Chapter 2: The Self-Preservation
What is the state of things, you might ask? The headlines will tell you.
Mysterious disappearances: two, both muggleborn; low-ranking members of the Ministry. Damage to public works: one small bridge, one medium tunnel—muggles without explanation. Muggle body count: higher than anyone wishes to discuss. Political climate: chilly, with a hint of disturbing calm.
"I can't believe we're being split up into separate corners of the castle," Peter grumbled. He had fallen in step with James and Sirius' evenly patterned gait, comfortably shrugging on their signature nonchalance as though he was privy to it by proximity.
"We managed just fine last year," James reminded him, bounding ahead on the stairs. "I'd say we maintained an appropriate level of shenanigans even with Remus tucked away in the Prefect dorms."
"I like to think we're above shenanigans at this point," Sirius corrected him lazily. "I imagine we've reached an age where we've graduated to hijinks."
"Well, you all can call it whatever you like," Remus said quietly, his arm brushing pointedly against Sirius' shoulder as he trotted up the stairs behind James, "but I'll just call it 'continuing to live my life,' I think."
"Still," Peter insisted, dragging a bit in their wake. "Three different dorms this year?"
"You still have Padfoot," James suggested cheerily, pausing to toss Peter a look of unapologetic smugness. He knew perfectly well that Sirius spent fewer nights in Gryffindor Tower than would reasonably be expected from a person who lived there—but being the one who didn't have to worry about such things, it was an easy jab to make.
"Right," Peter grumbled, flashing him an irritated glare.
"What was the official reason Dumbledore gave for having Prefect dorms, again?" Sirius asked smoothly, taking a long stride to reach his arm over Remus' shoulder. "Something about the greater good?"
"Dumbledore felt that it would be more beneficial for the Prefects to live near each other in the event of a castle-wide emergency," Remus recited blankly, though he leaned comfortably into Sirius' grip. He'd grown accustomed to the teasing; so much so that it wasn't even fun anymore.
Not as fun, anyway.
"Are you sure it wasn't just that the werewolf needs his privacy?" James asked, feigning innocence.
"Doesn't sound familiar," Remus replied, unfazed. James let out a low chuckle.
"Silly me," he conceded. "I must be misinformed."
"I'm surprised you're not more chatty, Prongs," Sirius remarked obnoxiously, gifting him a classically taunting smirk. "You've just been granted a whole year living alone with Evans and you've not got a thing to say?"
"He's given up on her," Remus supplied, his tired eyes sparkling momentarily. "Remember?"
"You joke, but I'm completely serious about that," James retorted stubbornly, stifling a groan. "I no longer possess any lingering interest in Evans." Abruptly, he paused his lengthy strides, raising a finger as they all came to a sudden halt behind him. "There," he announced crisply, staring off into nothing. "I've just forgotten her name."
"Good for you, Prongs," Sirius said spiritedly, draping his free arm across James' shoulders and nudging him forward. "Finally developed a fucking sense of self-preservation, have you?"
"His ego can only take so much abuse," Peter added, latching onto the joke. James grimaced.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," he sniffed, scolding Peter in his schooled, aristocratic way. "By all means, carry on."
"What will we possibly deride you for, Prongs, if not your unrequited love for Evans?" Sirius prompted, pursing his lips in mock thought. "Surely not your vanity… or your undying prattishness…"
"His hair," Remus interrupted in his quiet way. "Surely not his perfect hair."
Sirius coquettishly let his eyes widen, aghast. "I would never—"
"You're all dickheads," James proclaimed, cutting him off sharply with a haughty shrug.
"As are you," Sirius quipped steadily, pointedly side-stepping a pretty fifth year who was gazing up at him in awe.
"Ah, but I'm Head Dickhead," James reminded him, smirking in utter triumph. "And as we've now arrived at my luxurious Head Dickhead accommodations, it is with little to no regret that I leave you low-achieving peons behind."
"My Lord," Sirius offered grandly, inclining his head in a stunningly irreverent bow.
James permitted his best friend a momentary, fleeting scowl before turning haughtily to the portrait on his right. It was a Botticelli-esque Venus who was blinking vacuously at him, her free hand beckoning.
"Um," he ventured, and he pivoted at a chuckle behind him.
"You don't know the password," Remus guessed, fighting a smile.
"The height of luxury indeed," Sirius supplied gravely.
