The Upside of Being Down

Chapter Two: When Toadstools Run Rampant

The next day, during my free third period (whose blessed respite from all things Advanced Transfiguration I was allowed to enjoy only every second day), I could be found holed up in the remotest corner of the library with Remus.

"Who've you got rounds with tonight?" I inquired, flipping dispassionately through a text on the advantages of toadstools in potion-making. We had an essay due in two days, and I was making Remus write mine with me. I was quite hopeless at Potions and needed all the help I could get. Not that Remus was much of an expert in this particular subject either, but he at least made the effort of paying attention in class, something I honestly couldn't be arsed to do half the time.

"Erm... Whittaker, I think," he replied, distractedly, as he scribbled out notes for me from his own book, which, telling by the hefty amount of notes he was procuring, was proving to be far more fruitful than mine.

Tossing aside 'The Toadstool: Not Just a Frog's Sitting Place' with a wrinkle of my nose, I picked up another book at random from the teetering pile on our table and began to read.

"Whittaker's the really smarmy one who got his sister to ask me out for him, isn't he?"

"One and the same."

"Hm. Don't envy you much, then," I murmured, pausing in my careless scanning of the book's pages at a section that looked hopeful.

"Yes, well. That's a prefect's life, I suppose. Sacrificing one's own enjoyment and possible sanity for one's duties and certain deathly boredom."

"Ah, yes. But all boredom is deathly certain." I grinned impishly at him over the top of my book when his brows snapped together, as he took the time to actually process what I'd just said.

Then he shook his head, a faint, indulgent smile on his lips. "Sometimes you make very little sense, Tia."

I laughed. "I don't have to--we're doing Potions. So long as I don't wind up poisoning anybody, I'm set."

He laughed, also, and we settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional sneeze due to the dust motes that coated the pages of some of the older tomes, and the rustle of parchment and scratch of quills.

It was true that I didn't envy Remus his prefect round duties, though not just because of forced company with ponces like Neil Whittaker. The main reason was how very little time he had for extracurricular activities, such as Quidditch, or napping.

I, myself, needed at least a solid ten hours of sleep a night in order to properly function, and my favourite pastime was taking naps. That, and cross-stitch, but the latter happened to be a secret indulgence of mine that nobody outside of my dorm knew about.

If it wasn't rounds at night, Remus was off helping some first-year find their way around the labyrinth of school hallways, or sorting out some minor problem having to do with something somewhere between somebody and somebody else. His time was nearly always spoken for and I simply couldn't imagine never having a moment's idleness, for simply sitting and not having to think about or do or say anything.

James was also unfortunate enough to have the same duties as Remus, though he probably had it twice as bad, as he was Head Boy and on top of everything else, had an entire fleet of prefects to keep in order. He hardly seemed to mind, though.

In fact, his expression had been one of utter jubilation (once the confusion had passed, of course) upon receiving his Hogwarts letter and badge, naming him as this year's Head Boy--especially after seeing the name printed next to his own, under the title of Head Girl.

One Lily Evans.

But prefect or Head positions did, most definitely, have their advantages. There was the prefect's bathroom, which James or Remus had snuck me into on occasion (to gloat, more than anything else, I rather thought). And then there was the separate Head dormitory, though this last was going completely unused this year, mainly due to the Head Girl's objections to being in close quarters with the Head Boy, and the Head Boy's resulting unwillingness to being all alone in the dorm, with no one to talk to and nothing but his thoughts to keep him company (a rather frightening thought if you knew him enough to have a clue as to what actually went through his head on a regular basis.)

I could hardly blame either of them for opting for their regular dormitories as opposed to those of the Heads. Not just for the above reasons, either. I imagined it was much more pleasant sleeping and eating and living like any normal seventh-year student, even if they most certainly weren't.

No, I didn't envy them their positions or their status. I didn't fancy all that responsibility and, anyway, prefect duties would more than likely cut into my napping time, and we definitely couldn't have that.

"All right," Remus announced at last, setting down his quill and shaking his light-brown hair out of his eyes as he sat back. He needed a hair-cut, I noted idly. Well, all my friends did--I wasn't sure if it was a good sign or not that Sirius' perpetually unkempt locks surpassed the length of even my own. "I think we have enough research material here to work with. How exactly did you want to write the paper?"

