wryly. "Enjoying yourself?"
"I am," he said.
"Good," she said, folding her arms. "Good."
James nodded, feeling a bit dumb. She continued to stare at him, and he continued to not-quite meet her gaze. She did look really nice today. She wasn't exactly Emma Watson, though that didn't mean she was ugly, just that she was more of a girl-next-door kind of look; maybe halfway between average and pretty — and now he'd just missed whatever she said.
"Sorry, could you repeat that?"
She looked a little annoyed with him, and he fought not to wilt under her scrutiny. "I asked if you set me up with Viktor."
"I — no, I didn't. Not really."
"Really?" she said. "It's not some attempt to get back into my good graces by setting me up with a star athlete? Viktor's been an absolute gentleman, of course. He's very kind, and very considerate, and I don't regret going with him. But, according to him, you had a hand in the fact that he spoke to me at all. It feels like you're trying to meddle in my personal life to make it up to me, as it were." She shrugged. "I'm sure you can see why I might be feeling a little wary, considering the last time."
A small spark of indignation warmed his cheeks before he swallowed it back down. "I didn't do anything beyond give him a push. He was already watching you from behind a bookcase like a tween with his first crush, so I just nudged him in your direction."
"Yeah?" she said. "So it wasn't guilt, or pity, that motivated you?"
"Pity? No," he said, because in another world, his interference wouldn't have changed the results. "Guilt? Maybe. But I would've done it anyway, same as I would have for someone else. I still consider you a friend, despite how it might seem."
She flared her nostrils at that. "I see," she muttered, turning away. "So it wasn't because I'm not girly enough, it wasn't because I should logically have no chance of getting with the famous, popular, Viktor Krum — ?"
"What are you on about?" said James, aghast. "I already told you, he was clearly interested in you before I involved myself. I'm not trying to involve myself in your love life or whatever — if anything, I was helping Viktor with his."
Hermione sighed. "I suppose so, yes. I apologize for the outburst, you didn't deserve that." She sighed again, more irritably. "Boys," she muttered darkly.
"Dare I ask what happened?"
"Just… some unnecessary comments from house-mates," she muttered. "I suppose I should be thanking you, then? For nudging Viktor in my direction?"
"If you really want to," he said awkwardly. "But you don't have to. I'm not trying to make up for what I did before. This is a separate thing."
"Alright. If you say so." She took a deep breath. "In that case, I appreciate what you did. Thank you. I'll see you around, yes?"
"I suppose you will."
James sighed a little as she left. He glanced down at the punch, before he left it on the table, no longer quite as thirsty as before. He supposed he could only blame himself; he'd made the bed when he chose to trick Hermione into giving up her Time-Turner, and now he could only lay in it. He and Lyra had their justifications — he could've had all the justifications in the world, but that didn't mean there were no consequences. There always were.
He was going to get himself drunk tonight.
"Come on, Vicky, learn to have some fun!"
Victoria stared suspiciously at George, whose pale cheeks were as rosy as his freckles, and held out a shot glass in one hand. The amber liquid had smoke rolling off the surface, sparkling with little enchanted stars, floating lazily towards the ceiling.
"We didn't even nick it from McGonagall's stash this time," he added.
"Then who did you steal it from?"
"We didn't," George whined. "Some of us are adults now, we just got Lyra to buy it for us. Promise!"
"I don't drink."
"Yeah, because you never came to our parties. Just take it!"
Peer-pressure was an insidious psychological effect, Victoria reflected, as she grudgingly took the glass. George watched her expectantly, a stupid smile framing his face. She hesitantly raised the glass to her lips, and tossed it back like she'd seen the others do. It was like inhaling a spoonful of ground cinnamon; she gagged, but forced herself to swallow. George just laughed, clutching his side, and his own drink gently tipped over the rim and spilled onto the floor.
He giggled at the puddle he'd created. "Oopsie-daisy!"
"I think you might have had enough," she said, perhaps redundantly.
"Not at all!" he said cheerfully, and plucked a fresh drink from a nearby table. "You're too sober. Here, take this."
