Shaking the water out of her ears, she pulled her robes off and slipped her dress over her head, trying to ignore the annoying wrinkles of her shirt that were itching terribly. Flipping through the pages of the script fixed in her memory, she dashed onto the set, gasping for breath.
“Where are we?”
Lora looked at her dryly. “You’re late.”
“I would never have guessed.”
”Page twenty, at the top. Your line,” Eva jumped in, extremely anxious to avoid any strained tempers.
Lily took a deep breath, straightened her skirt out, and transferred Abigail Williams’ soul into her body. Glaring at the girls assembled around the bed in the attic, she gave her threatening lecture.
“Now look you. All of you. We danced. And Tituba conjured Ruth’s dead sisters. And that is all. And mark this. Let either of you breath a word, or the edge of a word, about the other things, and I will bring a pointy reckoning that will shudder you. And you know I can do it; I saw Indians smash my dear parents’ heads on the pillow next to mine, and I have seen some reddish work done at night, and I can make you wish you had never seen the sun go down!” She grasped the thin, spindly shoulders of the girl playing Betty on the bed, making her sit up. “Now you-sit up and stop this!”
The Slytherin playing Betty finally slumped back naturally, not woodenly, as she had been doing. It was Mary Warren’s cue for hysteria.
“What’s got her? Abby, she’s going to die! It’s a sin to conjure, and we-“
“I say, shut it, Mary Warren!” She started for the girl, palm upraised.
James let out a laugh from where he had just entered. “That is a direct threat to my servant! I’ll have the law on you! Pleeceman! Pleeceman! Someone’s being repressed!”
Lily let out a sound quite similar to a whine. Why did he insist on doing this?
The answer to that came quickly. Because he’s James Potter.
Everyone in the cast started getting terribly nervous as the Christmas holidays got closer and closer…two weeks…one week…three days…one day…
All of them were sitting in the common room, going over lines. The tournament was being held four days before Christmas, which was only forty-eight hours away. Lora and Eva were bringing food up to the common room in order to not lose time in the Great Hall, and they were too preoccupied and worried to even think about the words ‘food fight’.
They had taken to wearing their costumes around Hogwarts; it was easier that way, since all the time they didn’t spend on the set in the common room was in their beds or in the bathrooms. Now and then they would take short, sneaked breaks; Lily had seen James and Serena flying through the falling snow outside, and she and Lora were holding in loud snickers when the two returned, almost frostbitten.
Severus was also staying at Hogwarts over the holidays; he was coming to the tournament along with the cast. When Lily asked him why, he gave her an extremely odd sideways glance that made her want to bite her tongue through at the roots, but she chose to shut up instead.
He hadn’t failed to notice that something was wrong, and, two days before the tournament, he cornered her near the library.
“Lily, something’s wrong that you’re not telling me. What, is it Potter and his brats again?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
”What is it? It’s something serious, I know.”
Lily shrugged. “He’s given out a secret I entrusted him with.”
Severus relaxed. “Is that all? You looked so—so—so as if it were more than that! What was it, a love story?” His eyes were still amused, but they had a hard glitter in them.
”You’re as bad as he is.” She pushed him out of the way. “You also should know better than that. No— it’s not that. It’s far more serious—and I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret in the least.”
”But you told him.”
“And I learned from that.”
He sighed. “Lily—is it really that bad?”
She gazed at him with a cold stare. “It was. All I can tell you is that it very likely is illegal.”
Whatever Severus expected, it wasn’t that. “It’s what?”
“Illegal. I’m not saying another word.”
”Would you be concerned in it if the—er—other person got caught?”
”I would.”
“And that prat Potter knew it?”
”Yes.” Her calmness was enviable, Severus thought; he could never have that much self-control. To keep his growing rage at the careless, selfish Gryffindor from showing, he changed the topic.
“Lily, I know he and his gang go places every month. Do you have any idea where?”
Lily, on her part, hadn’t expected that either. “What?”
