Complexus Amore

One: Should I Stay Or Should I Go

(non; unbound)

Divine simplicity cannot be achieved. It cannot be known. It cannot exist, for simplicity in itself is the absence of complexity, and without complexity, how can one know the meaning of 'simple'? You must have it. It must be there; this complicated aspect, which goes against the norm, be it small or large. It is there.

For Lily, it was the casket being lowered into the ground. Slow as a slug it went, and she watched it with a frown. The thing — made of cheap wood and covered in dirt and flower petals — was ugly, for it symbolised something she could not even begin to comprehend.

Her mum was dead.

How was that possible, when on Sunday she had been as bright and chipper as she always was? Lily could see her even now; blue eyes which shined when she laughed — they crinkled at the corners, just like Lily's — and her hair which was brown and newly cropped. She'd had it done just that Thursday...

Her dad took her hand, as though sensing her sadness, and yet he did not look at her. This is your fault, his grip seemed to convey. You and your kind.

If only you knew, she wanted to say. You would hate me, then.

She let herself cry for one moment. Just the one, because it was all that she deserved. Lily held on to her father's hand as long as he would hold it. She took a bitter comfort from the contact.

Rain fell lightly; soft wet kisses that evaporated into nothing, only to be replaced within seconds. But they were colder than her tears. She wiped the moisture from her eyes and ducked her head as they turned away from the coffin.

Tuney — no, Petunia, now — was sobbing under the boughs of a poplar tree, gloved hand brought to her bright pink lips as her mascara ran... Lily felt horrible. She felt broken and empty, and guilty; guilty for all of this. For being what she was.

She deserved every ounce of hate Petunia had to offer.

Dad placed his hand on her shoulder. He, too, looked near as bad as Petunia. And yet there was a certain element of composure about him. Dad had always been stoic. "I'll be along," he said, shakily. "Ought to talk to your sister..."

Lily nodded. A part of her honestly did not care what he did if it involved Petunia. Her sister was no longer a part of her life. She hadn't been since that day at the play ground when Severus had emerged from the shrubbery with all of his knowledge and bigotry.

Lily made her slow walk down to the station wagon, at the base of the hill. She stuffed her balled pale fists deep into her pockets and tried to ignore the sharp pains of betrayal (Snape) and sadness (her Mum) that threatened to rip her chest apart.

She leaned against the boot and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. A bad habit; one she'd picked up from Marlene. But recently Marlene had 'quit.' She lit and inhaled, slowly, savouring the taste and feeling herself slowly calm. Her jitteriness faded; her worries left, and just for a moment, she was a lonely girl at her mother's funeral smoking a cig.

It was very stupid and rather foolish, Lily mused quietly, that she should be standing here alone undefended when her mother — her sweet and doting Mum — had most likely been murdered by Pureblood supremacists. Lily didn't even have her wand on her. She'd forgotten it in her maudlin haste.

She dropped the fag when she saw her Dad approaching. She crushed the stub under a heeled boot and waited, not speaking.

"What did she say?" Lily asked, almost automatically. A bad habit.

"She's not coming home," Dad reported, fumbling around for his keys. Lily started forward, ignoring his surprised flinch (she forgave him immediately for his eyes were so tearful and lost), and gently showed him that he was already holding them.

"Not even for the weekend?" Lily asked softly, feeling her stomach drop.

Dad shook his head. He made for the car. "No." He wiped his wet nose, sniffing. "Says her fiancé is waiting for her, or some other such nonsense."

"Oh." Lily cleared her throat and slid in next to him, a little startled at the revelation that she was actually relieved. And, more over, that she was having this conversation at all, on such a day. That such a day was even occurring. "Are you sure you can drive?"

Dad flushed. He did not like being underestimated. "'l be fine, Lily," he said quietly. Then they were making their way down the road, away from the inevitable flurry of traffic that would build up given so many of their relatives had come into the village for the funeral.

Their house — a small thing, it was — sat just as it had before; right next to the bakery and across the way from the pub and primary school. It was only one story, and rather crooked with a thatched roof and shutters. There were two rooms and an attic.

Dad would take Petunia's old room, they had worked out, and Lily would take his and Mum's. It was easier that way; less memories. Less familiarity.

"'hate parallel parking," Dad muttered to himself.