"No, thank you —"
Victoria ended up taking the drink anyway, if only to stop him from spilling it all over her. He beamed at her, and she glared back until he took the hint and left. The drink was full-sized, this time, and while she could see the smoke from the firewhiskey again, the liquid itself was a much darker, almost blood-red color. She sniffed it, then took a small sip. Sweet and tart — cherry syrup, it must be — with that hint of cinnamon and ethanol behind it. She hummed. It wasn't too bad.
About fifty or so people were present, scattered over the dance floor, the bar, or the loveseats lining the edge of the room. Roger Davies was currently the center of attention after having been hit by a Dancing Jinx but somehow managing to turn it into a halfway decent tap-dance. About half of those present were Beauxbatons or Durmstrang students, including Viktor and Fleur, and it seemed their social barriers had been reduced with the addition of upbeat music and alcohol.
Victoria flinched a little as fireworks erupted from the corner, streaking across the Room with multicolored smoke trails. The crowd cheered and whooped as the fireworks exploded in various patterns, some streaking down like the sagging branches on a willow tree by the riverbed, leaving soft motes of snow-like flame that winked out after a moment, their lives fleeting yet beautiful, a metaphor for all their lives —
She blinked and shook her head clear as the crowd cheered at the spectacle. She was almost knocked over by Larissa bouncing over to her and dragging her by the arm to her circle of friends, both familiar and new; she recognized Emily from Hufflepuff, as well as Amelie and some of her friends from the time she'd given that tour as a prefect, squished into far too few sofas, and Lyra sitting on one of the armrests like some sort of chaperone. Larissa more or less pushed Victoria into an open space, and then sat down on Victoria's lap.
Victoria grunted at the weight. "Larissa —"
"Heya, Vicky," said Emily, her cheeks a rosy red. "Have you played Never Have I Ever?"
"I know the rules," said Victoria, before glancing down. "Am I meant to drink if I have done something?"
"Great, so you know how it works already," said Emily, grinning. "Never have I ever… stolen something from a store."
Victoria's eyes went wide as several girls, including Larissa, tilted their heads back and drank.
"Larissa!" she said, scandalized, and Emily laughed.
"I'm sorry," said Larissa, resting her head on Victoria's shoulder. "I've disappointed you."
"What did you do?"
"Look, Lyra took me to a Muggle shopping center, and I really wanted these adorable gummy bears but I didn't have any Muggle money on me, okay? So I just Charmed it and took it. I still feel bad about it."
"Don't feel bad," said Lyra, from the side. "I was so proud of you."
"Don't do that again, Larissa," said Victoria firmly, ignoring Lyra's comment. "You're too good to be corrupted like that."
"Sorry, Vicky…"
Victoria sighed, before pulling Larissa into a one-armed hug. "I forgive you. Just be better."
Their conversation was interrupted by the all the lights being extinguished at once. Victoria froze, but relaxed again when a single torch was lit, the flickering flames casting eerie shadows across the room. The dancing, drinking, and occasional snogging had all stopped as everyone turned to the fire, carried by Fred Weasley. And in the darkness, she could heard the clinking and rattling of chains, and the grinding of metal on metal. Something was being lowered from the ceiling.
"So, did you know that there's one person who, on average, loses more points per year from Snape than me or George?" said Fred, conversationally. "Good thing McGonagall finds an excuse to bring them back, or we'd never win the House Cup. Anyway, get up here, Harry Potter, you little rascal!"
The crowd cheered, separating for Harry Potter, who untangled himself from a mass of Gryffindors, stumbling towards Fred, and the crowd began to chant Potter's name as he took the torch. An effigy of Professor Snape, amateurishly made, descended from the ceiling, and began to squirm and thrash about as it realized what its fate would be, but it must have been soaked in something beforehand, because it burst into flames with a supernova of color and light.
"We were gonna hold an auction for the opportunity to set Sizzling Snape on fire," George was saying, "but it wouldn't be fair to the one bloke that Snape holds a special hatred for, eh? Maybe next time."