“They go somewhere every month. Do you know anything about it?”
She stiffened rather noticeably; her mind was racing—Remus—Remus—if Severus found out, he wouldn’t care how much she begged him not to—if only to get the chance of revenge on the Marauders, he would spread the werewolf story all over England.
“I don’t.”
”Lily—yes, you do. Come on—what is it?”
She pushed his hand off of her arm and started down the corridor, back to the Gryffindor common room.
“I told you, I don’t know. Even if I did—it’s not my secret.”
Severus was losing all control he might have had at the beginning of their conversation; she was driving him over the edge of his sanity—what with the run-ins she always had with that Potter, the secrets she kept that only Potter knew, the fact that she had only visited him when she was escaping from James’, and the undeniable factor—she was one of the most beautiful, friendly, talented, and mysterious girls he knew, and she had bothered to break through a barrier he had erected, had troubled herself with making his friendship.
He didn’t know another girl like her that would have done that for him. And he had stuck by her through everything she had encountered; now it seemed to him only too plain what was going on.
She cared about Potter—cared about him more than anything else, and she was shielding him and his friends from something the rest of the world couldn’t find out.
While these thoughts were going through his head and rage was taking over, he had stopped trying to pry information out of Lily, and she was vanishing down the corridor. Severus looked at one of his clenched fists, muttering something to himself.
“Afterwards…I’ll see. Who’s right…who’s wrong…who’s secretly meeting the Quidditch hero of Gryffindor Tower.”
He spat the last few words out as he looked back up and couldn’t see the flash of the blue Puritan dress and the red hair turning the corner.
The cast could tell that she had been upset by something, but, as was their custom with Lily, they let her keep herself to herself; they didn’t pry into her life, and she helped them with their schoolwork. It all evened out.
Still, her mind wasn’t on the rehearsal, and she missed one or two cues, something she’d never done before. Lora and Eva, after the rehearsal, picked Lily out of the batch of students.
“Lily, what’s wrong?”
“You missed the Parris attic cue and the Father in Heaven one. It’s got to be something big.”
Lily gave quite an unconvincing laugh. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Absolutely nothing. I’m quite all right.”
Lora eyed her friend quizzically. “You’re not very good at lying, Lily.”
Eva snorted. “When she wants to be, she is. Lily, does this have anything to do with Sn—er—Severus?”
Whirling, Lily fixed Eva with a searching glare. “How’d you know.”
”I didn’t. But now I do. What happened?”
Lily sighed. She had no right to tell her friends about Remus’ problem, and even less of a right to tell them about Tom. Making up her mind instantly, she shook her head.
“I know you know something happened, but allow me to keep it to myself, all right?”
Eva wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t kiss you, did he?”
Lightly, Lily punched her friend in the arm as she headed for her dormitory. “No. You know me better.”
”Well, yes—but I don’t know him.”
“Eva!”
“What?”
”Think Lightning Sand and death by suffocation.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll let it drop.”
”Good.”
Here Lora intervened. “Say, do any of you know how we’re getting to the tournament? We can’t possibly fly; it’s snowing buckets outside…”
The night of December twentieth, the entire cast was assembled in the entrance hall, each person with two or three bags. They were only staying for four days, but their luggage was packed to the point of bursting with stage make-up and costumes. Besides the cast, the backstage crew, and the chaperoning adults (James and Eva’s parents and Professor McGonagall), half of the students that had stayed behind at Hogwarts were attending the event.
Some of them had never been out of England, and they were excitedly looking forward to the picturesque all-wizarding village of Eschwegen—it had one of the largest stages in the wizarding world; it was famous for the productions it put on thrice a year, and it was a goal of every amateur actor and actress to perform on that stage.
Amid the noisy chatter, Professor McGonagall stepped in front of the large entrance hall doors, clapping her hands until the great echoing chamber was silent.