Lily tapped her fingers against the dashboard. She chewed her nails with the other hand. A bad habit.

Her room was larger than Petunia's had been; pale blue walls, a queen-sized bed with a mirror mounted above it, her mother's vanity, and the dresser she and Dad had shared. Everything had been stripped of personality. Where before there had been paisley patterned bedding, there was now a bare mattress. And there, in the corner, there had been a shelf of books and pictures. Now it was empty.

Lily's belongings — what little of them there were — sat on the floor. Two boxes, her Hogwarts trunk, and six stacks of books that went as high as her waist. She sighed, stripping off her jacket and shoes, and set to work.

It was hard. Not because the task itself was difficult, but rather because her hands were shaking and her knees felt so weak. She was bare; stripped down to the lowest level of herself and put up for display like some ugly trophy.

Her mother was dead. Mum, who baked cookies twice a week and passed out candies at the primary. Mum, who had braided her hair every morning until Lily was eleven. It was her Mum, who drove the village children to and fro, and made soups and casseroles for sick families. Mum, who had loved her. Who would never blame her.

And yet Lily blamed herself. Why was that? Why did she feel the constant need to crush herself down into something worthless?

A knock on her door startled her out of her revere. Dad stepped in, awkwardly. He looked so thin and frail. His hair was only a wisp of what it had once been, and the lines on his face seemed deeper; more pronounced.

"Love," he greeted, watching her stack her records atop the dresser. He would only look at her, she knew. Nothing else in the room. "I could cook us up some supper, if you'd like...?"

Lily paused her frantic sorting. She gently set her crate of sleeves down and turned to her Dad, whom had just lost his wife and was now offering to make supper, rather than mourn in silence. Rather than cry for her, as he had done these last few days whilst Petunia rushed around planning the funeral as though it were a wedding.

"Ms. Baker brought round bangers and mash," she said. "I can heat those up. You should rest."

Indeed, he should have. But he didn't. "I'll make it," he told her. And then he was gone. Lily huffed lightly and sat down on the end of her bed. God, it wasn't even her bed. It shouldn't have been. She felt selfish, now, for taking it. Dad would be sleeping on some dingy twin sized metal trap whilst she had this... Which smelt faintly of lilac perfume.

James watched the cigarette fall. It went from his fingers to the grounds below, now naught but ash. He stared at it for a moment, unsure, and then leaned back against the windowpane. Today was a good day, it would seem; the sun was high and shining, the gardens were newly hedged, and the sky was utterly cloudless.

But James Potter was all alone. Sirius was at his parents house, Remus likewise, and Peter had gone back to his mum's the day before. Which left James Potter completely, unequivocally alone. Alone with his thoughts.

He had concluded long ago that this was the worst sort of alone a person could be; when your mind ran unrestrained and there was nothing to distract you from the truth. And the truth was that James Potter was afraid.

Afraid, he supposed, of this war. This inevitable war which aimed to wipe out an entire subculture. This war which not only targeted muggle-borne but muggles on the whole, and half-bloods, and Purebloods as well, in a different sense. Innocent people. Good people. They were all dying left and right.

He had to do something, he knew. Not for glory or recognition but because standing up to Voldemort (and he refused to call him that uncouth pseudonym You-Know-Who) was right. It was what had to be done. And the D.M.L.E. was not doing anything. They weren't fighting. James hated it. He hated that there were people out there who supported Voldemort's notions. He hated that the Pureblood supremacists were funding him. God, couldn't the D.M.L.E. work with Gringotts to figure out who was providing him with the means for his campaign? Was it that hard?

James sighed. He slipped off of the edge of his window seat and crossed his room — which was rather large and scattered with mess, but when you had a room so big, the mess always seemed smaller. James had forbidden the house elves from cleaning it, much to their dismay.

He lit up again, taking in a long drag. As he smoked, he sorted through the piles of clothes and books and papers as his mother had instructed him — or rather, ordered — to do. The discarded items were so old he found parchment slips from third year.

When he was done, he made his way down to the study, meaning to seek out that Transfiguration volume he had found in the library the other day. James had skimmed over it earlier, discovering such complexities of which he had not even discovered yet — much to his dismay.

