Provisionally Yours

by snapslikethis

Lily Evans discovers she's been married off to James Potter without her knowledge. She and the spoiled count (in whom she appears to have finally met her match) have three days, for better or worse, to decide whether to accept the contract. With her sister adamant to make her life miserable, and a husband who seems equally determined to repel her, what else can possibly go wrong?

4. Selective realities

"Nice dress," Mary said, tearing her gaze from her stitching to frown at Lily.

This cozy little room, with bolts of luxurious fabrics fighting for purchase against every wall, tables overflowing with trimmings, and a half-dozen forms supporting dresses in various states of finish, served as the dress-maker's quarters. Here, Mary spent the majority of her waking hours earning her keep.

Mary tugged the dress she'd been altering off her work table and motioned for her to sit. Lily hopped up on the table's edge, letting her legs swing freely, and found herself at a loss for words—she'd been so relieved to get away from Potter that she'd neglected to sort a strategy for enlisting Mary's help.

Lily eyed Mary's current assignment. "I could say the same for you. Didn't you finish that last month?"

"I did indeed," Mary said through a barely concealed smile. "It's too tight."

"No—"

"Yes. The excuse, of course, is that I made the bodice too small… I don't dare contradict her—"

"Of course not."

"So I've got to let all these seams out."

"While I'm sorry for your extra labor, Mare, that's—"

"Hilarious, I know, which is why I shared. But never mind me, Lily Evans, how did the consumma—?"

---

"Do not, upon pain of my fist in your stomach, finish that sentence, Padfoot."

"Why are you here, Prongs?"

"I need your help."

"No," Sirius said flatly, returning his attention to his novel.

James clenched his fist in an effort to keep from snatching it from his friend's grasp and chucking it into the fire. Time to change tack, then.

"Mischief, Padfoot," he tempted. "Mayhem."

Sirius lowered his book infinitesimally and peered at James. "Proceed."

---

"Why?" Mary asked, after Lily had outlined the general idea. "Is this some sort of sexual thing?"

"No," Lily lied. "It's about honor!"

Mary eyed her skeptically, pressed her lips together, and returned to her stitching.

---

"Don't you dare invoke Marauder honor, Prongs."

"I'm desperate."

Sirius gave James a look of utmost revulsion. "Yes, and it's distasteful."

---

"Which vase do you intend to target?" Mary asked.

"The one in the drawing room."

"On the mantle? That horrid thing from the walrus?"

"The very one."

Mary cringed, no doubt reliving the long, hellish days preceding Marge's last visit, when Petunia had forced them to polish it—and all the other finery—until their arms nearly fell off.

"If it makes a difference," Lily offered, "I'll let you be the one to smash it to pieces."

With a hearty laugh, Mary set down her work. "I'm in."

---

"Vases don't catch fire." Sirius shrugged. "Pass."

"You can set something else on fire," James promised.

Sirius perked, a hound that had just found a scent.

---

Lily had always possessed a knack for knowing precisely how far she could push without being expulsed from the premises—the threat of eviction had, until this point, kept her in line. Not well, mind, but well enough: though she might've set tapestries on fire, she'd never burned the manor to the ground.

How wonderful it was to be freed from such pesky restrictions.

She was out, gone in two days' time, and it was in this spirit that she poured her many frustrations into crafting a perfect, foolproof, destructive plan. And it was bloody brilliant, although certain bits would admittedly be difficult to execute. One such bit—their first phase—fell to Mary. Mary was less than pleased about it.

"Are you sure we aren't crossing a line here?" Mary asked for the fourth time as Lily finished braiding her hair.

"We are," Lily assured her. "Several."

"And is that wise?"

"Wise—no. Necessary? Yes."

"If you're going to quote that 'enemies and allies' nonsense, save your breath," Mary said, reaching behind her to elbow Lily's hip.

"Don't be cross with me just because you're nervous."

