Mission Status: Impossible.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Or at least- if you recognise something, then I don't own it. If you don't recognise something, then I could possibly own it. If you find something or someone that reminds you of yourself, or your best friend/dog/cat/fish/mouse/aunt /mother/father/little sister/older brother/pet elephant in the back yard/Great Uncle Albert/elderly next-door-neighbour/great-great-great-great grandmother or niece, then I'm sorry. I'm sure it is purely coincidental, unless I know them, in which case it may not be. And please, do tell me if you have a pet elephant in the backyard so that I can come and steal it. Or a crocodile. I like crocodiles. Alligators will do fine also.

---

Mission Status: Impossible.
Chapter 1- Reminiscing About a Time Gone By

I guess it never really affected me. I was young, and I didn't directly see it. I wasn't actually there; I was protected from seeing it. Sometimes now in my dreams though, I can still see their cold, lifeless faces and hear the screams that tortured my sister's childhood.

It's strange really, that I'm pitied because of something that I can't even remember.

I grew up never knowing them, never accepting them as part of my life, but still I was shocked that they never told me the truth. I was upset. I was hurt. But how do you tell a five year old kid that her parents were murdered? That they had been tortured, killed, and then raped? How do you explain to them that they were never coming back? The answer- you don't, you let her forget, you tell her when she is old enough to cope with the truth.

But was on my fifteenth birthday really the ideal time to tell me that my parents were dead, and had been since I was five? Was it really the best time to say to me that everything I had grown up with was a lie? Was it a good idea to tell me that the stone cold, lifeless figures I had said goodnight to all those years ago were covered with a sheet and makeup to protect me from seeing their battered, bruised and violated bodies? Is a fifteen year old ready to accept that type of thing? Or would it have been worse to wait? Is there any good time to tell someone that their parents were killed in such a brutal way?

Now, ten years later, I can still remember the words they said to me, the pictures they showed me, the horrific newspaper cutting they kept for that frightful night. I can still remember running out of the house screaming, screaming that it wasn't true, that they were my parents, not those bodies I saw printed in black and white, surrounded by yellowing words, reports of findings and the process of the investigation. I can remember running and running, full of hate, confusion and anger, not knowing where I was going but knowing I needed to keep going. Tears were running down my face when I finally collapsed onto the ground, exhausted.

Crouched between the tall trees, resting on them for support, my head in my hands and my sobs filling up and consuming the silence it was hardly surprising that I was not on my own for very long. The leering faces were soon peering down at me, and I could smell the alcohol on their breaths. Their bloodshot eyes bore into mine, red from crying. The stoners in the park- the druggies up the road- the alcoholic husbands who drank away their families money, abusing their wives and children at home- the young school graduates looking to have a good time- the students caught up in the wrong crowd. They were all there, off their faces, having a 'good' time that they would regret the next day. I've seen them on the streets, lying in the gutters in pools of broken glass, spilt alcohol, urine and vomit. I've seen how people avoid them, walking on the other side of the street to stay away from them as if their state is contagious. Their matted hair reaches their shoulders and their bodies are covered in dirt. They are the ones with out a home, caught in the endless downward cycle of poverty, homelessness and drugs. They are the ones corrupted by society, rejected by society, abandoned by society. They are the ones I now feel sorry for.

I see them everyday now, I work with them. But I can never get used to seeing them on the streets.

The others- the mothers and fathers of children, husbands and wives, drinking away the family income, bringing debt and shame upon the family, the children, led astray by peer pressure, with no self-control, how can you feel sorry for them? They brought it upon themselves.

I can see all this now, but as a fifteen year old I could not distinguish. I could not see the difference between the pain and the selfishness, all I saw were drunks and stoners surrounding me. Scaring me.

And so I ran.

I ran and I ran, not noticing what street I took or what houses I past. I could feel my feet pounding on the bitumen, the wind rushing past my ears and the pain tearing at my heart. It felt like a thousand sharp knives were being stabbed into me, passing through my vital organs, constricting my lungs, piercing my heart. I tripped and fell, but got back up and continued running, not noticing the blood pouring down my face and the searing pain caused by the gash above my left eyebrow.

When I could run no further I slowed down to a walk. I had a hundred thousand stitches down my side, forcing me to walk almost doubled over in pain. I fell to my knees, bent over, panting to try and catch my breath.

Forcing myself back to my feet, wiping the blood off my knees, I continued. Stumbling my way along the road I was aware of the blisters and cuts covering my feet. I focused on the physical pain I was feeling, dragging my feet along the road to cut them more and drive the gravel in further, anything to keep my mind away from the emotional pain.

I cut my hands and arms on pieces of broken glass I found along the sides of the road and trees in people yards, letting the blood flow freely. I ran at any wall I saw, trying to bruise myself.

When I finally realized that there was nothing more I could do to physically hurt myself anymore, I continued walking with my eyes fixed on my feet.