"Shut it," James snapped wearily, eyeing the Venus. "I—um. I wasn't told—"
"Password?" she crooned unhelpfully, sweeping her long hair out of her eyes as the soft breeze that seemed to live within the portrait displaced a handful of strands.
"Er," James said hesitantly, fighting to ignore the growing evidence of poorly stifled laughter behind him. "I—"
Suddenly, the portrait swung open, prompting all four of them to leap back in alarm.
"Is there a purpose to you loitering in the hallway?" Lily prompted, hands primly set on her hips as she glanced up at the Venus, who was gazing rather adoringly at James. "Oh please, for heaven's sake—"
"What's the password, Evans?" James sniffed, squaring his shoulders and swallowing his feelings of inexpressible dismay as his closest friends continued to torment him with their ongoing presence.
"It's—" She stopped, glaring at the three who stood behind him. "It's none of your business, of course," she informed them, folding her arms over her chest.
"Lils," Sirius drawled, stepping forward and placing both hands on her shoulders. "Lily. Evans. My porcelain darling, my cherished light—"
"Get to the point, Black—"
"My point, cherub," Sirius drawled, "and I'll thank you for not rushing me—is that we're going to know the password anyway." At her exasperated sigh, he winked. "So, all things considered, you might as well make it easier for everyone involved."
"Can we at least pretend that James has managed to arrive at Head Boy by some reasonable assertion of merit? Or even carry the farce a step further and presume he might be capable of following the rules?" Lily scoffed. "Can we try that, maybe, as a fun experiment for the day?"
"Hardly sounds fun in the slightest, sweets," Sirius remarked, "but if you're feeling ambitious—"
She made an incoherent sound of strangled frustration. "Fine," she barked, glowering at James as though this were somehow his fault. "It's Sanare Pura."
"The potion?" James echoed, brow raised. "Nerdy choice, Evans."
"I didn't choose it!" she snapped. "And if you'd bothered to pay attention to Professor McGonagall's instructions—"
"What, and deny myself the dulcet tones of your incessant scolding?" James returned, scowling. "Why bother, when I can be treated like a child twice?"
"If you don't want to be treated like a child, then don't behave like one," Lily sniffed, knocking into him as she swept into the hall, waltzing away. "Try not to cause too much destruction, would you? I've only just gotten everything arranged."
"Where are you going?" James shouted after her, incalculably furious with her for her preposterous lack of interest, or else her intolerable sashaying. "We'll have to do rounds, you know—"
"Remembered you have responsibilities then, have you?" she retorted, pausing only to glare at him. "Congratulations, Potter."
She turned the corner without a second glance.
"So," Remus ventured carefully, after several moments of silence had passed. "When's the wedding?"
"She's hopeless," James replied tightly, gritting his teeth. "A girl's got to be more than just attractive, you know."
"Ah, fiery temper not doing it for you, Lord Potter?" Sirius drawled, leaning against the open portrait hole. "You prefer your women meek and mild?"
James groaned. "I never said—"
"Prongs is just hurt she never allows him the last word," Peter cut in snottily, and James rolled his eyes.
"That's enough from you," he determined crossly, glaring at all three of them. "I used to be soft on her, okay? Before I figured out she was a bossy, arrogant swot." He grimaced, biting the inside of his cheek at the reminder of her insufferable Evans-ness. "She's impossible."
"Impossible to get?" Sirius prompted innocently.
"Impossible to live with!" James retorted, tousling his hair with a frustrated sigh and glancing up at the Venus, who was now fluttering her eyelashes lasciviously at him. "At this point, I think I'd rather move down to the shack."
"Nice as it is, I think a monthly visit there is more than sufficient," Remus replied briskly, never especially fond of the times James' tendency towards the dramatic allowed inapt comparisons between their vastly different situations. "Besides," he added, gesturing forward with his chin. "I think you might want to give this another chance."
James turned stiffly over his shoulder, finally glancing inside the portrait's entrance to gain a full view of what would be his new quarters.
"Oh," he managed, and Remus nodded smugly; I told you so.
The interior of the so-called Head dorm was a vast, split-level common room, complete with high vaulted ceilings and grand, ornate pillars that provided the open space a sense of inarguable stateliness, even against the whimsy of the enchanted stars that glittered above. Presumably because he and Lily were both Gryffindors, the common room was decked out in a bewitching crimson, the plush, inviting seating area featuring a rich, crushed velvet that was only superior to the Gryffindor common room in that it was almost entirely his. Grandiose mahogany furniture that accounted for a private library and study area were featured to his right, a massive, roaring fire to his left, and straight ahead there was a gleaming, elaborate pair of curving staircases that accented the center of the room. Overall it was a stunning exercise in symmetry that left James, who was not entirely unaccustomed to the extravagance of excess wealth, breathless and dwarfed by its opulence.