Mary might have been better suited for their first task, that didn't make the prospect any less daunting. Lily couldn't bring herself to begrudge Mary her nervousness. And so, when Mary asked with uncharacteristic timidity if Lily was certain this was the only way, Lily patted her shoulder and said, "Yes, love. It has to be her."

"And how do we know they aren't acting as we speak?"

"Potter's an opportunist," Lily reasoned, "and we have the logistical advantage. He'll wait."

"If you say so."

Lily knew so—she'd been making a study of him, after all. She considered it prudent to not mention as much and invite doubt. Or worse, a series of Mary's probing questions.

"Our first phase is simple, Mare, but everything hinges upon your flawless execution." She cast a meaningful glance at her co-conspirator. "Just—lie in wait until they're in place before making your move. And don't forget—"

"We've been over this four times. I understand the plan. I'm just—not keen on the particulars."

"You'll do wonderfully."

Mary sighed and squared her shoulders. "I'd better, haven't I?"

With a nod, Lily pointed to the door. "Now go, no more procrastinating."

Mary said in a singsong, "Just remember, Lily…"

"All my plans turn to shit, I know. Now out." Lily shoved her toward the door.

"I do love you when you're bossy."

"I know you do."

Mary suddenly spun to face her. "I'll wager Potter fancies it, too, yes?"

Lily offered a rude hand gesture, to which Mary blew a kiss in response. She straightened her dress one final time, and, with a cheerful wink, headed out the door.

---

"Explain again, Prongs, why we don't just go and nab it?"

James looked up from the map, running an absent-minded hand through his hair. "She's got limitless connections, Padfoot, and about a dozen ways to smuggle it out undetected."

Sirius crossed his arms. "All right, then what will their move be?"

"Tawdry Tortoise, knowing her."

"And do you?"

James shrugged. Though Sirius eyed him critically, he didn't press the point. This was James's mission, after all, and they mutually understood Sirius's investment in a successful outcome was minimal. In fact, the potential for failure surely enticed Sirius as much as the potential for mayhem.

"So," Sirius mused, "say they do the Tawdry Tortoise."

James nodded.

"They'll wait for eyes on them before moving?"

"They will."

"Right. Then we find out where, and adapt from there?"

"Exactly, which gives you enough time to arrange a Squeaking Squirrel."

Sirius tapped his chin, thoughtful. "Stable boy or page?"

"Either," James said. Sirius picked up the map, and was halfway to the door when James changed his mind. "No—stable boy. They'll be less attached to the girls, maybe—"

"—and easier to buy off, yes. And our target?"

James held up his second finger: Mary. They'd long ago learned the importance of nonverbal communication. Thwart eavesdroppers, and all that.

Sirius frowned at the map. "This is accurate?"

"The one she gave me isn't," James said. "I nicked the proper one from her pocket on my way out the door."

Sirius gave an approving chuckle, then pulled his watch out. James chided himself—he'd nearly forgotten about synchronizing their watches. When he reached into his pocket, however, he came up empty.

Damn her.

---

Anxious for something to do in Mary's absence, Lily's turned over Potter's timepiece over in her hand.

Letting him snatch the proper map had been the decent thing to do, given that she'd handed him an incomplete draft to begin with. And while his pickpocket skills were impressive, her smaller hands had allowed her to rifle through his pockets undetected.

A fine watch it was—gold, heavy, unquestionably more valuable than anything she'd ever possessed. He had a bloody stag intricately engraved on the cover. Not odd by itself, except that someone had carved a crude pair of glasses over it, rendering the entire effect ridiculous. Curiosity got the better of her, and she pried the back cover off.

On a plate covering the clockworks, she found an inscription: "Prongs, to replace the one we ruined." No signature, but the "we" undoubtedly referred to his mates.

She'd have to ask him about the whole business later.

After she'd finished indulging in her victory, of course.

---

James frowned at the diagram he'd spent the last half hour sketching, and tweaked it slightly. Satisfied, finally, he became absorbed in his many lists, scrawling occasional coded notes as he saw fit. Too soon, he heaved a heavy sigh and threw his quill down.