And that is how I walked, bruised, battered and bleeding, straight into the arms of James Potter.

OoO

She looked at her watch and made a final note on the page before her. She raised her eyes to look at the person sitting in front of her.

"That's the end of our session today, Jane. Your next appointment is on Tuesday at the same time. I'll see you then."

"Thanks Lily," was the only reply. Lily watched as Jane stood, steadying herself with one hand leaning on the desk, and then walked out of the room. She closed the file, walking over to the filing cabinet, replacing it and at the same time removing another one. Black letters emblazoned the cream file, reading "Emily Frank-- depression". She sighed and placed it on her desk.

There was a gentle knocking on her door, and it opened. A dark haired man, about 6 foot, with grey-green eyes walked in.

"Hey babe," said the man, walking towards Lily and sweeping her up in a hug, spinning her around.

"Not now Liam" she whispered forcefully, fidgeting to be put down. "I've asked you not to visit me at work. You're not allowed in- you'll be in trouble if you get found. We both will." Liam just shrugged.

"They already know I'm here. It's no big deal." Lily started,

"Who know?"

"You know. Those ones in the reception. They let me in. Well, she did. Catherine I think her name was."

"I should have known," she hissed, walking away. "Go. Now. I'll get in trouble." Liam pulled a face.

"What? Without a kiss? Why can't I visit my girlfriend anyway?" Lily sighed.

"Confidentiality. I've explained it before. Exactly the same reason that I cannot discuss my work with you." She spoke calmly, but in a patronizing manner, as if explaining to a difficult child that one did not eat at four o'clock in the morning simply because it was so. She walked close to him and pecked him on the lips before hurrying him to the door and pushing him out.

She returned to the file on the desk. Emily confused her. She wanted to befriend her, to help her, but for some reason she wouldn't let anyone in. She was like a 1000 piece puzzle that was begging to be solved, but there were only 50 or so pieces that could be found. Every time Lily found another piece, she held on to, think about it continually, trying to put it in place, trying to find something to link it to some other thing she already had. She had taken to taping their conversations and listening to them over and over late at night when she couldn't sleep, hoping to find something that could give her a clue as to what was going on in Emily's life. Sighing, she walked to the door and let a shaking Emily in.

"Afternoon, Emily" Lily said cheerfully. Emily nodded in return, taking her seat in silence. Still smiling brightly, Lily sat down on the other side of the desk. They stayed like that for a while. Emily eventually broke the quiet.

"My fish died last night."

"That's a pity."

"Not really. I didn't like it much." Emily was like that sometimes. Some of the things she said would come out of no where, make no sense, be completely random. It was like she was attempting to throw Lily off balance, catch her off guard, make her say something that she shouldn't. It never worked. Graduating top of her class, Lily had succeeded at everything during her training, excelling in all her studies. Entering the work force, her intelligence, diligence, work ethic and self control had catapulted her to the top of the field. It was unusual, unheard of even, for someone as young as her to hold the prestigious position that she did, but that was Lily. She always did the unthinkable.

Searching in Emily's eyes, she once again got the feeling that this patient was never going to react to her normal methods. Emily sat primly on the edge of her seat, looking nervous. Slouching back in her seat, Lily had an idea. She dropped her normal, professional look.

"How old are you?" Emily was startled. Lily had never asked her anything of the sort. She always tried to ask questions that required her to think, not something simple like 'how old are you?'

"I…I'm 19." Lily nodded. She knew this of course; personal details were all on file. She stood up, walking around to the other side of the desk. Emily moved her seat further away. It was unlike anything Lily had done before.

"I'm going to tell you a story. About when I was nineteen."

OoO

I hurried along the corridor, a stack of books in my hands. It was late and hardly anyone was about. I wanted to get to the library to return the books before it closed. The local library had been my favourite place when I was little. I would sit there for hours, pouring over brightly coloured picture books, damp text books with their pages worn from wear, and thick, musty-smelling old poetry anthologies. To me, it was a whole new world, with adventures lurking around every corner. Talking beasts, witches and wizards, memories from POW camps, tales from far distant lands, information about every animal possible, stories of hardship and luck, and imagination. Sometimes I would just sit there, and imagine that I was an author and that I was the one reading aloud bits of my story to crowds of open mouthed children. When I went to school I forgot about it. I guess I then had my own other world to escape into. I found it again, two days before my birthday.

When I graduated, I was immediately accepted in to training. I began right after school. For a year I lived away from home. I was staying with a couple of friends, all doing the same, or similar courses as me. During my second year of study, I took two weeks off around my birthday, calling my stunned parents to inform them that I would be staying with them for a while. They were thrilled to say the least, for me to return and spend two weeks with them, after not seeing them for almost two and a half years. I think they had begun to believe that I would never come back.