“We are bringing your mode of transportation around to the front steps. Please leave your luggage; you will be sleeping on the Transporter.” She nodded at them, and, removing the padlock from the large doors, flung them open and let the stream of nervous and jittery nerves pass outside into the whirling snowstorm.
They all stopped short when they saw the mode of transportation they were to use. It was a large, spherical, crystal-like ball, rising twenty feet into the sky or more, and looking for all the world like the most annoying crystals Professor Trelawney had stacked up on several of her shelves in the tower room she occupied. They wouldn’t have known how to enter it if a door hadn’t been open on the side of it; shaking snowflakes out of their eyes, they hurried inside.
It was large and roomy inside; covered with a carpet stamped with the Hogwarts crest, it was inviting and warm. Bunks were stacked up to the ceiling, and they included warm blankets and two pillows a person. There were quite a few comfortable poufs placed almost haphazardly here and there on the floor, the only part of the place that wasn’t circular. A lamp hung from the center of the ceiling, bathing the whole place in a warm yellow light.
Suddenly talkative and excited, the students started claiming the bunks and throwing their bags onto the floor. They hadn’t much room, as the sets were stacked against the walls, but it was comfortably crowded.
Lily had clambered onto one of the highest bunk beds; the one that was closest to the ceiling. She unslung her two bags from her shoulder and let herself fall onto the pillow. She could see through the walls, outside the snow was whirling and beating only inches from her face.
Seconds later, it seemed, they were being ordered onto their respective bunks. When they did so, a protective shield covered them, emerging from underneath each bunk.
Professor McGonagall’s voice could be heard through the shields; she was informing them that they were to refrain from undoing the protective shields until they were safely in the air. And then—and then—they took off.
Lily didn’t think she could have ever dreamed of such a mode of transportation. To take off, they started whirling, and then they rose, spitting miniature white lacy bits around them. Lily wondered for a few seconds at how dizzy she would get—but before she had time to, they were floating gently among grayish, dark clouds, and then, almost before she had time to draw a breath, the shield was being drawn up, and chatter resumed in the globe.
It took only thirty minutes before they landed in Eschwegen; they came down softly; hardly anyone noticed the slight bump when they touched the ground. When they did land, Lily noticed something; the outside of their vehicle had melted into a picturesque inn, wooden, with beams covering the windows.
Professor McGonagall rose from the chaperone’s room, moved to the center of the globe, and clapped her hands once. The chatter immediately stopped.
“We have arrived in Eschwegen, Germany. I will ask you to stay inside while I inform the judging committee of our arrival. You will not be allowed to leave this village; and if you decide to do some sight-seeing, by all means inform myself, Mr. or Mrs. Potter, or Mr. and Mrs. Doylen. Please keep the noise down; tomorrow you have your performance, and simply because we are not in Hogwarts does not mean that we do not expect you to behave as if you still were.” She swept out of the doorway, letting in a few piles of snow that started to melt on the floor.
Lily leaned back; pulling out a book, she gazed dreamily at the first page without reading it. She hadn’t much time to think, though—a bounce on the bed told her that someone had just clambered over the railing.
“Hallo, Lora.”
”Hallo. I’ve got the bunk next to you.”
”Really?”
”Of course. Eva’s down on the bottom. She doesn’t like heights.”
Lily smiled. “I know.”
”So—“ Lora curled her arms around her knees—“you nervous?”
Lily closed her eyes, thinking hard about what she felt like; she retreated into a dimly lit world of mists and the noise of whirling snow and the sea.
She flung her eyelids open. “No—I’m more peaceful than anything else. My mother never was nervous before a performance, she told me—I think I inherited that from her.”
Lora flung her out of the dreamy realm with the laugh like money. “Then inheritance is a good thing!”
“Ye-es.”
“Lily, what’re you thinking of?”
Lily shrugged. “Mostly of tomorrow—I do hope I do well, and I pray that James doesn’t do anything—anything of the sort he did during rehearsals.”
