DARK CIRCLES

Author: Queen Nightingale

Rating: M

Pairing: JPLE

"The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober."

- William Butler Yeats

You are not ordinary. In between your vertebrae they folded tragedy like origami and waited for the paper sadness to bloom into rampant, vicious flowers spindling out of your spine. The depression molded like ivy into the shape of your pale back and soon you were covered in phosphorescent blossoms, glow in the dark roses that jabbed into your white clay skin with the ferocity of a thing known as destiny.

You did not want it. You did not want these mermaid tears embedded under your cracking hands, splinters jutting into your palm when you clutched the underside of your wooden chair, glaring at him. You did not want the tragic thunder caged underneath your bent and misshapen ribs, howling whenever he glanced over at you in class. The two of you were dipped, caramel-coated in each other's futures, and you couldn't seem to let go.

He would come stumbling into class cloaked in a cloud of whiskey breath and cigars, and you would sink lower into your seat on the edge of the row. McGonagall would pretend to not notice the way the Head Boy staggered over to his place and collapsed in a pile of soul and broken bottles, but you would stare at the back of his head and try to sew him together like a patchwork quilt.

"Why are you drunk."

Your words echoed around the common room, bouncing off the walls, so loud and so out-of-place that you could practically feel the lonely vowels vibrating on the floor in front of you, quivering in their spots.

He raises his bloodshot eyes.

"And you give a fuck, why, Evans?"

You roll your eyes and backcomb your curly red hair, draping it like a curtain over your right shoulder.

"I don't. But it's only Tuesday, and you're stinking up the entire living room."

"Living room?!"

"You know what I mean."

He glares at you from his spot flung out on the sofa, then pulls his sprawled-out legs up and turns away from you into a sitting position, his head low, his fingers playing a drawn-out adagio on the edge of his firewhiskey bottle.

You lean against the wall, and look curiously at his tousled hair.

"You're really attractive, you know. You're just a drunk prick half the time."

"How smashingly beautiful," James' sarcastic voice replies, the words smashing into your face like a fist, "You really know how to flatter a bloke. How about you go write a poem about it."

"How about you fuck off and get sober."

"How about you stop bloody bothering me?"

He's standing up now, all 6"2 muscle and sinew, and he is shaking in front of you and you feel like ripping off his skin and beating his soul with your heart.

"What the fuck is your issue, Potter?"

"What the fuck is my issue? What the fuck is my problem? There's a fucking war going on in between these halls and you really expect me to have to explain myself to some prissy-assed brown-noser who doesn't understand the true meaning of pain?"

You feel electricity under the tips of your fingernails and suddenly you have slapped him across the face and then he has shoved you into the wall and you turn your face away from his alcohol-infused breath.

"War is war, beautiful little Lilyflower," his voice is angry, deep, mocking, "And whether or not you like it, you're on my side."

It is, in fact, a war of a primary color against a secondary. You clothe yourself in shades of red not out of house loyalty but as a brand of protection, the vermilion hues bleeding into your dirty blood and purifying your social status. When walking to class, you drop your eyes to the floor and pretend to not notice being shoved by the bigger blues and greens, until a green shoves you so far to the side that you fall to the ground and something has ripped up your shoulder and then there is a red beside you and the green and the red are intermingling like a clot of old paint and you are still lying on the ground in shock clutching your shoulder and James is beating the Slytherin with his bare hands.

"James? James?!" You are screaming and then you have dived into the fray, but then a green female has grabbed you and you feel like your hair is ripping out of your scalp so you stab your teeth into her hand.

"What is the meaning of this! What is this?!" Out of the corner of your eye you spot the waddling form of Slughorn, and you try to straighten yourself for a second but the Slytherin girl has jumped back on you so you stick your heel in her stomach.

The girl is suddenly ripped off of you, and there is a magical barrier pressing against your cheek from where you are pinned onto the wall.

"Detention! Detention! For all of you! There is no fighting in these halls!"

The barrier drops and there is silence. You look across from you and James' eyes are meeting yours. You blink and look down, struggling for the words that you want to pull out of your esophagus like a balloon.

"You four! Detention! Get on with your day."

The cloud of students hover away like a group of buzzing gnats, and you hear Slughorn muttering beside you, patting your back.

"I know it wasn't your fault Evans, but I just couldn't give detention to the Slytherins. I would be accused of inter-House favoritism!"

"I know, Professor, I know." You speak quietly, aware of James eyeing you from across the hall, "I know."