OoO

She paused, smiling, remembering her parents' astonishment and pleasure at her announcement. And the party…

OoO

I walked the familiar path to the door. Nothing much had changed, the flowers were still neatly tended, pruned perfectly and flourishing. My mother, an avid gardener, spent all the time she could spare in it, singing softly to herself and the plants, her touch coaxing even the most difficult flowers to grow into beautiful plants. Placing my bag down, I knocked cautiously on the door. Waiting, I listened for the tell-tale footsteps- the light 'fairy' ones of my mother, the heavy, thudding ones of my father. 'Elephant' steps I used to call them. I would tease him about it. "Elephant steps!" I would cry, "Elephant!" He would pick me up and spin me around, laughing. The door opened. "Dad!" I screamed ecstatically, jumping into him open arms. He spun me around again, like when I was little.

"Caught you by surprise hey? Didn't hear the elephant steps… I've been practicing see. Listen" He put me down, walking along the floor, making only the slightest noise. I laughed.

"They're still elephant steps. You look like you're an elephant trying not to step on a mouse!" And it was true, he hadn't started taking smaller steps or changed his step style in any way- all he was doing was stopping just before his foot hit the ground, and placing it down carefully. It took him a lot longer to cross the floor than it would normally, and by the time he was about half way across, I was in fits of hysteria by the door. "Ma!" I shrieked, running across the hall, carefully avoiding Dad who was still demonstrating his new, improved walk, and hugging her tight.

"Baby," she whispered, "I missed you so much." Letting go she beamed. "Dinner? You must be starving. Come into the dining room. Come, come. Peter! Stop doing that idiotic step, come on." She hurried us into the dining room, turning on the lights. I gasped. The table was covered in all my favourite foods- roast chicken and lamb, barbequed sausages, cannelloni, pasta, mum's homemade pizza, corn, peas, beans, salads, potatoes, and a whole array of other delights. It was a strange mix, but I loved it. And for dessert there was jelly and ice-cream, cake and chocolate mousse. Mum poured me a cup of coffee and Dad uncorked a bottle of champagne.

"What? She's of age" he said in reply to my mother's indignant stare.

"Well, I guess it is a celebration," she sighed, "But don't think we are encouraging you drinking." I smiled, and Dad winked at me.

After dinner, some of my old friends who lived around the area came over and we had a good time catching up on all the news. So and so was going to university, thingy had run away with her neighbour, someone else was pregnant. That kind of stuff.

I spent the next few days catching up with people and being stuffed with food and doted on by my parents. A few days before my birthday I went walking around, exploring my old home town. Walking through an over grown path, I found the old community centre. The fountain in front no longer flowed with the same glamour as it once did. Instead of sprouting out of the top and falling down in a graceful arc, water trickled out and slid down the face of the now grey-green statue. It had once been white marble, glossy and attractive. Now it was repulsive. I walked over the cracked footpath, riddled with weeds bursting forth from the cracks, towards the old building. Vandalism and graffiti had left its mark on it; slogans in brightly coloured spray paint tortured the outside of it. Pushing open the door, I walked down the dingy path too the old library. The once warm and bright building, that used to emit friendly vibes felt cold and unwelcoming. The coloured pictures on the walls advertising new books and the children's artwork had been replaced with drapes of dark coloured fabric. All the curtains were closed. It was as if the library was mourning something. I felt something foreboding about this new look, but pushed it to the back of my mind and entered the room anyway. The friendly ladies who used to give me sweets to suck on as I poured my way through the children's section had left, and were replaced by young men who hushed you in a menacing way if you looked as if you were about to speak. They looked as if they would murder me if I had walking in there for no purpose, so I walked over to the adult section, and choose a few books without really thinking about it. I took them over to the counter, searching in my pocket for my old library card. He scanned it without speaking. "Due back in two days." I nodded, scared to speak, hurriedly grabbing my books and taking my departure.

And so, on my nineteenth birthday I was hurrying down a corridor to return the books before they were overdue. I almost ran into the library with the books, and hastily put them on the counter. The man fixed me with his cold gaze. "Don't. Run."

I stopped in the courtyard and sat down on the wall around the water in the bottom of the fountain. Just like the rest of the statue, age and neglect had taken it toll, but suddenly I was six again, walking around on the edge of it on my way to get out another book.

A rustle in the leaves broke my dreams. I stood up suddenly, removing my fingers from the water and wiping them on my jeans. A man stood in the courtyard near me. In the faint light I could make out his features.

"Luke?"

OoO

A knock on the door broke her story. She jumped and looked down at her watch and started. "I'm so sorry Emily. I kept you too long." Her professional attitude was back, "I'll see you again the same time next week." Emily stood up silently and walked to the door as Lily sat herself down in her chair and tried to recompose herself for her next patient.

---

A/N: So, what do you think of it? There's a very easy way to let me know, and all it involves is clicking a little button. You know you want to… :D