And yet on the way he was stopped, for there in the foyer were his mother and father, along with a rather stumped, deformed wizard he knew to be Alastor Moody. But that was not all; here were Dorcas's parents, and Dorcas herself. And... Was that Arthur Weasley?

James descended the stairs the rest of the way. "Good evening," he greeted, uncertain. Especially given the fact that they had all spotted him and were, frankly, staring.

"James," Mum said, a fixed smile on her face. "I thought you would be at Remus's..."

James was quite amused with the hidden sheer terror in her voice. He grinned, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leaning against a pillar. "Didn't feel like going," he lied moderately.

Dorcas greeted him. James greeted her, in turn, putting on a formal facade which would, hopefully, deter their parents attention elsewhere. Indeed, soon enough all of the rest of them were talking amongst themselves, leaving James and Dorcas off to the side.

"What are they all doing in my house, Dorky?"

Dorcas punched his shoulder, which did not hurt given she was only five foot and light as a feather. Her fluffy black hair had been pulled back into some braided updo. He towered over her, which amused him, given that for the first three years of their Hogwarts career she had teased him about being so short. She had stopped growing that year.

Oh, how he loved karma.

"Mum and Dad wanted to meet with your folks about some sort of financial contract. Arthur is here, I think, because of something about muggles..." She bit her dark lip. "Everyone knows your parents mean to make a stand against You-Know-Who, so he came here."

"And Moody?"

"Oh, I have no idea about him," Dorky shrugged. "God knows he keeps to himself."

"And they all just happened to show up on the same day," James observed. "A day when I wasn't even supposed to be here." He kicked off of the wall. "Come on, I'll show you around." He paused. "You've never been here before, have you?"

Dorky shook her head. "Not since I was four, which I don't remember, so I don't reckon it counts."

"No," James agreed. He led her around, showing her the library, the study, the spare rooms, the kitchens, the dining hall and the sitting rooms, the tea room, the lunch room, the sun porch...

Dorcas made constant noises of surprise and proclamations of envy. "My house is only two stories, and half of the rooms are boarded up," she said quietly. "I mean, there are places in my own home I've never even been."

"Maybe it's for the best," James said. "The Meadowes used to be a dark family, didn't they?"

Dorky sighed. "Yeah, unfortunately," she shrugged. "So, how are things with your mates?"

"Dork, it's only been three weeks—"

"Yes, but you're the Marauders, James," she grinned, "crazy shit happens round you in three seconds, not to mention three weeks."

James could not help but smile, but even then it felt slightly forced. God, he'd been thinking too much. Far too much about too many things. All of those petty pranks he'd pulled; all of the defenceless students he'd hexed — all to show off his proficiency with a wand. He was no better than Bloody Voldemort.

"I've not heard from Sirius," he found himself saying, "but that's no surprise; usually things are quiet in the summer. Because of his family, you know." They were now in the kitchens. James sat down next to Dorky on a stool at the counter. "As far as Remus goes, we decided it would be better if he stayed here. He's coming this weekend."

"And Peter?" Dorcas grabbed a muffin.

"Fine. Says things have been quite boring. He'll be staying over as well." James took the proffered bit of muffin. "What about your mates?"

Dorky chewed. "Marlene got a car," she said after a moment. "Felicity says she's been reading, as usual. She sent me book recommendations." Dorky shook her head, though she was smiling. "Ingrid's been quite silent, but she usually only sends letters once a month. Never has the time, she says, but I just think she's lazy."

James nodded, smirking. Ingrid did indeed have a tendency to be rather sluggish and unmotivated even during the school year. James couldn't imagine what she must be like in summer. He wiped the crumbs from his hands. "And Lily?"

Dorky's eyes softened, but they held a certain steel. "Oh, James..."

"I'm just asking!" He said hotly. "God, she does exist you know. It's not like I can just... Just ignore her!"

"I'm not asking you to," she said. "I... To tell the truth, I haven't heard from her, either. I'm getting a bit worried. I mean, Lily loves writing letters. In second year she would write all sorts of little missives to us because... Well, because she's a softie."

"But you've written to her?"

"Oh, yeah," Dorky nodded. "A week ago. I'm going to ask my parents if I can go see her tomorrow."

James bit into his cheek, but it did nothing to stop what came out of his mouth. "I could go with you," he said.