"Fucking 'oh' is right," Sirius agreed, stepping out behind him and allowing the portrait to fall shut. "Prince Potter indeed."
"Nevermind the shack," James announced. "I'll make do."
"You certainly will," Remus agreed, and Peter darted around them, falling forward into the many pillows of a particularly overstuffed armchair.
"'Sanare Pura,' was it, Prongs?" Peter muttered, his voice muffled into the excess material. "Just going to tuck that in the old memory bank." He burrowed himself in deeper, sighing in satisfaction. "No reason, obviously—"
"This is not a free-for-all," James scolded him, walking over to toss a spare pillow against his back. "This is my room."
"And Lily's," Sirius added, detestably chipper at the reminder. "It would almost be perfect, then, if she didn't find you to be… oh, you know." He shrugged. "A complete and utter prat."
"Ah yes, do go on," James muttered, flashing him a look. "By all means, continue—"
"Alright," Sirius agreed. "Where was I? Ah yes," he determined, beginning to enumerate on his fingers, "a complete and utter prat, naturally, check that off the list—oh, and a failure as a leader, check. Ah, a general disappointment as a human being, check—"
"Don't forget she doesn't seem to care for his carefully curated image," Remus contributed solemnly.
"Right, check plus to that," Sirius agreed firmly, nodding his gratitude at the reminder. "Strangely, she seems immune to his hair—"
"Message received!" James barked, folding his arms over and aiming another half-hearted smack against Peter's back with a particularly firm pillow. "Get out now, would you?"
"Honestly, a few hours as Head Boy and he loses all sense of hospitality," Sirius muttered loudly to Remus, who chuckled a little, letting a stray hand linger to the loop of Sirius' trousers.
"Well, if it's all the same to you, I would like to have some time before bed," Remus said carefully, his eyes straying meaningfully to Sirius.
James, who was rather familiar with Remus' proclivity for secrecy, said nothing at the implication, though he aimed a rather fervent jab into Peter's ribs.
"You heard him," he grunted, and Peter groaned.
"You're so selfish, James Potter," he muttered brusquely, struggling to his feet.
"And yet I make it look so good," James remarked, nudging him.
It took several more prodding minutes for the three of them to traipse out of the room, but in the blissful peace of their absence James was finally reminded the unrivaled privileges of solitude. It had been ages since he'd really been alone; he wouldn't trade Sirius' presence in his home for anything, of course, but he was an only child—an adored one, at that—and sharing had never come naturally to him.
James opted for the right-hand staircase and took the steps quickly, two at a time. The first door he reached was ajar, revealing a spacious bedroom that contained his already-deposited trunk, a comfortably sized bed with a crisp, ivory duvet, a comprehensible wardrobe, a small bookcase, and a rather fanciful antique writing desk. Everything he would need, in short, for a year as a student, and one that had finally been permitted the blessing of personal space.
He stepped back out onto the landing to glance at a door on the right, pulling it open with a wary sensation of dread to confirm that he and Lily would indeed be sharing a bathroom. Not the greatest of circumstances, he thought grimly, though one glance at the common room below reminded him that he had no compelling reason to complain.
Gratitude, he reminded himself, returning to his room and falling backwards against the softness of the bedding. Don't be difficult.
He'd come so far, after all. Head Boy without being named Prefect? Practically unheard of. Actually unheard of, as far as he knew, and he might have thought it an odd joke of Dumbledore's if not for the very real effort that had been expended to get there. He'd managed to pull it together, grades and attitude and behavior; and why?
No reason, he thought, his eyes traveling to the wall he shared with his conspicuously absent dorm mate.
It had been a matter of hours and yet she'd hastened into his arms; not that Severus minded. He'd certainly faced enough trials in his life to know that having to hold her wasn't one.
"Lily," he murmured against her lips, taking hold of her hands as she shoved him gracelessly against the wall. "Lily, slow down—"
"I can't," she retorted, pouting. Her laughing green eyes were darkened with mischief and misbehavior. "I only have a few minutes."