"Bit grim, don't you think?" said Emily.
"Why do you allow zis man to teach if he is so disliked?" said Amelie.
"Dumbledore was probably stoned when he made that decision," said Lyra. "He always gets stoned for important decisions."
Victoria excused herself as the lights returned and the noise resumed. Taking her drink with her — she wasn't sure if she should be concerned by how quickly she'd gotten attached to it after her earlier assertions that she didn't drink — she stood, weaving through the throng. In one corner, Fleur was surrounded by her girlfriends, reducing more than a few boys to drooling, incoherent wrecks; in another, Viktor had proven himself the reigning armwrestling champion, and was now flexing at the crowd like a victorious prizefighter. But the last Triwizard champion that this party was supposed to be celebrating wasn't anywhere she could see. Knowing him, he was probably on his lonesome, somewhere quiet. She slipped out through a darkened doorway and emerged onto a balcony.
As she suspected. James had his arms folded over the railing, idly tapping his wand against his shoulder. He stared out blankly towards the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest beyond that. A half-empty glass sat by his feet, not enough space on the railing itself. He turned, briefly, to meet Victoria's eyes and give a half-smile of sorts.
"I thought you got over your brooding phase last year," Victoria said.
James hummed, amused. "I revert to my nature as a philosopher, sometimes."
"Of course," she said drily. "I'm sure all sorts of important thoughts are on your mind. What you plan to eat for breakfast tomorrow morning, perhaps."
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, according to the same man who thought genital mutilation would lead to a new generation of upstanding young men and women," he said, and Victoria stared. "I did want your thoughts, though. Not about the breakfast menu."
"I'm sorry, what was the first part?"
"A nutritionally diverse breakfast is the key to health and happiness?"
She rolled her eyes. "Never mind. What did you want my thoughts on?"
James sighed, rolling his wand between his fingers, and fumbling when it knocked against his pinky mid-spin and fell out of his grip. A wandless Summoning Charm prevented the wand from hitting the floor, however, and gently floated the wand back into his hand. Victoria snorted a little at that. It was nice to know there was something she was better at than him, even if it was something as inane as wand-spinning tricks.
"I was thinking it was kind of a shitty thing to do, showing everyone someone's boggart like that."
She thought back to the First Task. "It is. Good for drama, however."
"Yeah, yeah. Skeeter's gonna have a lot of fun with that, I'm sure." He sighed again. "Does anyone suspect anything about it? My boggart, I mean."
"James…" She shifted a little. "I'm not the right person to ask that. I don't know many people, for one, and I wouldn't try to associate with the kind of people who would speculate about your obviously personal boggart."
James glanced at her, then, perhaps with a bit of surprise, before bowing his head just a little. "I don't know. I just assumed it was normal to, you know…"
"I assure you it's not," Victoria said. "Boggarts are sentient creatures, and they can be trained like any other to show only superficial fears. Mummies, banshees, et cetera. Not personal traumas. I can't imagine Headmaster Dumbledore was pleased with that."
"Huh. Makes sense, I suppose."
"Did you… want to talk about that boggart?"
James' smile faded, then. It wasn't an uncomfortable expression, only a thoughtful one, which Victoria took as a good sign.
"I don't know," he said. "It surprised me too. I wasn't expecting that, but in hindsight, I can understand where it came from."
"Your family?" Victoria guessed quietly. "Perhaps they don't have the best relationship with magic?"
"Not at all. It's more… that was me," said James. "Or rather, who I was. Who I could've become. There's this ever present existential worry that maybe I'm not who I am. Consider this from a Muggle-born's point of view. Magic is an outdated product, a way to explain cosmic phenomena that we back then didn't have an explanation for. It's just all fantastical, and I still wonder if I'm just delusional still. Getting a letter to a magic school, meeting lots of magic kids, studying magic at a sentient castle? It's something straight out of a children's fantasy series."
Victoria remained silent, unsure of what to say. It wasn't as though she could actually understand his concerns. After all, magic was just another part of life, one that Muggles and Muggle-borns were blind to see. She didn't want to think he was overreacting, but there was a small, guilty sliver of herself that clearly did.