Lora smiled wickedly. “He wouldn’t dare. We’re both ready with our fists. And wands,” she added as an afterthought. “But if he does anything, just—er—just do something out of the ordinary, and I”ll hex him for you.”
“Not onstage!”
“No, Lily, I’ll most definitely spoil our chances of winning two thousand Galleons in front of a panel of judges during a play we’ve worked on for months. Afterwards, you pillock!”
“Why don’t I feel complimented,” Lily murmered.
“Because you’re not,” Lora stated matter-of-factly.
No one really slept too well that night. Lily woke up three times; once at two, once at three, and once at five. Each time she sat up in bed quickly, she could hear at least five people muttering something in their nightmares.
“No…no…not the sheep! Don’t feed the sheep!”
“Goodness will prevail and we will all be happy people. But what about the teddy bears?”
“Sheep!”
“Peeves, one more move and I’ll bloody belt you.”
“Not the shoelaces! Take me—but leave her the shoelaces!”
“My sheep!”
“Do ruby slippers have shoelaces?”
“Oysters and mice will overrun the world…and we will all be smothered in fuzzy hair and oyster shells…”
They gulped down their hot cocoa the next morning with a ravenous appetite, and they were told it was their last dairy product for the day, since things with milk in them coat the throat and make it harder to enunciate. It was almost a catastrophe for those of them that had been counting on pounds of Chocolate Frogs to keep them awake, but James had had the foresight to stash a can of ground coffee and quite a lot of sugar in his bag.
They sat in a circle for most of the day, running over lines and blocking, and fixing costumes that had been ripped or stained by something. The girls had taken their white aprons off after two disasters when they came in contact with hot coffee and had to be plunged into hot running water in a small sink, located behind a hidden panel near the chaperones’ rooms.
Finally, it was five o’clock. They all stood up and gave several variations of ‘break a leg’ wishes, then followed Professor McGonagall outside, onto the street packed with snow, towards a large, stone, friendly building. Flags were flying, flags with a crest on them: the two drama masks, surrounded with a motto:
Tragoedia adeo anima—tragedies are life.
The theater had only produced one or two comedies—the rest were tragedies.
They stepped inside the theater in awe. Posters of former plays produced there were framed and hanging on the wall; their feet sank half an inch into the red velvet carpet lining the floor. Stained-glass windows were covered with deep red curtains embroidered with the theater’s motto in gold thread, and the doors leading into the amphitheater-sized stage and audience area were carved with the tragedy and comedy masks on each curved pane of wood; the eyes, usually hollow, had sparkling gems set in them.
It took quite a lot of harrumphing by Professor McGonagall and pushing by the other parents to get the cast and crew into a side door, labeled Behind the Scenes—For Actors and Assistants only. Even James was in awe of the thirty-foot-high ceiling and the magnificent size of the theater itself.
Backstage, of course, wasn’t nearly as fancy as the part of the building seen by the public, but it had the charms of rich black carpet and old-fashioned lanterns that could be turned up as high as they could go, and a sort of shield would prevent the beams from going anywhere but backstage.
Upstairs, in the dressing rooms, the girls had two rooms; one for changing, the other for getting their hair and face paint done. The large oak cabinet was filled with enough hangers for everyone, including the other casts that were competing.
The makeup room was fascinating; brilliantly lit crystal mirrors were set at intervals all around a counter that ran along a whole side of the room; two entire walls were nothing but mirrors. As many different shades of makeup as could be desired were packed neatly in kits; and it was good quality; none of the cheap things some theaters were packed with.
There were two sinks, one at each end of the room, and at least forty quality brushes, ten curling irons and packs of curlers, at least thirty packs of hairpins, several bottles of a starchy homemade spray for the hair that held better than any sort of hairspray that could be found in stores, and a few pincushions and rolls of thread for loose buttons and ripped hems and such.
