In an alternate universe, Professor Slughorn would look at you like you hung the moon, the stars, and found the time to craft a few comets. You're quiet and diligent; a good listener by virtue of tuning out everything he says and nodding appropriately.

NEWT level Potions students coined, tempered, and perfected this technique, according to Severus. The art of ignorance, Slughorn edition.

Only they add commentary that elevates his ego. You choose to stay quiet and try to keep a yawn locked behind clenched teeth.

The potions you create are also always perfect, especially when in partnership with Severus, whose prodigious talent has him coasting through every assignment.

Slughorn would swear up and down that you two are some of the most talented students he's had in decades, except Severus is too sallow and too bitter a pill for him to swallow.

And you? You're silent as a corpse.

You could dispel the shadow of Tom Riddle that holds Slughorn hostage, if you made an effort. You can see a future unfold where Slughorn's stories feature a brilliant red-head with a core of steel and fiery heart, instead of a charming, unnamed boy-genius.

Lily certainly would have caught his attention, had she been alive (Bright hair and a mind to match; a justice seeker and peace-keeper; too bad her fire burnt out early). He would have wanted to polish her and stick her on a shelf with the rest of his collection.

You just don't care enough about him or his ego to bother. Let Riddle's specter haunt him, scourge his head and snag in his brain, slowly coalescing into a tumor.

Why should I be the only one to suffer? I'm haunted too.

You picture Riddle in the green light behind your eyelids (yourpastyourfutureyour-). It's the same blurry image that appeared when you passed through the trophy room, seeking out his plaque. Your eyes had lingered on its dull shine.

If Riddle is a noose, twisting around your neck and cutting off your breath, Jamie is the chair that's being pulled out from beneath your feet. His memory is unstable, unsteady, unreliable.

Your past is running away from you as Lily's future draws nearer. You know, very clearly, why you're fighting so hard to get out of here.

.

.

.

Severus had approached you during the first potions lesson, ignoring the invisible divide created that kept the Slytherins and Gryffindors apart, except to mock one another, like a one-way mirror.

He had wasted no time taking out his dinged up pewter cauldron as you tried not to compare it to yours.

His cauldron looked, if not second-hand, than maybe like a relic from his mother's time at Hogwarts. The one Lily's parents bought you is still shiny from whichever anti-dust charms were applied to it during production.

The boys he'd usually sit next to during mealtimes had looked at him askance, but nobody dared to approach either of you. Not even the Gryffindors, for all their vaunted bravery, made so much as a token protest once Slughorn took roll call and began his lecture.

You've got a sneaking suspicion that Severus caught hell for his actions later, but your own carefully cultivated image of apathy and quiet studiousness stood up to the test, as none of the Gryffindors questioned you on your actions.

Here, your invisibility was a boon.

Your textbooks taught you that brewing potions is a lot like cooking, only with slightly more explosions. Luck is in your favor, because mitigating disaster is easy when its concentrated inside of a single cauldron.

It's your peers that you have to watch out for.

The second time Potter yells "Duck!" during a lesson, you muffle a groan and share an annoyed look with Severus. Slughorn gruffly moves to stand next to Potter and his partner in crime, Black.

"Now, gentlemen," Even Slughorn's usually placid, cheerful demeanor is on its last legs. He is about to begin his lecture when the fire at the boys' table flares.

"Aguamenti!" Slughorn shouts, wand in hand. His reflexes are surprising considering his age and not-inconsiderable girth.

The smell of smoke fills the classroom and Slughorn evacuates you all outside.

"Guess they weren't lying this time." A Slytherin girl with wiry, dark curls comments wryly.

The boy who cried wolf, you think, was eaten the third time.

You cut the thought off like you're chopping a rose at the roots. He's a child and he doesn't deserve to be at the business end of either your wand or your attitude. You shudder at the thought of repeating Tom Riddle's legacy in any capacity.

You've already spent too much of your time worrying about Riddle's exploits, past an future alike. Before entering Hogwarts, you considered using him as a template. Riddle had, after all, gained access to the Restricted Section as a teenager, though it took him years of charm and good behavior to get there.

You aren't sure if you have the patience to prey on Slughorn's ego for that long and you're only eleven. It took Riddle years of honeyed charm and good behavior. You can't hope to live up to that. And what's the likelihood that he'll repeat the same mistake?

Nobody in this castle, no matter how prideful or egocentric, is willing to give an eleven yer old access to the Restricted Section. Not unless they want to be responsible for a child being eaten alive or otherwise grievously injured and killed.

Somehow, you don't think telling the Headmaster that you're really an adult masquerading as a child will help the situation.

For now, you'll keep reading and going through the leads you do have. But information in the Wizarding World is a limited commodity.

So you keep your eyes open and look for options. When opportunity knocks, you can't afford not to answer.

.

.

.

As it turns out, opportunity doesn't knock so much as it pounces on you.