Slughorn pats you on the back again awkwardly.

"Only time I think Hogwarts has ever had their head girl been given detention, and the head boy, but it's alright. I'll just have you both clean the cabinets or something. Maybe fix up some new potions for me!"

You nod your head and plaster a smile on your face, trying to ignore the pounding feeling of anger still ricocheting through your brain. Slughorn walks away, and you turn your gaze on James, who is looking at you with a stare that you can't describe.

"I was fine," you hiss, pulling your bookbag onto your shoulder and glancing behind you to see if anybody is watching the pair of you, "I was fine, James, and since when did you care?"

"Since you cared that I was drinking so much," he replies, his face stoic and mute.

"I don't care that you are drinking too much, Potter."

"You seemed to care last night. And I don't drink too much."

"I didn't care," you growl back, starting to walk down the hall, Potter matching your pace easily, his clothes dripping off of his body in the way that only old money can buy, "You were stinking up my study area. And you do drink too much."

"Living room. You mean living room."

"Study area."

You are quiet, steaming that the tall boy is still walking beside you, unperturbed, and you glare at the ground until the two of you make it outside the Charms classroom, your feet planting and growing root in front of the door.

"So what, you think you're my bodyguard now or something?"

He pauses, tilting his head up for a second, adjusting the strap on his bookbag. You watch the muscles clench in his jaw.

"Lily," he turns to you, and you quickly glance at the large veins running up his massive hands, "Lily, I've always been your bodyguard. You've just never realized it."

When you get back to your room late that night, stumbling blindly through the halls clutching a pile of textbooks in your arms, you emerge to the sight of James and Sirius sprawled out on the main couches, the two of them passing a Wizarding cigarette back and forth between them, the end of it glowing fuschia, then neon yellow, then bright green.

"Do you really have to smoke in here," you dryly comment, putting your textbooks down and looking at the pair of them. James is lying on his back (his favourite position, you note ironically in your head), his large feet splayed out, his body wrapped in a red hoodie, his pants a putrid red plaid. Sirius is perched on the edge of the other couch like a caged toucan, primped up in his black leather jacket, his legs crossed in his dark skinny jeans.

"It's nice to see you too, Evans," James replies, not bothering to lift his head, and you roll your eyes, trodding over to the area around where they are sitting, placing your books on the table in between them.

Sirius nods at you, and you attempt a smile back.

"Do you need something?"

James' dark voice rattles your bones, and you scowl at him, watching the smoke rings lazily puff out of his mouth.

"They're going to find out that those things cause cancer one day, you know."

"Thank you, Mother Evans."

"If you must know," you sigh dramatically, squeezing yourself on top of James' legs, James' neck lifting and his head glaring at you, "I was planning on going over some Transfiguration homework."

"On my legs?!" Disbelief rings out, and you reach over and pat him on the stomach. You note the solid muscle that you feel underneath.

"With my favourite boy."

"You must be talking about me," Sirius pipes up, James' head revolving and glowering at the skinny dark-haired boy, laughter swishing around the corners of his mouth.

"Evans, we're actually busy right now, if you don't mind," James says, dragging on the cigarette at the end of his sentence.

"No," you shake your head, smirking, "I don't mind at all."

The boy glares at you.

"You're impossible."

"Thank you."

There is a roaring in the corridor that is chilling your bones, so you open your door and walk across the carpet towards his room – all because you are an angry teenage girl and you love the way the eyes of an angry teenage punk flash red.

The door creaks open.

He is sitting at his desk, and as you peek inside, your comforter wrapped around your small frame, he turns his head and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Lily?"

His voice is slightly nervous, and suddenly you feel out-of-place – you have entered the den of a lion, but he is wearing pajamas and you are more scared of him naked then angry.

"What are you doing?"

"Did you hear them outside?" you question, fumbling with your hands, your hair free-falling downwards to cover your face.

"Hear what outside?"

You raise your finger to your lips, and as you stare into his eyes, the thudding and the rumbling from the hallway raises. There are voices yelling, and you watch James' eyes narrow.

"What is that."

You suddenly realize that you have made a mistake, and you launch yourself at the taller boy as he starts towards his bedroom door.

"No, no, no," you plead, "Don't go. I don't know what it is. I don't want you to go."

You press your palm into the middle of his chest, and he freezes, looking down at you.

"Don't go."

"I have to go, I have to see what is going on," he tries to explain to you. You notice that there is a strained note in his voice, and you look down at your fingers, and you realize that you can feel his lungs expanding and constricting.