The arrangement for the tournament was this: they were to change into their costumes, then report downstairs to the stage, along with the thirteen other troupes competing; they would be informed of the rules, and then the public was to be let in. The order in which they would compete would be drawn out of the theater’s first trophy; a golden cup, laced with silver vines. They would be permitted, of course, to sit in a specially constructed balcony, and watch the others compete.
This was a spectacular event for the theater itself; many rich wizards would be pouring in over the next three days; the International Ministry of Magic and the International Board of International Magical Cooperation was to attend; not to mention the general public; the public that would pay thirty Galleons a seat.
Soberly, quietly, but with sudden bursts of eager excitement, they slipped into their full costume, along with the Puritan shoes that were anything but steadfast and the ridiculous caps and aprons. Lily, usually so avert to any sort of make-up and fancy hair arrangements, could be found with her hair artistically flung down her back, with curls here and there, and thick, black eyelashes. Her eyes were brought out scornfully with a brown tint, and her hands were artificially work-stained. Her mother had taught her enough to make her almost an expert.
Lily was asked by almost all of the girls and most of the boys to do their face and hair for them; there was no denying that she had a talent for theatrical makeup. She had fun with the boys’ makeup—James’ especially. His character was the most powerful and domineering in the production, and he had to look the part.
She spent almost ten minutes with the brown stain covering his skin; he was to be a farmer, therefore he had to work in the sun, Lily reasoned. His hair was grown out nicely; it had only taken a few months for it to reach shoulder-length. Dipping her hands in the hair starch and then in a sort of oil, she ran her fingers through his hair, regarding him with a critical eye.
“What’re you doing?”
“Your hair, that’s what. You don’t take a bath every day; you’re a farmer; your hair should be mildly greasy.”
”You want me to look like Snape?”
”Don’t flatter yourself.” She was deliberately antagonizing him; if he was angry at her when the curtain came up, so much the better. “You couldn’t look half of him.”
”Excuse me? You fancy that prat?”
”No.” Her cool, calm voice stopped his suspicions. “That was intended to be an insult. You don’t seem to like his looks much; at least, that was the impression I received.”
”Well, then, just insult me normally, don’t go at it a roundabout way!”
“Let me get this straight.” She accidentally pulled some of his hair out; he yelped, glaring at her. “You’re asking me to insult you?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Seemed like you’d just taken leave of whatever imitation senses you possessed at one point in time.”
”They’re AWOL.”
“I see.” Her eyebrows were knotted. “You’ve got a nasty tangle in your hair. Sit still!”
Sirius swung into the doorway. “James, we’ve got ten minutes.” James let out something between a snort and a grunt, and Lily clamped her hand over his mouth. Hard.
“Will you shut up?! You asked me to do your hair; at least don’t complain about your own tangles!”
Sirius laughed. “She’s got you there, my friend.” Falsely confidentially, he stage-whispered to Lily, “He’s broken his comb in his hair before…”
Lily finally finished with James, and even he had to admit that she had done quite well.
“No question about it; if this was revolving around the makeup, we’d win, hands down.” He grinned at Lily, who involuntarily smiled back.
They trooped downstairs with eyes wide with anticipation, and everyone gathered on the stage. Lily looked around—there was a group from China; one from Egypt—another from Italy, three from America, one from a Brazilian school, two from Russia, two from Australia, one from Germany, and one from Spain.
The different costumes, all jumbled together, seemed to make hardly any sense: the Puritan costumes of the English troupe, the swordsmen and their extravagantly dressed ladies from America, the Merchant of Venice cast from Italy.
One cast from America was in a shade of green blending in with leaves they wore around their heads and twined around the hilts of there swords; one of the groups from Russia were in armour and weaponed; the other was in a flurry of 1920s clothing. There were bright spots all over the stage, dulled with the brown and dirt-like colors of the other costumes, and it was fun to imagine the plays they would be performing.
