This one shot is the first in a series called End Times. It is a collection of five one-shot stories, each written from the point of view of a different Marauder (and Lily) in the three years leading up to the murder of the Potters. They follow a chronological timeline, starting with James in his last year of school, Lily as a new mother, Sirius as a godfather, Peter as a turncoat, and Remus suffering the loss of his friends. This story is the first in that series. I hope you enjoy! Please leave a review if you like it!
"Evans?"
That pale oval face turns to me, and I about lose it. Gods, those cheekbones could cut glass. She was slim before, but a waif now, with her alabaster transparency, her red-ringed eyes glazed like frost on a window.
"Fuck off, Potter."
She tries, and fails, to hide the contents of a bottle under her scrunched knees. She is all angles and planes and straight lines, in the darkness of that courtyard. The steely moonlight careens into her skin, and it glows. I want to wrap myself in that light and never leave it.
"Jesus, Evans, it's freezing out here. What are you doing out of bed?"
"It was my turn to patrol. Leave me the hell alone."
"Evans, we're supposed to patrol with partners."
"Fuck OFF, Potter."
I lower myself beside her, completely unwelcome, and knowing it. She's no threat, not as drunk as she is. Her bare knees look like pearls in the light. The bottle glints at the edges like a broken promise.
"What is that?" I wasn't supposed to sound like I care so much, but damn, I do. I always have. I want to pick her up and warm her and put her inside of me until she and I glow like the sun. She pulls the bottle out with a humorless chuckle.
"You know what it is, Potter. You've had more than your share of it. I've cleaned up the messes. Now go AWAY." She takes a pull from the bottle of firewhiskey, choking. Her throat turns scarlet as she splutters. Her eyes unfocus for a moment, before frowning back up at me, frosty green beams trying to cut me into pieces.
"Come on, Evans." The way the light hit her throat, her face, made it clear that she needed sleep, and food. She looks so strained, like someone has drawn her body through a wringer, squeezing out vital parts of her. She folds under my continued gaze, although I could feel the pins pricking the back of my neck as I fought to keep contact.
"There was another attack. In Cokeworth." She pulled from the bottle again, this time without the dissent from her body. "It was only a few doors down from my parents. They killed a family of six."
Not surprising. The town was crawling with muggles. Prime target nowadays. I look at her again. She's folded in on herself, her breasts pushed against her knees now, pulling into herself like she could keep the news out, reverse it, if she just protected herself enough. I want to envelope her and add my body to her shield, keep the world out, make her life sunshine and laughter. But that would probably earn me a slap. I pull my hand through my hair, an unconscious, narcissistic gesture. I'm glad she doesn't notice. I hold my hand out for the bottle.
"Get your own, Potter!" She glares at me, the kind of look that would paralyze a first year in the corridors. But I've seen that look for a long time. I grab the bottle. She clings to it like a drowning man to a mast of a sinking ship. It's her lifeline. I know that feeling, and it never ends well.
"And drinking yourself into a stupor is going to help?" I can't help the sarcastic tone. I know she'll fight me. Might as well tire her out. "Seems to work for you!" she spits, unfolding enough to try and snatch the bottle back. She manages it, but not before I manage to swill most of the rest of it. Spare her the consequences. Besides, shame to waste the stuff, and my tolerance is higher than hers.
Gods, but she is beautiful. Even in the fall cold, even underweight, with heavy circles lining her sea-glass eyes, she is everything. Her nose a little too pointed, her skin freckled as though the moonlight has given her color. She manages to grab the bottle back, but not before soaking herself in firewhiskey.
"Evans, it warms you from the inside. You're supposed not drink it, not bathe in it," I tease. Secretly, I look at the rest of her. Her arms are too thin by a quarter. She hasn't been eating enough, or sleeping. Stress must be eating her alive. The moonlight dances off her auburn hair like sparks in a cauldron. Damn.
She shoots me a glare that seems fitting for the ambient temperature. The liquid down her white shirt makes spots turn a sickly yellow. The scent of cinnamon pervades the air, a fitting scent, both for her personality and her features. She throws the bottle back again. The pull washes down her throat. I watch the muscles work, an oddly hypnotizing motion. "Lily." The word is soft, testing. I don't often use her name. It rolls around in my mouth before issuing forth, blooming quietly into the darkness. She stares in the opposite direction, her entire body tensing, determined to keep the fear and worry at bay.
"They'll be ok, Lily. Dumbledore will send someone out there. You know he will, if muggles are being attacked."
Her head hits her knees like a drop-weight. "There are too many of them, James. And not enough of us." Her hair is hiding her face. It shivers like the leaves falling from the trees in the courtyard around us. She lets out an odd noise, her chest spasming.
And she's right. From the eavesdropping Padfoot and I have done, there are three Death Eaters to every person fighting against them. There are probably young initiates here at the school. Mulciber. Avery. Nott. From the sound of it, even Padfoot's brother. All of them have been attacking muggleborns, timing the attacks when they won't be caught by teachers. None of the attacks have been lethal. But several had been nasty enough to send several people to the hospital wing for a week.