"I've always wondered if I was going to wake up one day," said James. "Find out this was all just a dream."
It's time for you to wake up.
"Would you want to?" she said slowly. "Go back, I mean?"
James thought about it for a moment, and shook his head.
"I thought that way, for a long time. But the longer I stay here… I couldn't go back," he said. "Having magic — I feel powerful . For once, I feel like I can change the world… maybe even other worlds. Like I can change myself. What bothers me is more about whether there's something more powerful than me, something that tolerated my presence only as long as I didn't question my existence too hard. Even if that's my own brain, creating vivid hallucinations for me to lose myself in. You know?" He shrugged. "I feel like I've gone on a tangent here."
"Perhaps a little," she said. "But I don't mind."
He sighed out his nose, not quite meeting her eyes as he gathered his thoughts. Victoria glanced up. The stars glittered brightly on the moonless night.
"Wasn't it raining just earlier?"
"It still is. You're still inside the Room of Requirement," he said, and Victoria blinked.
"Oh?"
"It's pretty wicked," James agreed with a nod. "Do you sort of understand why I can't tell if everything is real or fake when magic's involved, now?"
"I suppose?" Victoria shrugged. "It's not something I think much about. Especially not when N.E.W.T.s are on the horizon."
He huffed, amused. "That's fair. I'll just have to ask you again when those are finished, seeing as exams are your whole world."
"They're not my — forget it," she said, sounding indignant even to herself. "Besides, they're important. I'd rather be disappointed that I studied for what turned out to be an unimportant test than be unprepared entirely."
"You know, you put my thoughts into words far better than I could've done," he said. "I guess I just needed a change of perspective. If there's even the slightest chance that my life is real, then I should spend that time treasuring my friends. I'm lucky to have met you all." He picked up his drink. "Lyra, Larissa, Cedric, the Twins… even Dumbledore. And you. I appreciate you, just so you know. You're among the best friends I could've ever asked for."
Victoria glanced out over the balcony. "Larissa did say you were the sappy kind of drunk," she said wryly.
"Nope, this is all me." He raised his drink in her direction. "I'm glad you're my friend."
She brushed her fingertips along her braid. "The feeling's mutual, James," she finally said.
He smiled at her, and she returned the gesture. Tucking his wand back into his sleeve, he stepped away from the railing. "I think I'll go back," he offered. "Probably enough philosophizing for one night. But let's find some time to talk again. I think I'd like that."
"Of course," she said.
James made to walk back to the Room proper; he briefly hesitated by her side, surprising her with a hug and lingering just long enough for her to reciprocate, before he continued onwards, leaving her on the balcony. Taking another sip of her drink, she looked up at the false sky. Despite the absence of the moon, the illusory skies were bright, far brighter than the real one above Astronomy Tower. The Milky Way and even the Andromeda galaxy were immediately obvious to her. She raised her hand, tracing the constellations that she could see with a fingertip. There were the planets, too — all five of them. She had to remind herself again that she was in an imagined space, not the real one, or she wouldn't have witnessed such a sight until the next century.
She didn't feel bothered by it, though. If there was one thing that Muggles and Muggle-borns often struggled with, it was about what was real and what wasn't. Some things simply couldn't exist to them. How many Muggle-raised students had tried to figure out how magic worked? Where the excess mass went when Professor McGonagall went to a cat; why enchanted buildings were bigger on the inside than the outside; where portraits and ghosts and transfigured animals sat on the spectrum of life and death. What they found difficult to understand was that when magic was involved, there was no distinction between the physical and metaphysical, the real and the imagined. Everyone dreamed, but magic made dreams real. Nobody lived in the real world — the human senses were limited. No two people lived in the same world. Perhaps two worlds with a lot of overlap, but not the same, never the same. Perhaps James was beginning to see that, beginning to see his own potential.
An old brass telescope materialized on the balcony beside her, and she picked out a spot on the sky; Jupiter was rather bright tonight.