He turns slightly and reaches over for his metal flask, with the griffin carved into the front of it, but before he can bring it up to his lips you have smashed it out of his hand and it crashes down onto all of his parchments, soaking into his papers with the stench of rotting alcohol.

"Lily!" His voice is raised in pure shock, and you don't meet his eyes.

"Stop fucking drinking!"

"It wasn't alcohol! You ruined my goddamn notes!"

"It wasn't alcohol?! It wasn't alcohol, James?!"

"It's none of your bloody business anyways."

And then he is charging past you, and you are swiveling, paralyzed in your spot, tightening the comforter around your body like a boa constrictor.

"Where are you going," you say, under your breath, watching his tall body storm through the main area.

"James," you call louder, his frame disappearing out of the portrait, "James!"

You were angry raging young barely-there-adults, parading down the slick black streets like diamond-embellished jaguars, glaring at doe-eyed women with plastic eyelashes and happiness gurgling through their livers. Sometimes James stopped, stumbling into a graffiti-burnished alleyway, pressing his hands against the tight walls as his stomach made love to the cement.

"You drank too much again," you hiss, but he is tipsy-love-drunk-wild-child reckless tonight, so you let him wrap his big arms around your shoulder and the two of you glitter down the Hogsmeade alleyways, lost in the intoxication that comes with love.

"If you could be – " he hiccups " – anywhere in the world right now, where would you be."

You are sitting with your back against the graffiti-ed brick wall, your knees close to your chest, your red hair swelling around your pale skin like a scarlet cloud against an alien moon. You look at him: sad, wise James Potter, leaning against the wall beside you, a stream of smoke exhaling from his mouth into the black velvet atmosphere.

"I'd be here."

"But I'm drunk."

"And I'm still in love."

You smile, half-joking. His eyes widen. You carry him home.

You peer your head out of the portrait, the yells hitting you like solid bricks, and James is on the ground and there are two tall Slytherin boys, kicking him in the stomach and head.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" You are suddenly screaming and your wand is out and the two of them are turning, looking to glare at you, their hooked noses glistening like fishing rods. You recognize one of them as Severus' old friend, and you balk slightly at the look of disbelief in his eyes.

"What are we doing?" He hisses, and you feel your hand begin to shake, "What are we doing? Do you know what your boytoy does in his spare time?"

"He doesn't do anything wrong."

"He's a bully, you fucking mudblood, he's worth less than Merlin's shit."

"Take that back," you are roaring, and your feet are pulling you towards his eyes, "Take that back."

"What, that's he's a drunken scared little boy who takes out his anger on people he doesn't like … or that you're a mudblood?"

You are screaming the words stupefy before you can contain yourself and his body is flying into the opposing wall, falling down with a deafening clatter, the other tall boy sprinting in the opposite direction, James still moaning on the ground.

"James, James, James," you race over to his huddled figure, "James, are you okay?"

He is wincing, his face sideways on the carpet, his fists clenched.

"We have to get you to a professor, they'll know what to do."

"No," he replies back, tersely, starting to sit up, the pain evident in his eyes, "No."

The silence in the hallway is deafening, and you watched from a crouched position as he slowly, painfully rises to his feet, an anti-Christ emerging out of the darkness.

"James …"

"The professors don't give a fuck, Lily, don't you get it."

"James, they will, we can at least get some help or something, come on."

You are still sitting on your knees, and there is a lighting bolt lodged underneath your ribcage that is starting to ache.

"Like please, James, this is too much for us to handle on our own."

"This is life, Lily, when will you realize that?" He barks back, anger pulsing through his thick jaw, "This is life! This is my life! We are at fucking war! I cannot walk through these Merlin-damned halls without being attacked!"

"You are not a soldier James, you didn't sign up for this!"

"I signed up for it as soon as I fell in love with you!"

You fall silent. Your eyes are glued to the ground.

You hear the portrait door open and then close. You press your forehead to the carpet and pray to a God that you aren't sure exists.

He is drunk for an entire week, and each day you arrive back to the Heads' dorm later and later, trying to avoid the stench of alcohol that wafts from the seats and couches, the empty firewhiskey bottles flung on your dormitory table, the scent of guilt and sadness that pervades into your bones and reeks out from your armpits.

In class he sits two desks behind you and you can feel his gaze, wavering and falling, and there is a sorrow so deep in between your lungs that you can feel your ribs caving in.