No point plotting further until Padfoot returned.

He had forty-five minutes left, if the damned clock was accurate—which he fucking doubted. Another sigh. James settled into his chair, determined to wait it out.

---

Thirty minutes had elapsed since Mary's departure, and thirty remained until Lily expected her return.

She did not in any respect doubt Mary's ability, but there were too many factors outside Mary's direct control for Lily to properly relax. And this, Phase One, was supposed to be the easy part.

Lily's temperament was ill-suited for sitting idly, for waiting. For fretting.

Desperate to occupy herself, she pulled Petunia's gown onto her lap and picked up where Mary had left off.

---

Patience had never been his strong suit, was the thing, and another was the watch. Not just the watch, mind. Only she knew he'd taken the map. She had therefore let him take the map. And if she'd done that much, what else did she have in store for him?

Sirius slammed the door open, interrupting James's reverie. He was fifteen minutes early.

"That woman of yours is a right fucking piece of work, Prongs!"

"What happened?" he asked. "Stable boy prove incorruptible?"

"Settled for half price, mate. His services weren't required."

A dozen scenarios flitted through James's mind, none pleasant. He rose to his feet.

"I visited Mum's rooms for cover," Sirius continued, "while I waited for him to tail her and report back. Thought I'd test the waters, you know, see how much trouble you were in."

"And?"

Sirius sliced a grim hand across his neck. "Choppy, mate. She's dead furious—"

"Not Mum, Padfoot. What happened with Evans?"

---

Mary arrived on schedule at half two with a vase tucked under one arm, and a small basket in the other. Lily set down the dress—what was left of it, anyway—and assisted her with the door.

"Who's the mark?" she asked, removing the vase from Mary's grasp.

"That fool, Stebbins."

"And who do we have tailing Stebbins?"

"Davies."

Lily beamed. "Excellent. And your timing?"

"Impeccable," Mary said. But she'd hesitated. Only a slight hesitation, yes, but it was enough to stutter Lily's heart.

She looked sharply at her companion. "Mary?"

"Hm?" Mary deftly avoided meeting Lily's gaze by cleaning the vase rim with her sleeve.

"Out with it."

After a pause, Mary said quickly, as if doing so might prevent Lily from hearing: "Mr.-Black-was-there."

"Where?"

Mary sighed heavily. "In the room, when the delivery was made."

---

"So I'm at Mum's, and who walks in but Mary—"

"No. She didn't."

"Oh yes, she did," Sirius said, scowling. "She strolled in carrying a hideous vase overstuffed with fresh flowers. She said Lily knew rhododendrons were Mum's favorite, and sent them with love."

"Clever." Light-headed, James needed to sit. He needed a bloody cup of tea. "You didn't try to take it, did you?"

Sirius shook his head vehemently. "Self-preservation kicked in, mate. I took my leave, bid them both a lovely afternoon, and ran."

James nodded. He'd have done the same.

Sirius slapped his shoulder, then rang the bell for tea.

---

Lily stood, overworking her lower lip, contemplating this development.

"Well, that's brilliant," she said finally, offering Mary a broad, encouraging smile. "We couldn't have planned it better, really. That'll give us—"

"—more time on the back end, yes." Mary looked visibly relieved. "But it was a deviation, and I know how you feel about those…"

---

He expected deviations, so it wasn't that.

James sank heavily into his chair, and Sirius mirrored the movement in his own. They sat in silence, sipping their tea, each pondering this horrible twist.

Only—this was unprecedented. He'd underestimated Evans. Low blow, using a bloke's mother like that.

"What in the hell are we going to do, Prongs?" Sirius asked, when only dredges remained.

Padfoot was fully invested now—outwitting their mother, or attempting to, was something of a personal quest for him. Even that proved only a minor comfort to James, given the Herculean task before them.

"No chance we can go overt?" James said weakly.

"It's Mum, Prongs! She knows our tricks. And she saw me eyeing the vase, I know it."