"Standard essay format, I guess," I replied, with a shrug. "It's only a roll and a half of parchment, so I don't think it'll be too difficult to fill up space."

"No," Remus said, with a faintly wicked smile. "You've never had any trouble with the amount of words."

I chose--rather graciously, I might add--to ignore the implication behind his statement and instead picked up the quill he'd set down, pulled a fresh roll of parchment toward me and said, "Right. How do I start?"

"You might start with your name and the title of the essay."

I obediently wrote my name at the top of the roll, deciding spur of the moment to use my middle initial; to make it look more official, you see.

I paused at the title, however. I couldn't recall for the life of me exactly what the essay was supposed to be about.

"Key factors in toadstool theory," Remus intoned helpfully.

Right. Hence the book on toadstools. I jotted down a sufficiently articulate title, then tried to decide on a thesis statement, scanning over Remus' many neat and precise notes for inspiration.

Nearly ten minutes later, I had the first sentence--the most important of all, as any self-respecting essay-writer knows--written, and handed my parchment to Remus for inspection and approval.

"'The Six Key Factors in Magical Toadstool Theory', by Tia C. Spencer," he recited, then looked up at me with raised brows. "You aren't going to use your proper name?"

I resisted the urge to make a face, though it cost me. In truth, 'Tia' was derived from 'Portia', a traditional family name on my father's side. However, nobody dared call me that--with the exception of my paternal grandmother of the same name--and I usually preferred not to acknowledge the fact that I even had another name.

James, whose mother was my mum's sister, was lucky enough to have normal, far less pretentious family names, like Margaret and Robert. Though try telling that to Aunt Meg and Uncle Robbie, who both thought their names were dreadfully boring and plain. I craved for boring and plain. I lusted after it. Pretentious must die.

"Erm... no, no, I never do. Keep going," I said, waving the matter off with a flap of my hand.

"If you're sure," Remus said, then began again. "'...by Tia C. Spencer. From the days of Merlin himself, to our own more modern, contemporary time, the usage of toadstools in several variations of potions has run rampant in the wizarding world.'"

He lifted his head and lowered my paper to gaze at me incredulously.

"'Run rampant'?"

"Yes," I said, indignantly, a bit stung at his (albeit subtle) amusement. "And what's wrong with that? I thought it a good bit of alliteration."

"Er... toadstools don't run, rampantly or otherwise."

"The usage of toadstools, Remus, the usage!" I stressed, banging the flat of my hand against the surface of the table to make my point. "And in any case, it's called personification." I sniffed. "Really, Remus, the finer points of the English language are truly lost on you."

Though normally a quiet, thoughtful boy, there was a side to Remus Lupin that made plain his affinity to James and Sirius' trouble-making. He was outwardly biting and quick of tongue when he chose to be, and it was a testament to how comfortable he felt around me that he chose to be so now.

"While I am most impressed by your own thorough grasp of said language, alliteration and personification unfortunately have bugger all to do with Potions, the current subject of importance. Now, I gave up my free period to do this, so perhaps you would be so kind as to get on with it?"

This prickly dialogue was spoken with such an amiable expression and tone of voice that I couldn't help laughing at the twinkle in his eye. Nobody could be stern with quite the same degree of friendliness as Remus Lupin.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n," I replied with a rather good (if I did say so myself) pirate-esque accent and mock-salute. "Shiver me timbers, mate, savvy, ridiculously prolonged arrrrr, and all that rot."

He stared at me, the expression in his warm brown eyes pained. "Why do you wound me so with your madness?" he asked, listlessly.

I smiled broadly. "Because I always kiss it better later when I share my monthly order of Honeyduke's chocolate with you. As a matter of a fact, I think it's dark Belgium with almonds due this time."

He got a sort of glazed-over look on his face as he pondered the blissful possibilities of la gentil cacao. "Oh... bless your soul."

"You're a kind bloke, Remus Lupin. Never thought otherwise," I declared, lips twitching irresistibly.

Then I buckled down and got to work, learning more about toadstools than I had ever cared to know.

***

While not quite my idea of a rip-roaring good time, the afternoon was well-spent, as the final product of my and Remus' efforts was a halfway decent essay, three inches over the required length, and some of it was actually relevant fact, as opposed to my usual senseless, space-filling babble. I felt quite certain that at least two-thirds of the essay actually pertained to the assigned topic, which was something of a record for me.