The International Head of the Ministry of Magic was composed of the Ministers of Magic of every country. Rowland Sikora was there; and Lily saw him wave to Serena. Some were in traditional costume of their country; others were merely in expensive robes. They were either pleasantly awaiting the performances or nervously looking at watches, though most of them were politely sitting still, waiting for the Head of the International Magical Cooperation to speak.
A rather fat old man came forward; he was one of the only ones in a black suit and tie, with a white shirt. A gold watch-chain was hanging artistically from his shirt pocket, and a handkerchief with the theater’s drama masks was in the other pocked. He cleared his throat noisily and stepped forward, his shined, black shoes squeaking against each other.
“My dear, my very friends. This is the five hundredth year this theater has been in existence, and, as its director, I have decided to promote its proud continuation with this bringing together of adults and students from all over the world. Welcome.”
Something about the way his mouth moved caught Lily’s eye; she leaned inconspicuously closer. He was speaking in German, but to her ears it sounded English, and his mouth was forming the German words for his speech. She was interested; she knew exactly where in the library she could find a book that taught her about that kind of charm, and she wanted to try it. Meanwhile, the Head was still speaking.
“In a few minutes, this theater and contest will be open to the public. We will ask you to, if you wish, remain quietly on the balcony—“ he gestured above his head and towards the audience—“that has been constructed for your especial use. You may reach it by a door near the dressing rooms labeled Cast Audience.”
“I will ask you to, naturally, remain quiet and respect the other troupes. No sabotage of any sort will be indulged upon, and if this is attempted, the troupe to which the offender's belong will be dismissed from the tournament.
“The judges will be looking for presentation, projection, the ease with which the piece flows, the comfortableness of the actors with their surroundings and their lines, and, naturally, the acting in general. That being said, my friends, ‘break a leg.’ To our friends including dancing in their piece, I say ‘Merde.’ Above all, enjoy yourselves, and we look forward to a wonderful performance!”
The loud sound of clapping filled the air, and they were directed to the ‘green room’ backstage, the room where the actors waited for the theater to fill. As quietly as possible, they made their way upstairs, as they could hear the rustling of ladies’ robes and handbags entering the theater.
The green room connected the boys’ and girls’ dressing rooms, and it was the size of all four rooms combined, which, in this case, was a good thing. The Crucible’s cast drew to a corner and started rehearsing; Lucius was trying to embed the fact that when one was pretending to be dead, one did not start fixing one’s hair to the girl playing Betty, James was talking softly to Serena, Lora was jumping around, hooking little fingers with all of the cast and whispering “Break a leg!”, and then giving them a kiss on each cheek—she had been to France on a holiday last Easter.
Lily was sewing up James’ cloak; he had managed to catch it on a hook and had torn it nastily. The nine accusing girls were fluttering as they went over their scene in the courtroom, and Frank Longbottom was trying to remember one of his lines—the “Have you gone daft, Corey?” from the beginning of Act Three was escaping him constantly.
Finally, the noise downstairs subsided, the voice of the theater’s director announced a few things, and then he began with the pulling of casts out of the golden cup. He removed the tarpaulin from a statue that was to be awarded to the winner; the actors upstairs either blanched or reddened at the applause they could hear.
Then, a sheet of rolled-up parchment hanging from the wall unrolled itself, and names began writing themselves in thick, black ink; the order in which they would go.
Frank bustled back with his knowledge: they were thirteenth on the list. Several people moaned.
“You mean we’re last?”
”We’re thirteenth? Thirteenth is my unlucky number!”
“I can’t do this! I can’t go last. I want to get this over with.”
“Hey, last is good! The judges’ll have a fresh impression of our performance!”
They went on in that vein until fresh markings appeared on the roll of parchment; the American troupe dressed in green stood up, some of them excited, others pale with apprehension. To applause from the other casts, they trooped downstairs and, with the fall of an almost deathly hush, they began.
One after another, the plays that night went on. Robin Hood, tales from A Thousand and One Nights, The Great Gatsby, something in the time period of the Three Musketeers, The Merchant of Venice…