You creep through the portrait door one night at around 11 o'clock, and he is lying on the couch with his head back, and there are tears on his face, and you turn around and press your forehead into the wall and quietly contemplate suicide.

"James," you murmur, finally turning back around, walking over to the couch, a lump in your throat, "James, I am sorry. I am really, really sorry."

You press your hand against his ankle, and suddenly he is sitting up, and there is a feeling in your spine that you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.

"Lily," he says, looking at the floor, moving slightly away from you, a gesture that just about stabs you in the heart, "It's fine."

You are silent. You do not have the words.

You look up and you see his sad face, looking down at the carpet, and there is something tugging on your heartstrings and suddenly you are in tears, pressing your lips against his knee.

"I didn't know," you are saying, the tears falling down your face, "I didn't know that you cared. I am so sorry."

There is a lack of noise in the room that is deafening, and you are too scared to lift your face up, so instead you kneel in front of his feet and cover your face with your arms, your head still on his thigh.

"It's not your fault." His voice breaks.

You look up and his head is tilted at the ceiling, tears skydiving downward, his teeth gritted.

"If you had told me …"

"If I had told you, what, Lily," he says, a vulnerability in his voice that he tries to mask by grabbing the bottle of alcohol to his right and taking a hard sip, "There would be no difference."

"Is that why? Is that why, with Severus …" Your question trails off, and he is silent, but you do not need an answer.

You do not know why, but you have clambered into his lap and you have pressed your fingers into his thick brown hair, your other hand wiping the salt clusters off of his cheeks.

"Whether you believe this or not," you speak up and curl into his chest, feeling his arms relax around your body, "I care about you."

You stay that way for three hours, not speaking. It is not a cherished and elegant moment – your foot cramps and his arm drops, but you are a scared little girl and he is your drunk, crying savior.

You walk into the classroom where McGonagall is sitting at the front, Dumbledore pacing beside her, James, Sirius, Remus and a handful of other Gryffindors standing around them.

You close the door behind you just as James erupts, the group eyeing him nervously, McGonagall tugging on her hair with a pained expression on her face.

"What the hell do you expect us to do, how are we supposed to handle this on our own?!"

"This is not a choice, Mister Potter," Dumbledore's voice is low and angry, "This is the way that life is."

"I don't want life to be like this, I didn't sign up for any of this shit!" He is swearing, and you are still holding onto the doorknob, watching the two of them with shock pulsing through your fingers.

"When you decided to attack three Slytherins with Mister Black and Mister Lupin Friday afternoon, what did you really think would happen?" McGonagall's voice is shrill, and your jaw is dropping and James' eyes are narrowing.

"We did that to protect our own."

"Our own, Mister Potter?" Dumbledore is standing in front of him, and there is an electricity in the room that is humming under your feet, "Our own? Are we all not human?"

"They are not. You saw what they did to that Hufflepuff girl and you know they'll do it again, but instead, what do you adults do?" James is yelling, his face right in front of Dumbledore's, "Nothing, so instead the job of fighting this goddamn shit off is ours!"

"That is ENOUGH."

James turns around and suddenly lifts up a small desk, flinging it to the back of the room, the other Gryffindors flinching at the explosion of noise.

"It is not ENOUGH!" James is roaring, and you shove over to where he is standing, and wrap your hand around his. He looks down at his hand, and the room is silent.

After a few minutes, Dumbledore takes a breath and steps back, turning away from James, who is still breathing in and out of his chest like he has completed a marathon.

"No combat is black and white, Mister Potter, that is the painful truth of the matter."

"You can expel them for what they did to that girl."

"I cannot expel them. Their families are linked to the Death Eaters and you know this fact, might I remind you." Dumbledore's voice is soft and filled with venom, and you clutch James' hand tighter.

"You can petition the headmaster."

"It is not that easy, Mister Potter."

"And what if this happens to a girl like Lily?!" James is screaming again, and his fist is out of your grasp, and you are pressing your hands to your mouth, "Will you expel them when they rape her?"

"SILENCE! REMEMBER YOUR PLACE!" Dumbledore roars back, and you are shaking, and then James is beside you and his arms are around your shoulders and your face is in his chest.

There is an overwhelming silence.

"This meeting is adjourned," McGonagall hisses, the rest of the Gryffindors quiet, "We may be your professors, but we are not Gods. We are doing as well as we can do. I know that you are only children. But you need to be brave and you need to hold on. Violence only perpetrates violence. We will not be able to protect you from expulsion should a turf war erupt."