Everyone knows Sirius Black in some capacity. It doesn't matter how - whether you're crushing on him and have been fawning over his silky hair, or whether you sneer at him from across the corridor, another blood traitor to erase from the Black family tapestry.

You know him differently. You can't claim a personal acquaintanceship, thank god, but you know a little (too much, the part of your brain with survival instincts whispers) about the boy he is and you remember the man he will be.

Unfortunately, he's a long way from what he'll become.

That's alright. Personal journeys take a while. You would know.

Your foreknowledge doesn't save you from clashing. The first meeting between you two, while accidental, was less than fortuitous. As it turns out, it does predict your relationship down the line.

"Evans!" Black crows, pleased as punch to see you.

You're not in the library as per usual and the unconventional location, an unused classroom tucked away from one of the main staircases, is an unusual change of scenery for you.

"Black. What are you doing here?"

His smile dims, but he recovers quickly. The resilience of children in the face of apathy really is astounding.

"I'm just trying to find my best mate. You know, crazy hair, glasses, plans to be the first first year on the Quidditch team?" He says, evasively.

He's lying through his teeth, clearly. But you came here for the quiet, not the conversation.

Let him keep his secrets.

"Ok."

You looks back down at your book and pray he takes his queue to leave. He doesn't.

"What are you up to?"

He grabs the book out from your hands. You're starting to wonder if this is becoming a habit, but don't bother to answer. The unimpressed look in your eyes says it all: What do you think I'm doing with a book?

"Aw, come on, Evans. Lighten up. Not everything is life or death you know."

You're about to respond when the doorknob of the classroom begins jiggling and Black gasps. Filch bursts into the room, Mrs. Norris winding angrily around his feet.

"You! I'm going to have you hung upside down in my office! I'll have your head on my display case for this," He gestures toward the thick layer of fuzzy moss on his arms, a bright neon orange color that contrasts against his angry pink blush.

Black is beginning to look panicked. You wish you were more charming, even though you know where charm leads people (green light flashes behind your eyelids). Still, yo know what you have to do.

"Mr. Filch, he's been with me this entire time."

Filch looks upset that you interrupted his tirade, but Black jumps on the opportunity you've given him.

"I have, really! Evans has been tutoring me for Potions. I'm shite in that class," he begins spinning a yarn with the desperation of liars the world-over.

Clang. A sound chimes from the floor above. It sounds like someone dropped a suit of armour on the floor from a tall height.

"Peeves," Black and Filch say at the same time, in very different tones.

"Mark my words, I'll catch you one day."

Filch sweeps out of the classroom dramatically and Black collapses against a desk. He lets out a shaky sigh, but his bright eyes and the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betray his relief.

"Thanks for covering for me, Evans. I'm off to find the rest of my mates,"

"You owe me now."

Black barks out a bitter laugh. He rubs his chin absently with one hand.

"Are you sure you aren't secretly a Slytherin?"

The corners of your mouth curl up into a slow smile. Black gawks. You're pretty sure he's never seen your face in anything but its usual placid mask. His eyes follow the curl of your lips like they're rattlesnakes uncurling after a long rest.

"Fine, it's a deal," His hands are covered in a suspicious layer of a fine, gritty grey powder. You reach out to shake his hand and seal the deal. Your fingers barely brush his before he snatches it away.

His eyes are still bright and full of mischief. You're pretty sure this is his default face.

"Tell me what you want first."

The problem is, you don't know what you want. You saved Black from getting into trouble on a whim, because having a pure-blood owe you a favor is useful. A half-formed thought comes out of your mouth.

"I - I need access to any books you may have."

Black quirks an eyebrow at you in confusion.

"We bought the same set of first year text-books. Hell, I'm pretty sure you brought more books to Hogwarts than I did."

"I meant books that you have at home. The ones in your personal library."

"What? No way," he gives a short bark of laughter. "Why would I?"

"I just saved you from Filch."

"And if you go back and tell him you lied to help me, you'll get in trouble too."

You resist the urge to groan. Congratulations, you're at an impasse with an eleven-year-old boy. You thought you were better than this.

Black looks at you for a moment, considering. Then he sticks his hand out again.

"Fine, but I get final say over which books you can borrow. If you want something ridiculous, my mother will get suspicious. Also, you have to agree to meet me here every Thursday after dinner."

Suddenly, you feel a lot more unsure. Black looks like he's plotting something.

"Why?"

"I just told Filch you were tutoring me. What do you think'll happen if he knows I lied?"

He makes a good point.

"Fine, it's a deal," You mirror his previous words and shake his hand. This time, he lets you. His hands are smooth with neatly filed nails. They are covered in a suspicious layer of a fine, gritty grey powder.

Now you're implicated in this thing too, whatever it is. You guess it was only a matter of time.

this update was frustrating to write. i might edit it later.

also wow what an unreliable narrator "nobody notices me and im invisible" (except rookwood. black. prewett.) "seriously, nobody notices me."

lol what a dummy