"They sent me a message," Lily continues. "After the attack. Death threats on the front door. They have to move my family again. After last summer..." Lily shudders again. It had happened to me, too. The Death Eaters had come calling at my home. I knew it was a matter of time. As a pureblood, I knew they would try. They were "recruiting." Padfoot and I had been home. We barely escaped after saying we were soundly uninterested. I could still hear the curses flying and demolishing the room as I disapparated.
"I know. We moved over the summer. Somewhere more protected."
She gives a dismissive noise. "Your family are magic. They can at least defend themselves," she spits harshly, the words running together in an odd, whiskey-flavored syntax. "You all can. And you've got money, resources, contacts. I've got fucking NOTHING. If they come again when I'm not there..." She takes another swill, only to find there's less in there than she'd have liked. I've got no words, because she's right again. The bottle dangles from her hand like a hanged man on the gallows. I reach over and gently take it from her, moving closer in the process.
"You've had enough."
She glares. I raise an eyebrow at her. She frowns more fiercely. "I don't want your fucking come-ons, Potter. Go make doe eyes somewhere else."
She's scared. She's so scared. She might be drunk, but it's written in her muscle and sinew. The words still sting. I never responded well to pain.
"I'm not coming on to you," I spit. "I'm being a decent human being."
She throws her head back in a mirthless, barking laugh.
"Decent human being. Don't make me laugh. You've never been a decent human being, Potter. You make people feel like shit about themselves to make yourself feel better. If you were a decent human being, I could have changed him..."
She breaks off, mouth sour and twisted.
I can't believe what I'm hearing. The smartest, most practical girl… no, woman now… I have ever met is sitting here, telling me that horrible berk could change.
"Lily, you know what he is. What he fucking called you. What he thinks of literally everyone who is like you. How the hell can you sit there and think you could have changed him?" I can't keep the anger out of my voice. I hate him. It started with me angry, needing to tear someone down, but it ended in exposing him for the horrible person he is. I hate him for what he is, for his fucking bigoted mind, for his unloveable features, for what he did to her. For the crying I hear in the common room. Even if it was two years ago, it still hurts her. I was in the wrong when it was just bullying. I'm in the right now.
She hears my anger and responds with a tidal force of her own. "I know EXACTLY what he is. He was my friend, you pompous fuck. He got sucked into this because his home life is shit. Not that you'd ever be able to fucking relate, Mr. So-Perfect-My-Parents-Worship-Me Potter. While you're up on that high fucking broom, chasing stupid balls, some of us have parents and siblings that hate us." There are ice chips in her eyes, and the green looks blacker every second.
"Making excuses for what he's doing doesn't fucking stop what he's doing, Lily." The name hits the backside of my teeth almost percussively as it escapes. It sounds like it's an ocean depth. I can't help it. Her name is that expansive.
She looks at me. Her eyes melt, and her face crumples. "What are they doing, James? They're tearing the world apart. Why would he do something like that?" The sound of my name on her tongue is enough to send my attention spiraling out of control. She's never said it before. It's slurred, and it sounds like she's forgotten that she hates me. It's confusing. I have no idea what to do or say. I lose the next sentence or two. "... when that happens? They're not even out of Hogwarts yet and they're already-"
Without thinking, I reach an arm over her. Her shoulders are cold. Her skin glows like ice. She cries. I hold her. "They could be dead, James. It could have been them. It could be by him. Why is everything so fucking awful?" I have no answer. I just pull her in a little closer, half because I'm selfish and want to do it, half because she's shivering and it's freezing out here, but all because she needs it. She'd never says so, not self-assured, rigid Lily Evans. But she does. The tears she cries aren't pretty. Blood rushes over her face to meet the tears falling down. They are vital. They are toxic. They are boil in the cold.
"I wish I could take it back," I said quietly, the words escaping into the air like a puff of smoke. It's true. Not because Snape is a good person. Because maybe, just maybe, if he hadn't, they wouldn't have one more person to face when they left the relative safety of this campus. Maybe her life would be in less danger. "Only for you, though," I added. "Not for him."
Her tears are coming more quietly now. I feel her tense at my words. She didn't like them. But they are the reality. "You're still a prick, Potter," she intones quietly. But she doesn't sound angry now. She sounds resigned. I'm back to being Potter. "Yeah, I know." She looks up at me, a half-smile playing at her mouth, her blotchy face absorbing the affirmation like a sinner at communion. She looks back down, shivering again. "You need to get back inside. It's cold out here, and I'm not leaving you alone in this state," I state baldly.
She lets out a long-suffering sigh, but it's not despairing. I watch her move away with a jerk, getting up with her hand against the bench for stability. She's swaying like a baby giraffe. "Of course the one time I need to get drunk, it would be you that finds me," she slurs grumpily. The words are thrown out casually, easily, with an air like tossing a scarf over her shoulder. I can't help it, I grin a devil-eating grin. "If it's any consolation, you downed most of that bottle. You might not remember tonight anyway."
"You promise?" she says softly, hopefully, glancing over at me. Vulnerability is scraped into every inch of her. It's a strange look on her. I see that she's still swaying as we move back inside and mount the marble staircase, heading back to the tower. I grab her arm to keep her upright, still grinning despite an unexpected moment of sadness creeping over me.
"I promise."