Dorcas raised her eyebrows. "No," she said. "No, for two reasons. One: you don't even know where she lives, and two: she hates you."

James's heart sank. "She does? Did she say that?"

"She didn't have to," Dorcas grumbled. Then she paused, contemplating her words. "Do you know what, James? Suddenly, I'm really not sure if she does hate you. I mean, she rants about being pissed off at you all the time, and she tore up the dorm in her anger, and you and she fight all the fucking time—"

"Alright, I get it."

She hated him. And he fancied her. Quite a lot, actually. Maybe she knew that, and maybe she didn't. Well, he'd asked her out at the end of last year... That was sort of a giveaway. But even so, James would not mention it ever again.

He'd made a reslove, that day. No more hexing unless causes were warranted, and no more thinking about Lily Evans. The first, because seeing the look on so many faces around him after reading Sniv— no, Snape — had jolted him into the unfriendly reality that he was a bully. A foolish bully who had a bigger fight to concern himself with; the fight for what was right. And how was he meant to fight for such a cause when everything he did was wrong?

And the latter, of course, was because thinking about Lily Evans always made him sad, these days.

Alice Melifula sat next to her cousin and across from her father, stirring her soup with a gloved hand. They were all quiet, today, for whatever reason. Alice resisted the urge to roll her eyes at their dramatic, half-hidden glares and shottily concealed whispers.

It had been going on like this since she came home from Hogwarts. Araminta had even hexed her, once, but that had ceased for whatever reason.

Now Alice had had enough. She scowled and dropped her spoon, which appalled her mother, and looked between all of them. "What in the hell is going on with you lot?!"

"Language, Alison!" hissed her mother, at the same time as her father said, "Your watch your mouth, girl!"

She really did roll her eyes, then. "Fine," she said, mustering her dignity. She straightened her back and adjusted her lap napkin. "I was merely curious. Forgive me."

The words hurt to say. They were hard to form. She hated having to talk like this, in a place that should have been relaxed and comforting. Instead it was cold and harsh. She hated coming here. She hated that her mother had insisted upon it.

Andreah cleared her throat, looking to father for permission to speak. He nodded, shortly, and tucked into his meal once again. "Your father has killed a muggle," she said. Just like that. As though it were an every day, normal occurrence. Like there had been nothing to it at all. Like it wasn't even... Like...

And that was when Alice Melifula realised that she and Sirius Black had a lot more in common than she had previously assumed.

In her state of shock, she could not stop Andreah from chattering on about it. "He went muggle-baiting with that young Lucuis Malfoy and a few others," she said, casually. "They killed her in — Cokeworth, did you say, dear?"

"Indeed." Jerold sipped.

That was it. That was the ball, dropping and crushing the God-damned toe. "Excuse me," she said, rising from the table which housed a murderer and two brainwashed women. "I am not hungry."

Jerold looked up mildly. "Does the talk of murder frighten you? Aren't you supposed to be brave?"

He was mocking her, the son of a bitch (and Grandmother Willma truly was a bitch). He was mocking all Gryffindors. Alice stood there for a moment, shrunken and defeated, her palpitating heart pounding in her ears and her hands shaking with both rage and fear.

Oh, but being frightened was no good! It never was! Where was this going to get her?

Nowhere, she realised. And so Alice ran, like the skittish bird she was, up the stairs and to her room where she locked the door with the most secure charm she could think of. With a wand. Because she was seventeen. And had no obligation to be here.

Alice sucked in a breath. She then proceeded to tear of this silken, beaded dress her mother had forced her into and threw it onto the floor. That left her in her bra and panties. Shivering, she rummaged through her Hogwarts trunk and withdrew some borrowed clothes from Lily. A muggle tee and jeans. She pulled them on, frantically, and did her best to pack her things.

It was a quick process, during which she had not one but two panic attacks. She panted and dropped stacks of books, hands shaking as she stuffed scraps of parchment into her trunk. Just pack. Just go. Just go... Go where?

Oh God. She paused, right there in the middle of her room, which was part of the house her father, the murderer, owned. Oh God. Oh God. Oh, what the hell do I do?!

She clawed at her heart, hyperventilating. Shaking. Trembling. All of those horrible words were all she did for five straight minutes. She could not think or speak or breathe. Oh, God, she was going to die here, wasn't she?

