Title: Support Circle

Summary: Can sociopaths make friends? Dorcas experiments.

Characters: Dorcas Meadowes (narrator), Lily Evans (addressee), other Marauder Era characters

Written For: Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Nine

Prompt: Write about Lily Evans.

Beta: magrud

Disclaimer: JKR owns HP&co.

Warnings: Talk of racism

Foreword: The narration style is inspired by You by Caroline Kepnes, and the character of Dorcas Meadowes as a sociopath is partially inspired by Delia of Liz Nugent's Skin Deep. Further, the Potterverse Wikia shows Dorcas to be a POC, and I've remained true to that description. I hope I've done justice to what an eleven year old sociopath would think like. (Just a gentle reminder that sociopaths are different from psychopaths. Sherlock Holmes is an example of a literary sociopath.)

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Support Circle

(Or the one where Dorcas makes her first 'friend'.)

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It is at King's Cross Station that I first see you. You stand facing the train, away from me, and what catches my attention is that shimmering curtain of red that falls well past your shoulders down to the small of your back—I've never seen hair like that before. I've always wanted long, sleek hair.

I walk closer to you, lugging my trunk, not because I want to hear what you're telling that jaundiced looking boy, but because you're standing by the train door.

"I can't wait to start classes, I think I'll do well in Charms, what do you think?" you ask that sullen boy, and I decide that you're too self-assured for my liking. You're a born leader, and I can picture you as the head of a herd. Maybe that's why that boy clings to every word you say, like you're his oxygen. His body is positioned towards yours in a way that indicates that he doesn't want anyone else joining your conversation; he wants you all to himself.

I shake my head and try to stop thinking like my father—to him, everything around used to be one large science experiment—it probably still is, but I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him in two years.

I pause after pulling all my luggage onto the footboard of the train, and that's when I catch my first glimpse of your face. You're pretty, exceptionally so. Your skin is flushed and looks delicate, like my mum's white china. I know girls like you—you're the type of girl who has everything handed out to you. You have that air of entitlement; life has never been too harsh for you, has it?

My gut twists with what I recognise as jealousy, and I move away from the door, squeezing past various people who either ignore me or glare at me when I run my trunk over their feet. I probably shouldn't be antagonising the upperclassmen because any of them could be my future housemates, but the truth is, I don't care.

I enter the first empty compartment I can find, and pull out my tattered copy of the National Geographic Magazine #813, my throat constricting when I see the picture on it. It's a relic from the time when I had what resembled a family.

In an attempt to forget the fact that my own mother hadn't even bothered to see me off, I put my head out of the window to check if the engine driver has any intention of starting the locomotive.

And there you are, being hugged tightly by a woman with blonde hair, while an older man looks at you proudly. Of course you have parents who care about you—you're probably the apple of their eyes.

I don't know your name, but I resent you already.

My only consolation is that the sallow-faced boy looks unhappy too.

x

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat calls out, and I breathe a sigh of relief, my stomach settling down finally. Nana would have disowned me if I'd gotten Sorted into Slytherin.

It's only as I near the table where polite applause is emanating from that I remember that you're in Gryffindor too. What's worse is that you've made space for me next to you, and you're smiling at me encouragingly, as if you want me to sit next to you.

I slow down as I near you, and then pretend to ignore you and move past you, but you call out in a shrill voice, "Dorcas! Dorcas Meadowes!"

I'm sorely tempted to pretend I can't hear you, but I unintentionally catch the eye of a Prefect sitting near the spot I'm headed towards, and I'm forced to backtrack a couple of steps and settle down next to you. Don't think I chose you; it's just that I detest authority figures more than I detest you.

"Lily Evans," you say, holding your hand out, and I reluctantly shake it, dropping it as soon as I can. I know what your name is already; I'd been paying attention to your Sorting. Your name is pretty, just like you. You don't have the curse of an unwieldy name, unlike me.

As if you can hear my thoughts, you continue speaking, "I like your name. Lilies are a dime a dozen, but Dorcas—it's unique. I've never heard a name like yours."

"It means gazelle," I tell you in what I hope is a clipped voice, but I guess I'm not very good at expressing my emotions as Nana said, because you grin. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch a mousy looking boy join the Gryffindor table further ahead.