Feeling rather proud of myself and more than a little grateful towards Remus, the two of us made our way to regular Transfiguration for our last class of the day.

I say 'regular', though really I was the only one of us in a higher class, so I supposed it was only regular to me. The difference was the Advanced class, which I was taking (against my will) as a prerequisite for my curse breaker training after I left Hogwarts at the end of the year. Other mandatory classes for this field were Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Defence Against the Dark Arts, all of which were also on my current lesson-plan. The first was my favourite class of all and quite possibly the only one I excelled at. It was a matter of pride for me that I was the sole Arithmancy fanatic among my group of friends, and also the only one of us that was any good at it.

James and Sirius were talented at just about everything they tried, as was Remus, though he really had to work at it to get to their level of marks. Peter, I could relate to, in the sense that neither of us would have even been passing most of our courses if it weren't for the help of the others.

Worse, James and Sirius knew it, the egotistical buggers.

Remus and I were some of the first students to arrive and we took our usual seat near the back, to the left of classroom, positioned between the bookcases and the rear window. This allowed for both sufficient shelter from McGonagall's hawk-like gaze and rather good ventilation for the rare days when the classroom became stifling hot. While those on the far side of the room were melting into puddles, the five of us lounged in the cool breeze blowing in from the open window.

It was pouring rain today, however, and I stared a bit mournfully outside through the droplet-spattered glass, squinting up at the iron-grey sky. The lads had Quidditch practice tonight, and if the weather kept on like it was, they'd come back to the common room soaking wet, muddy and probably in a playful, rough-housing sort of mood.

Which meant I, too, would end up soaking wet and muddy, though somewhat less good-humoured. Perhaps an early night was in order. Or perhaps I might catch up on my cross-stitch. There was a throw-pillow cover I'd been meaning to finish for some time now.

This warming thought in mind, I turned away from the gloom outside, just as the last few stragglers entered the classroom, James, Peter, and Sirius amongst them.

The three of them plunked themselves down into the seats behind us and, with a quick glance at a still-distracted McGonagall (apparently, one of the girls had tried to transfigure her tortoise and simply could not figure out how to turn it back from a turtle), I turned in my seat to face them.

"Right, here's the deal," James whispered, before I could get a word in. He leant forward eagerly, a familiar and abhorrent gleam in his eye which meant that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was something I surely wouldn't like (and said gleam was hardly a rarity). Sure enough...

"We're going to need to use you as a decoy."

I stared at him for several seconds, saying nothing. This was mainly due to the fact that I didn't trust myself to speak, not with McGonagall standing only a few yards away; her, with her baffling aversion to foul language.

Slowly, I breathed in. Just as slowly, I breathed out. Then I spoke.

"No," I said, quite decisively. "No, I don't think you will."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be such a killjoy, Spencer. We have the perfect plan, but unless you go along with it, all our careful and brilliant scheming will have gone to waste."

"Look," I hissed, with much more conviction than I usually put forth on the subject. "I loathe the greasy oddball as much as any of you lot. But it's getting ridiculous how you go out of your way to torment him!"

Sirius opened his mouth to make some habitually easy, off-hand reply, but James beat him to it.

"You'll love it once you've heard it, Tee. Just don't shoot it down 'til you've seen the whole picture, all right?"

I eyed him suspiciously, then shook my head and turned back around, just as McGonagall finished sorting out the girl's tortoise, and cleared her throat to signal the start of the lesson.

***

Half an hour later, as the class was busy copying out a complicated diagram from the board, depicting the steps that must be taken in order to effectively enlarge one's facial features, I was amusing myself by doodling along the margins of my parchment. We'd covered this subject in Advanced nearly a month ago. I didn't know why I even bothered with regular Transfiguration, except maybe to keep the lads company, and for an excuse not to take Divination.

Adding the finishing touches to my rather realistic representation of a polar bear in a snow-storm, I felt something prod me sharply between the shoulder blades.

Glancing perturbedly behind me, I saw Sirius oh-so-casually holding a carefully folded note between his fingers, even as he industriously scribbled away on his diagram, copying down the labels and required wand-movements.