No. She would not. Going against her own fear was a hard thing, but it was a thing that was necessary in that moment, because she could not let it take her. She could not surrender to the things that had made her artificial and pathetic.

She spotted the letter on the writing desk. And innocent thing, it was. But also it was a ray of light. A beaming smile.

Frank.

Oh.

Duh.

She lunged for it, looking frantically for the address. Oh, this was so bloody pointless! How was she meant to get past her parents? They would find her; trace the last transport and fetch her like it had been nothing... Like murder was fine and running away was part of a fucking fad...

She could wait. She could wait. She would wait. Yes. Folding the letter up and shoving it into her back pocket, address burned into the back of her mind, she dragged her hands through her hair. It was long and a rusty brown and curled loosely. Her mother had made her wear a special clip tonight. Her fingers got stuck against it, but thinking it to be a knot she pressed on.

When she drew her hands back, she discovered one slit from mid-palm to just past her wrist.

Well, fuck.

In her right mind she might have healed it. In her right mind she would not have stood there, rather dumbly, staring at the wound that looked so like the other scars all over her body. Little thin white scars which she herself had made.

Frustrated, Alice ripped the clip out of her hair and threw it at a wall. It shattered the forgotten mirror, sending shards of glass flying.

Father murdered a muggle, she thought, stepping closer as though in a trance. An innocent muggle... She picked up a bit of the mirror and stared at her reflection. She dug her fingers into the edges, watching beads of blood surface. I deserve this. I deserve this pain. I... I'm the daughter of a monster. Who says I won't be one, too? Who says I'm not already a monster? I'm nothing, to him. Expendable. Maybe he'll kill me next. Maybe I won't give him the satisfaction.

Her breathing was shallow as the glass dug into her porcelain white skin and split it into two halves. She traced it over an old, small scar. It stung. It hurt. Had it hurt when her father murdered that muggle? Had they suffered?

Oh well. It didn't matter. She would suffer for them.

No, no, wait... This was not right. She wasn't supposed to be doing this. Frank will be so disappointed, she thought, sobbing. No. I'm not supposed to...

She buried her face in her bloody hands. "Frank," she whispered, curling up into herself. Oh, how she hated all of this. How she hated her weak mother. How she hated her crazy father and bitch cousin. How she loved Frank, so very much...

She thought of him. She thought of his strong jaw, his bright blue eyes and sand-coloured hair. She thought of his arms wrapped around her and his lips pressed against her own. No, Frank would not want this. He would only worry.

Sniffing, she crawled over to her wand, ignoring the sharp pains she received from the bits of glass now imbedded in her skin. She healed her wounds slowly, wand hovering over her arms. Even though they closed, the blood remained. Smeared over her skin and soaked into Lily's shirt.

She sat there, shaking, for hours. No one came for her. Father murdered a muggle. And no one cared! No one... No one... There — God, it hadn't even been in the Prophet! Wasn't that something worth noting?! That a wizard had murdered an innocent muggle?!

Bad stock, Augusta Longbottom had once said.

Bad stock, indeed.

After there were no more sounds from outside her door, she grabbed her trunk and dragged it out of her room, levitating it beside her as she descended the stairwell. There was the fireplace. Oh, thank God for it.

Alice threw in a handful of Floo powder, shouted "Longbottom Manor!" And then was gone.

Sirius Black was shoved into a wall.

It hurt, that. Grunting, he rubbed his shoulder. "Did you have to?" demanded he. "Wench?" he added, because it seemed to fit.

His mother hissed, spittle flying out from between her thin lips. "You... You lay with a Mudblood?!"

Sirius wanted to laugh. He did not, though, because Regulus was standing right behind their mother with emotionless eyes. Gathering his courage, he righted himself. "Oh, yeah, that," he said casually, as though it were Tuesday's weather, "I did."

"And you admit it freely!" Mother raged, flicking her wand again. Sirius was once again thrown into a wall. He winced. "You worthless shit!"

Sirius blinked, a bit dazed from the impact his head had experienced. "You're bat-shit crazy!" He growled.

Big mistake.

"Crucio!"

All at once the pain washed over him. It was everywhere; his head, his chest, his legs, his arms... A fire which flowed through his veins, licking at his lungs, tendrils of flame coiling around his heart. He bit down to keep from screaming, and yet it just kept getting worse. On and on it went, for minutes...