I catch sight of that weird friend of yours waiting in line. He's not looking at the Sorting though; he's looking at you. He's looking at you like you're a train leaving the station, one that he was too late to catch, but unfortunate enough to see leave the platform. He catches me looking at him and glowers at me like he doesn't like my talking to you.

"Dorcas Meadowes—a gazelle on the meadows? Your parents are witty!" you exclaim, continuing to grin, bringing me back to our conversation. I don't tell you that it's only my dad who had a sense of humour; that my mum is a stick in the mud.

I have no idea how to take this small-talk forward, not that I'm particularly interested in doing so. It's just that Nana had specifically told me not to let people know right off the bat that I'm antisocial. Thankfully, I'm saved from replying by a bespectacled boy who comes to a stop right behind you and clears his throat.

"Move!" he barks at you, before proceeding to stand on top of the bench and and propel himself over the table. You watch, your mouth agape.

He fluidly sits down on the other side next to a boy whose hair is a curly bush, and they both laugh raucously. The bespectacled boy reminds me of the orangutans that I'd seen at the London Zoo with my dad.

"Heathens," I mutter under my breath, and I guess you hear me, because you look at me and nod your head agreeingly.

"You won't believe what Black and Potter did on the train," you say, and launch into a story about some incident which occurred on the train earlier today. I tune you out and turn my focus inwards—my stomach growls loudly, and I wonder if anyone else can hear it. Can you hear it?

You go on to talk about 'Sev', how he'd wanted you to join him in Slytherin, and how Black and Potter had insulted him. You glare at the two boys opposite us as you tell me all this. You probably want me to shake my head sympathetically, but the truth is, I don't care.

I'm grateful when the sallow-faced boy—whose surname I mishear as 'Snake'—takes the stage, because you finally stop chattering incessantly and watch the Sorting with bated breath. It's such a relief to not hear your voice in my ear. Have you ever had mosquitoes buzz in you ear when you're out camping? Your voice is very similar to that.

The orangutan and his friend on the other side have gone quiet too. They're interested in your friend for some reason—they're watching keenly, probably more keenly than you are. When the hat announces that Snake is going to Slytherin, the curly-haired boy whom you've identified as Black snorts.

"Don't tell me you thought Snivellus would come here," he crows, while you throw a sad smile at the boy who is shuffling slowly toward the table with scant applause. He looks at you with his eyes wide and heartbroken, before his face turns grim. It looks like he's resigned himself to a life without you.

He's probably a Halfblood like me, I realise. That's why the Slytherins aren't being all that welcome. It's not like I feel sorry for the boy—because I'd never let myself rely on another person like they're the air that fills my lungs—but I do understand why he might have wanted company in that house.

Nevertheless, his obsession with you is unhealthy, and I wonder if you know that.

x

It's been a week since school started, and I've fallen into a routine. What's annoying is that you've tailored your routine to fit mine. There are three other girls whom we share our dorms with, but I guess one doesn't have to be a genius to figure out that they've known each other since they were in their nappies.

It doesn't bother me in the least, but it bothers you—you're clearly not used to people not paying much attention to you. Your parents write you daily even though they're Muggles, and I don't understand why you seek validation from others—you have two human beings devoted to your life.

I get ready for the day as quietly and as quickly as I can. Over the past few days, I've learnt that you're actually better than our other three dormmates. Their collective IQ isn't greater than that of a dodo's, and that's one of the many reasons why I want to get ready and get out before they even begin to stir from the land of Morpheus.

A casual survey of the room shows that you're out already. I'm glad you've stopped waiting for me every morning like a dog waiting to be walked by its master. Humming a melody, I hurriedly stuff my books into my bag and almost skip down to breakfast, elated at your absence.

The Great Hall isn't very crowded when I come in, so it's easy to spot you, with your hair as bright as wildfire. You sit with your shoulders hunched, your hand absently playing with a spoon that's in a bowl of porridge.

I head over to you out of curiosity, and you latch onto me as if I've thrown you a lifeline.

"The Slytherins drove me out," you say, when I look at you questioningly. You've learnt to read my facial cues in the little time you've known me, and I don't know if I should be pleased or bothered.

"From where?" I ask as I take a bite of the eggs.

"From their table. I just thought I'd have breakfast with Sev, you know? But they said there's no place for Mudbloods like me at their table."

I don't think you know what the word Mudblood means, but I do, and I feel sick. Dad had been a Mudblood too. And he'd left us because Mum had called him that very same despicable word.

I feel sick.