I plucked the note from his hand and turned again in my seat, looking out of the corner of my eye to see whether McGonagall was watching. She was busy explaining some particularly complicated step of the diagram to another student, however, and I unfolded the parchment safely under the shelter of my desk.

"Dearest Sex-Kitten,

"I hope you haven't forgotten me. Me, the ridiculously good-looking bloke who sits behind you in Transfiguration?

"Here's a thought. Why don't you ditch that smarmy git you call a boyfriend and we can go shag in a broom cupboard?

"Luuurve,

"--Mr. Padfoot."

I didn't snort aloud, though it cost me. Inking the tip of my quill, I scrawled a quick response, my lip curled the whole time.

"You are astonishingly idiotic. Andrew is nice, and happens to be a wickedly good kisser, so--here's a thought--why don't you mind your bloody own?

"Have fun in that broom cupboard all by your lonesome. And leave the brooms out of it, you ponce.

"--Queen of the Universe."

I re-folded the parchment and tossed it over my shoulder. A short time later, it flew back over to land on top of my notebook.

McGonagall cast me a suspicious, bespectacled glance, but her attention was soon called for when another student questioned the importance of the incantation in facial enlargement--or something. I was slightly distracted by Sirius' reply.

"McPherson is a good kisser? You actually let that flaky berk snog you? It pierces the heart. (And the ego, I thought wryly.) Have it your way, then. The brooms and I shall be quite happy without you, thanks very much.

"On a lighter, less potentially splinterful note, why won't you be our decoy? You make such a lovely decoy. Snivellus simply can't resist your charms and I'd be hard put to find another damsel who can run quite as fast you; a handy talent indeed.

"Do be a dear, dear.

"--Mr. Padfoot, a.k.a. the Queen's Humble Footstool."

I wrote out a reply, this time with a cheeky smile playing at my lips.

"Dear Footstool,

"'Splinterful'? I'd point out that that's not even remotely a word, but I fear you might go into some kind of explanation, which I am not quite prepared for. Let's just say this, and leave it at that: I understand your meaning and wish I could only be so lucky as to have naught but fluff for brains. Fluff is good. Fluff knows no evil, Black or otherwise. That was an insult, by the by.

"Additionally, I refuse to be your peon in yet another nefarious, cruel and totally unnecessary plan to annoy Severus Snape. Truss James up in a dress, if you must, but I'll have no part in it.

"Do sod off, already.

"--Lady with the Bizarre Tendency to Beat Footstools with a Stick."

***

In the event, Sirius gave up his attempts, though he did take my advice, to an extent. Rather than James, Peter was the unfortunate victim being made to wear a dress.

While I didn't know exactly what they had in store for Severus, and I didn't much care, I really rather felt that if he was going to fall for whatever it was they had planned, at the wiles of Peter Pettigrew in a pinafore, no less... well, then, I really felt he deserved it.

I, myself, was holed safely up in my dorm room, out of harm's--and blame's--way. I wasn't about to get in trouble for something I'd had no part of, but by mere association. No, there were at least a half-dozen witnesses who'd seen me up here already and I thought that a fair number, for testimony's sake.

Truthfully, I was a bit concerned about exactly what the lads had cooked up for Severus. Not particularly worried for Severus himself--he'd never been anything short of viciously rude to me, due to both my "half-blood" status and his overhearing me telling Marilyn Brocklehurst, my Potions partner in fourth year, that I found him creepy.

Which I still did.

My concern lay with my friends, who were bound to fuck themselves over royally at some point--why not tonight? It had to happen sometime, and I'd been experiencing a funny, jumpy sort of feeling in my gut all day. Women's intuition hadn't failed me yet, but did that deter them from going out and doing what was sure to be their downfall?

No. No, it did not.

And so I sat quietly in my dorm, the half-embroidered pillow-cover in my lap, listening to the storm raging outside the castle. Quidditch practise had finished an hour ago, and the lads had yet to return, which I took to mean their 'careful and brilliant scheming' was already well underway.

So help me God, if I got caught up in all of this because of them one more time, I would take their bloody Marauder's map and make them eat it.

I stabbed the needle through the square Aida cloth rather more forcefully than necessary and succeeded in pricking my thumb--something I hadn't done in years. An omen, perhaps? Oh, I just knew this was a terrible idea, and not their first, either.