And then it was gone. Just like that. Sirius sucked in a breath. He realised suddenly that he was on the floor, curled up into a ball. Still his body stung and ached. His throat was raw.

He coughed, managing to push himself up. His mother stood over him with her wand in her hand, a mad gleam in her grey eyes and a sick smile on her face. Even then, mad as she was, she was beautiful. Like all of the Blacks.

But Sirius was not a Black. He had never truly been a Black. And this woman was not his mother. And Regulus had not been a brother for years. That honour belonged to another.

Sirius drew himself up. And then, towering over Walburga Black, he spat in her face.

Her eyes widened. For a moment she seemed surprised. Slowly she stepped away, grabbing Regulus by the collar. "You are a disgrace to this family, Sirius," she was raging, dragging Regulus... Toward the sitting room.

Where the family tapestry hung.

Sirius swallowed down his pain, pushing away the protests of his body, and stumbled after her. He did not get there in time, unfortunately. Just as he was rounding the corner, there was a loud banging noise.

"You blasted me off the tree?" Sirius demanded, looking between his mother and Regulus.

Walburga laughed. "You were never part of this family, anyway!"

"Fine," he hissed, nearly sagging against the wall. "Fuck you, you bitch."

And then he ran — as fast as he could without crying out. This, unfortunately, was not very fast at all and resulted in him nearly falling onto his bed in a heap. He managed to lock his door with a quick flick of his wand.

And then he was packing; shoving this and that into his trunk, not truly paying attention through his daze. When he had grabbed all that he could carry, he paused, panting from the exertion. Normally, he would have been fine by now. Damn that woman...

Sirius grabbed the handle of his trunk and hauled it out of his room, leaving it behind forever.

His mother accosted him in the hall; shaking him and slapping him, screaming at him to desist. Who the hell used desist in a sentence anymore, wondered Sirius madly? He managed to throw her off of him. Then the front door was open, and it was raining outside. Heavy, hard rain which slapped against the pavement and froze the air.

"Go, then," Walburga hissed. "Die out there."

She retreated back into the depths of the house, leaving Sirius standing on the front steps of the house with Regulus not six feet away.

"Where will you go?" asked his brother, sounding almost uncertain of his own question.

Sirius felt as though the breath had been stolen from his lungs. In the back of his mind, he could picture Regulus at four years old, clinging to his pant leg with those wide grey eyes and a lopsided grin on his tiny, chubby face.

Tears blurred his vision now. His baby brother was gone; replaced by a young man who did not seem to feel anything at all. Disproving that was Regulus now, who was also crying.

"My brother's," Sirius said.

The door closed behind him with a slam. Sirius rested against it for a moment, out of breath. Water poured down upon his face; it was almost pleasant, given that he felt so fucking hot.

It all came to him in that moment, standing in the rain. He was no longer a Black. His mother had disowned him. And he, being Sirius and without a surname, Marauder extraordinaire and animagus, of course knew how to apparate.

Within seconds he was at the Potter manor, on his knees. His trunk lay on its side next to him. Sirius fell into the mud and wept. He sobbed for the family that he had lost and never had. He cried for his brother, and he cried because he hurt so, so very much.

James found him there. He grabbed Sirius by the arm and hauled him to his feet, eyebrows knotted together in confusion. "Padfoot? What the hell—?" But he could not finish, for Sirius had already pulled James into the fiercest of embraces.

"They threw me out," Sirius whispered, horrified by all of it. "Prongs, I..."

James pulled back. "You can stay here," he said firmly, eyes alight with that familiar intensity which meant no protests and no doubts. It meant that what he was what would be. He would do whatever it took to achieve it.

James grabbed the trunk and Sirius followed him up the dark path to the manor.

AN: So, there you have the end of Chapter 1. Keep in mind that I only have the one chapter written. If the reception is positive then I'll absolutely write more. But I really only have a vague idea as to where the story is headed. Updates will be once a week until I can achieve solidarity, at which point they might increase. But I doubt that.

AN 2: I plan to keep as far away from the cliche Marauder Era norms - not that there's anything wrong with those. It's just that, having read stories including them so many times, I worry they'll be overused. But no spoilers!

AN 3: Happy September 1st, everyone!