Severus was not a man given to smiles—or to pleasure, really, considering his lack of familiarity with the concept—but he could feel the tight corners of his lips slipping now. She'd always lured it out of him—happiness; or whatever it was, as that seemed unnecessarily poetic—and he felt the tug in his chest, the unrelenting pull of her loveliness. He thanked whatever deity would listen for the night she'd turned around.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not interested."
"I'm sorry!"
"Save your breath. I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here."
"I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you mudblood, it just—"
"Slipped out? It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—you see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you? I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."
"No—listen, I didn't mean—"
"—to call me mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?"
"Lily—Wait!"
Now, in the relief of his present, Severus gently brushed the long auburn hair out of her eyes, bowing in worship to whoever might be listening that she had turned around.
"What, Severus? What can you possibly say?"
"I can't say anything. I can't."
"Then what—"
"Just let me show you. Please. Let me show you it was a mistake."
"Severus."
"You're a better person than I am, Lily—you always have been. Don't give up on me yet, and I'll show you. I promise to show you."
She hadn't wanted to forgive him, and yet that was her way. Seeing the good in others. In him.
She couldn't help her better nature.
It hadn't happened immediately—and it certainly hadn't happened that night—but still, it had happened. It happened, and surely it was only because she'd turned around. He held her closer, gripped her tighter, just thinking about how things might have been if she hadn't; what little they might have amounted to if she'd kept walking, and they'd fallen apart. So much of their relationship was rooted in gratitude, he thought; his gratitude, specifically. He was grateful for her, for her merciful warmth and her unrivaled kindness; for every perfect inch of her, and every blessed particle of her soul.
"What are you thinking about?" she whispered, running her thumb across his lower lip to drag him back to the present. "You're giving me that look again."
He shifted, glancing down at her. "What look?"
"This one." She mimicked him with an exaggeratedly broody glance, lips pursed with her eyes slightly narrowed, and it took everything he had not to laugh outright at the absurdity. "You know. Your angsty, Severus-y, lost-in-contemplation look."
"I didn't realize it had a name," he remarked, giving her a wry smirk as he took her hand, relishing in the softness of her touch.
"Foolish of you," she replied, and tilted her face up for a kiss that he willingly gave her, her chin gripped possessively in his hand.
"I promise to show you."
She'd turned around that night, and the momentary pull, the knowledge that she hadn't quite stopped listening (which, surely, must have frustrated her as equally as it motivated him) had given him hope. Almost losing her had given him the ferocious kick he'd desperately needed; after all, he wasn't particularly given to excess displays of emotion, and could surely have gone a matter of years never disclosing to her what he'd kept in the inner chambers of his heart.
Severus had discovered early on that emotions were crippling, but to his immense fortune (and at times, mighty disappointment), he'd only ever had them for her.
If Severus hadn't been the type to have emotions, he certainly wasn't the type to have friends, either. If the problem was his friends, he'd thought, then so be it. He withdrew from them—from what she'd called his Death Eater friends—and kept to himself. He bided his time, waiting. He'd never had a use for friends anyway; didn't know what to do with them. He figured he was the type more likely to have associates, really. Colleagues, even, or peers. The one friend he did have was enough, particularly considering she was so easily adaptable to other roles—confidant. Companion. Lover.
It permitted him the luxury of only ever loving once. Loving fully, certainly, but loving rather singularly. An exhaustive kind of love.
Exhausting—but fulfilling, too.
It had happened the first time the way first times usually do. Just tripping and falling into the unfamiliar and finding with a stunning, soaring relief that it was right. That he was right.
She was kind, yes, and warm, but stubborn too, and so it hadn't been immediate. Luckily—and truly, it must have been luck—she was equally stubborn in her kindness. It wasn't in her nature to deny second chances (or third, or fourth, or whatever he'd worked himself up to in this, the only arena he seemed to repeatedly fail) but still, for months they'd been separate. She'd been wary of him, and he didn't blame her, knowing as he did that it was his turn to prove something; his worth, or at the very least, his loyalty. The fulfillment of his promise to her.
For months they were separate, and he was patient. He had slipped easily into solitude; it had been a habit before Lily and surely would be without her. He would wait, he told himself. He could afford to wait.
And then it was summer.
The July night had been sticky and still, Severus' mind foggy and burdened. He and his mother had always struggled to coexist; a space could only stand to contain so much misery.
His melancholy had always gravitated toward hers. The thicket of trees; of course she had been there.