Cursing under my breath, I sucked on my thumb to ease the sting and glanced at my watch for the tenth time in an hour. Five minutes past nine. Past curfew. The rule-breaking had officially begun.

With a long sigh, I selected a dusty-pink thread and began stitching a complicated rosebud pattern I'd been wanting to try for ages.

I should have been used to this by now. This worrying and waiting and pointless attempts to sway them from their intent. Having known James my whole life, it hardly surprised me the sort of friends he'd chosen. What did surprise me--baffled me, really, with regular consistency--was that they'd become my friends too.

Remus was too sweet and likeable not to be friends with, even if he had a darker, secret side he only revealed to those he trusted whole-heartedly. I was deeply honoured to be considered one of those trusted few and it constantly amazed me that someone burdened with so much could be so... wonderful.

Peter, on the other hand, was just so bumbling and bashful that it was impossible not to grow attached to him. He was the sort you wanted to keep close to you, under your wing, to keep him from tripping over his own feet. I was pretty sure he was capable of taking care of himself, but my maternal instincts couldn't help themselves.

And, of course, James, who I'd grown up with, who I'd run around starkers with when we were three, and with whom I'd played out all sorts of imaginary scenarios, such as rescuing the damsel in distress (he acted out his fair share of damsels, I can tell you) or running about the tombs of Ancient Egypt, saving each other from this Dark Curse and that possessed mummy.

In fact, it was James who'd first encouraged me to follow my dreams of becoming a curse breaker for Gringott's bank. We'd both had the childhood aspirations of doing something adventurous and dreadfully fascinating, but I was the one who'd actually carried on that aspiration into adolescence and now, adulthood.

But Sirius was another matter, entirely. He was an enigma. I just didn't get him sometimes. I'd known him for nearly seven years, and yet I couldn't help feeling there was still so much I didn't know about him. It wasn't that he was particularly secretive, nor that I'd simply overlooked asking him, but it seemed that anytime the topic of conversation got too close to his personal (especially his home) life, I would suddenly find myself either talking about something entirely different, or sitting abruptly alone, where moments before I'd had company.

And I never realized, until hours later, that I still had yet to get anything out of him, so skilful was he at changing the subject or weaselling his way out of a touchy issue.

Our relationship itself was a puzzle that I was only thus far a third of the way to figuring out. One minute we'd be at each other's throats; the next, curled up on the couch together, sound asleep (he also happened to be an avid napper, one of the few things we had in common), or else laughing and cracking jokes at each other's expense.

Stranger still was that, despite his many vulgar innuendoes and endless propositions, he'd never so much as tried to sleep with me, nor laid a hand on me in an inappropriate fashion. This was Sirius Black we were talking about, here--the Hogwarts man-slut with no shame whatsoever, who would sleep with a girl just to get her to stop talking (though with me, he usually preferred the less tactful approach--either telling me to shut it outright, or casually suggesting a Silencing Charm). He wasn't picky about his conquests, either.

Unless I had grossly misunderstood the situation, or else James and the rest had been lying through their teeth about his numerous exploits (and the many, many exploits themselves were being untruthful, too), then statistically speaking, I should also have been at least an attempted notch on his bedpost.

This was what made our friendship so... weird. I knew I wasn't the most hideous thing ever to walk the earth, which was the basic qualification for getting into Sirius' trousers. And yet the nearest I'd ever gotten to said trousers was during Christmas hols last year when we'd all gotten thoroughly sloshed, he'd spilled egg-nog on his lap, and I had helped him clean it off with a napkin.

I didn't particularly want to sleep with Sirius, yet at the same time, I couldn't honestly say that I'd be totally objected to sleeping with him, as it were. I mean, he was gorgeous, in a dark, mysterious, ruggedly sexy sort of way. But he was one of my closest friends and I wasn't about to chuck that out the window, all because I couldn't keep my (slightly deficient, I thought) hormones in check. He was managing to do a fine job with his, anyway, and we all knew his previous track record for well-checked hormones.

I shook my head after a moment, realizing I'd been staring off into space, and went back to my stitching.

I decided that, even if it was causing certain unwelcome thoughts to arise in my mind, at the very least tormenting Snape was proving efficient at keeping James' off Lily Evans, which was an enormous relief to myself--and Lily too, if she was still in the same mindset she'd been in for the past five years, which, you know, I thought rather likely.

***