"It's a derogatory word for people who are born to Muggles," I tell you, but you look confused. I've seen how adept you are at your assignments for someone who's new to the magical word, so I'm pretty sure you know what the word 'derogatory' means.

"Do you know what people in your world would call people like me?" I ask you, in an attempt to explain. I don't know how, but you've somehow made me more talkative than usual.

"A witch?"

I want to roll my eyes to let you know how far off base you are, but this is a serious issue and I refrain from doing so.

"I used to go to Muggle school," I tell you slowly, almost patiently. "During lunch, the other children wouldn't play with me because of the colour of my skin," I say in a level tone, and your eyes, as green as basil leaves, go wide.

I think you know where this is going.

"Mu-Mudblood is like the N-word?" you ask quietly, your voice a mere shadow of what it normally is.

I nod my head and you blanch—a very interesting biochemical reaction that one would never see in me, but that's neither here nor there. You look as sick as I feel.

"Oh," you say, before standing up and leaving in a hurry.

I don't follow you, but I do feel something akin to pity.

Your world of privilege is crashing down around you, and you're no longer a queen. You're just a peasant trudging through the vast and unpleasant tracts of life.

x

In the month that we've been at Hogwarts together, you've taken it upon yourself to tell me everything that's happening in your life. Sometimes, against my better judgement, my sensibility voices a few words, and you use that as fuel to talk more.

You say we're friends, but I think you just use me to feel a little less lonely when Snape-Snake isn't around. Potions is the only class we share with the Slytherins, and you're always so eager to spend an entire hour with that weirdo—he probably gets bullied for spending time with you, but I guess he's braver than he looks, because he hasn't caved in to his seniors yet.

You use me for company, just the way I use you to keep the other girls in our dorm at bay—they still don't like you much, and as long as you stick to me, they won't be pestering me any time soon.

You speak a lot of sense too, when you're not trying to be a social butterfly. Last week, when you'd managed to worm out of me that I was waiting for my father to say something—anything—to just prove that he still cared about me, you'd said that sometimes family sucks, and that that's why it's up to us to pick out our own family of friends.

You'd then proceeded to tell me about your older sister, though I hadn't asked you about her.

However, it is a novel concept, and I like the idea of choosing my own support circle. I wouldn't go as far as to say that we're friends, you and I, but I do think you are a valuable addition to my curated family.

A lot of studies and experiments have revealed seven to be the most magical number, and so I think I'll have seven members in my family. I have one down (you), so I guess I only need six more. Without you around, Potions class is the best time to vet my next candidate.

Lupin is a nice enough boy. He's quiet and polite, and seems to understand my liking for silence. He's a lot like me, though a little less socially inept, and he's always calm and tranquil, like he's a cloud floating in the summer sky. There's something odd about him, though, and I want to find out what that is.

He has light scars on his face—scars that he says are from a childhood sickness. He's very vague about it, and it's a mystery I want to solve. The other day, he picked up my blade before dropping it like he was burned, saying that he was allergic to certain metals like silver.

He's an interesting boy all right, and now that I've got you all pegged down and figured out, I need a new challenge to focus on.

I'm pretty sure you don't mind that I'm not paying as much attention to you anymore as I was wont to do, because you seem to think I have romantic feelings for the Lupin boy. If anyone has feelings for anyone, it's that Potter-Orangutan who follows you about and torments Snape-Snake in the process.

But I've started to not mind your usual jabberings, because you're decent otherwise. I don't despise you, now that you no longer walk through life like you're nobility, untouchable by grime.

You're an itch that I've grown to like.

So as long as you don't do anything alarmingly stupid like reciprocate that Potter-Orangutan's feelings (bleugh, just talking about it makes me sick), or become friends with any of the other girls from our year, I think you and I will get along fine.

It's up to you to not mess this up, Lily.

Okay?

Okay.

End Notes:

According to cannon, Dorcas Meadowes was personally killed by Voldemort around 1981. What I'm theorising is that Lily considered Dorcas her best friend, and that Voldemort hunted down Dorcas to find out where the Potters lived.

General trivia, the NatGeo magazine cover for issue #813 has a picture of gazelles playing in a field. ;)

Also, that last bit is not a reference to TFIOS. Okay? Okay.

Written For: Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Nine

Word Count: 2651

Prompt: Write about Lily Evans.

Position: Seeker, Puddlemere United