"This is my spot, Severus."
He hadn't known whether to laugh or cry.
"No it's not," he'd said wearily. "It's ours."
She had been quiet that day, uncharacteristically so, and thoughtful. Perhaps she was burdened as well; home was not the easy place it had once been for her, and he knew it. She knew he knew it, had once known all of her most intimate and fearful thoughts, and perhaps that was why she could manage to forgive. Maybe that's why she said what she said.
"I didn't mean for you to alienate yourself. I didn't mean for you to be alone."
She'd seemed sad, and he'd shrugged.
"If that's what it takes."
She was not a person who was easily swayed, never easily convinced.
"It's not just about who you're friends with. It's more than that, Sev, it's—it's—"
He nearly lost himself in the unutterable battle of her hesitation.
"I know."
"You don't."
"Don't I?"
He was extraordinarily intelligent, after all. It was his mind that got him into trouble, and his irrepressible need to invent abhorrent things that had first begun to drive her away. He hadn't needed her to spell out for him the many ways he had been so unequivocally wrong.
She'd shifted under his gaze.
"It's harder than it looks, Severus."
"What is?"
He'd asked, but he had some guesses.
He'd thought, initially, she might have meant her birth; might have been referencing it as a means by which to remind him how he'd failed her with his mindless (and therefore careless) slip. He presumed that she might have meant the way people always underestimated her; the way she had to work twice as hard to earn the honors she had—to be patted on the head and told she was a brilliant witch, a gifted one—all while being constantly subjected to the unspoken qualification: a brilliant witch, a gifted one—
For a muggleborn.
But he knew Lily Evans; knew her quite thoroughly, in fact, and his second thought was that perhaps she had meant the way her sister, the closest friend she'd had on earth aside from him, had all but turned on her. Perhaps she'd meant the difficulty of living with the knowledge that wizarding society was loath to accept her, coupled with the understanding that she'd already gone much too far to be a muggle. She'd always straddled both worlds, and she made it look easy, but Severus knew it was not.
He thought that's what she'd meant, and perhaps, in a sense, it was; though it hadn't been what she'd eventually confessed.
"It's harder than it looks, Severus."
"What is?"
"Being away from you."
If it had been Severus—well, if it had been Severus, he wouldn't have had the nerve to say it at all, so that point was largely moot. But if he had, if it had it been he who'd had the courage to be honest, surely he'd have kept his eyes on the ground, paralyzed by his insecurity, by his fear, by his lifetime of knowledge that vulnerability had only ever brought hardship. But she was not that way. Lily Evans knew no fear and so she stared at him, her green eyes fixed on his, unabashed with her truth.
He'd bowed in worship to whoever might be listening that she had turned around.
It wasn't so hard to close the gap between them after that, and her sigh against his lips had rendered him helpless, speechless, and whole. It was a matter of seeking comfort. Perhaps it always had been, because surely he had never known comfort like this—like the feeling of home in the hollow of her arms or the deafening quake of her gasp in his ear.
He had recognized the white flag and jumped.
It was easy during the summer, of course. Alone, in their own world, it was idyllic and enchanting. It was the business of fitting back into each other's lives that had been… difficult, to say the least.
Sure, Severus might have argued that he had his own set of demands—his own appearances to maintain—but they had both understood implicitly that it was he who was bad for her. She wanted to think herself above such things, but he knew she thrived on adoration, on the knowledge that she was accepted by her peers the way she had never been by her sister, and the way she couldn't be with Severus Snape—poorly dressed, poorly fed, wholly inadequate—lingering in her life. She would never admit as much, and he would never accuse her, but even knowing what went unspoken between us, he was more than happy to fade into secrecy, so long as he could still have her. So long as she was his, he would allow James Potter his showboating, allow Sirius Black his broody appeal (which wasn't fooling anyone, of course, and Severus least of all) so long as she still sought comfort in his arms. He would endure the taunts if it meant that at the end of this—this era of juvenile oppression and forcible containment—he might have her for his own.
For always.
"What are you thinking about?" Lily asked again, her eyes still closed as he pulled away.
"You," he said honestly, and she smiled.
"I only have a few more minutes, Sev," she sighed, leaning into his chest and glancing down at her watch. "Less than that, even—"
"It's okay," he assured her, confident in the only thing he knew to be true. "We have plenty of time."
a/n: Thank you to oblivionbaby for loving this fic enough to help me with the edits!