"And what if they start it?" Sirius' voice rings out, a dangerous and hollow low tone.

"Then you walk away."

You tighten your grip around James' mid-section. You know he will not walk away. You are terrified.

James is a bird of paradise. James is a love story. James is a sonnet and you are Shakespeare. James would not know what that means, because James is not the type of boy who reads poetry.

James is the angry frat boy with daddy issues, parading around parties like a peacock in heat. James is the boy with the smirk and the eyes that drag on your pupils. James is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, with smooth skin and sagging pants and wide shoulders and a dimple that you kiss at two in the morning. James is an alcoholic.

James is strong knuckles, the ocean howling in his veins because of the ancestry of his blood. James is weathered cheeks and a wide smile. James is a boy who kisses girls and doesn't look back. James is the loudmouth at the back of class. James is one of the tall boys who controls the school with the strength of his spine. James is a seventeen year old boy struggling to carry the world on a silver platter. James has brown hair and eyes like honey that you melt into and dream of drinking. James is a spattering of freckles that you press your lips against and suck off, one by one.

You are a mildly catchy, easily forgotten pop song. James is your treble clef.

You walk into your dormitory and James is sprawled out by the table, textbooks thrown everywhere, a quill frantically scribbling on his parchment as he recites words to it, a hand nervously running through his hair, his eyeglasses nearly falling off his nose.

You are silent. He does not realize you are there.

"The summoning charm was originally created in the 18th century by a wizard with the main purpose of communicating with another, but the accident that arose created a …"

You clutch your books to your chest. There is a sadness rising up your esophagus that you do not fully understand, and your vision is blurring slightly.

You want to remember him like this, hunched over his books, a hand scuffling through papers. You want to remember him as a seventeen year old boy, a simple, beautiful seventeen year old, without the sadness that you know echoes through his muscles, without the stench of alcohol, without the guilt of war.

He shifts around suddenly and notices you, leaning against the wall.

"Lily?"

You smile, a quiet gesture. "James."

"How long have you been there for?" He clears his throat nervously and attempts to neaten the desk, papers accidentally flying everywhere.

"I haven't been here for long."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm falling in love." You whisper.

He freezes, and glances up at you.

Suddenly you have dropped your books and you are in his arms and you do not kiss him because you do not want to cheapen the experience.

You wrap your hands tighter around his neck and try to ignore the feeling of looming tragedy that is pounding in your forehead.

"I am so sorry, Lily. I am not an easy person to love." He murmurs into your hair.

You trace your hands along his collarbone. You do not care.

Two weeks later another Gryffindor halfblood girl has been raped and you are sitting in the Observatory tower, watching James pace back and forth in front of the balcony.

"You couldn't have done anything about it, James."

"You don't understand," James replies, angrily, throwing the butt of his cigarette off the ledge, turning away from you, leaning on his elbows.

"I do."

"No, you don't."

You sigh and press your cheek against your knees, watching fireflies dart in and out of the metal railings, James a silent and stark silhouette, a raven on watch perched on the edge of the universe.

He speaks up, softly, his voice a ragged and gritty deep tone, the sound of aged whiskey and tobacco – too old for his age.

"It was our fault, Lily."

"James …"

"It was our fault. It was retribution. Sirius and I went to the dungeons."

"You did what?!" You suddenly are on your feet, and you are staring at him in shock, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"Lily, it's not what you think."

"Not what I think?!" You swear loudly, your hands in your curly, tumbleweed hair, "Dumbledore just talked to you about this! Why would you go picking a fight?!"

"We didn't pick a fight!"

"Then what in the hell were you doing?!" You shriek back, panic under your fingernails, "You're going to get yourself killed!"

James turns away from you, and you suddenly feel alone.

"We had to try to talk to Sirius' brother. I couldn't convince him out of it. We were supposed to meet him, but we ran into those two Slytherin assholes again."

"Oh Merlin, James." You feel sick. You sit back down on the floor.

"We punched them out, old school style. We left them there. They must have found them the next morning."

He turns around suddenly, but you can't meet his gaze.

"Lily, please," His voice cracks and there is a vulnerability in it that breaks your heart. You look up and he looks like he is on the brink of crying.

"Lily, I don't know what to do anymore." His head is tilted downwards.

You walk over to him and your lips are on his and it is a desperate, desolate consolation in a bleak and harrowing world. His hand is in your hair and your hands are tugging at his pants and then there is something hard but soft in your mouth that tastes the same as tears.

There is no happy ending, here.