"Damn it." James upended the ottoman with his toe. It merely toppled over with a pathetic sort of muffled thump. Fitting. "That devious little—"

"I know. Impressive, though."

"Not the point, Padfoot."

"I did ask if she had afternoon plans—"

"Of course not," James said, "she'd have retired for the afternoon."

Sirius voiced what they were both thinking: "We are completely fucked."

---

"They are completely fucked." Lily found it impossible to keep the glee from her voice, and why should she? It was only Mary, after all.

"It is a master stroke," Mary said.

"It should occupy them for a few hours, at least."

"And in the meantime?"

Lily picked up the stack of papers she'd started on. "We plot."

"Oh!" Mary set the basket on the table between them. "Minerva sends her love."

Lily understood 'love' to mean 'food' and was not disappointed. "You know," she said, between mouthfuls of warm muffin, "this is my third consecutive afternoon plotting."

Mary patted her shoulder. "Exhausting work, being a deviant, isn't it?"

"You've no idea," Lily said cheerfully, then helped herself to another bite.

---

"I can't go see her," James said.

"Obviously. She's furious with you, as I said, and suspicious to boot."

James had figured as much. "Dad?"

Sirius shook his head regretfully. "Hunting until dinner."

"Shit."

---

Lily inspected the detailed illustration they'd made of the third floor.

"Best as I can figure, Mary, there are three ways into that room."

"Agreed."

"We've got to make their moves difficult, and we've got to ensure their exits are covered."

---

"What are you thinking?" Sirius asked.

They sprawled over their armchairs, staring at the ceiling.

"Palpitant Pigmy," James said half-heartedly. Sirius made no reply, which was answer enough. "Then what are you thinking?"

"Bastardly Badger."

James scoffed. "Where'd we get those supplies on such short notice?"

"Felicitous Flamingo?"

"We'd need Wormy here."

"Right. Fallacious Flamingo, then."

"We'd need Moony for that, and we can't manufacture an eclipse in four hours."

James looked at the clock. Three hours, twenty-two minutes.

Damn it.

Sirius hurled a biscuit at him. "Stop moping at that sodding clock, Prongs, and let's figure this out."

---

"Do you think they're still despairing?" Mary wondered idly.

"I certainly hope so," Lily said. "Either way, we'd better implement our second phase before they make their move."

"Lil, you have to go see her."

"Do I really, though?"

"Can you think of a better diversion?"

"No."

"Then there's no other way—"

"—around it. I know."

This was another nasty bit, and for unique reasons—every unique reason—it fell upon Lily. She and Mary watched each other for a long moment.

"She might murder you," Mary said.

Lily couldn't determine if she was jesting, or warning her—perhaps it was a mixture of the two.

"She's too close to getting rid of me for her to risk murder now, Mare." She feigned a light, airy, tone; Mary's look was entirely too kindly for her to believe she'd pulled it off.

"At least he's out hunting for the day…"

"Yes," Lily said darkly, "which means you might run into him in the garden, so be careful, yes?"

"I will. And you appeal to her sensibilities."

"I shall. And you remember the—"

"—schedule. I know."

Lily let her reminders drop.

She gave the room one last look-around—their false plans lay in plain sight, and the decoy vase lay half concealed beneath a stack of fabric. Satisfied, she and Mary made their exit, then headed in opposite directions.

---

"A Deflective Duck could give you enough time, Prongs."

"No. A Denudate Duck, conversely, when paired with the Palpitant Pigmy, might just do the trick."

"Fine." Sirius threw his hands in the air. "But I'm not running point."

James gaped at Sirius in disbelief. He'd fully anticipated Sirius running point, and the arse bloody well knew it. Sirius crossed his arms. This or nothing, then.

"You'd damn well better ensure the rope is secure this time," James said. "We don't want a repeat of—"

Sirius leveled his best shit-eating grin, the one he'd learned from James. "That only happened once, and I apologized and everything."

James made no answer—they didn't have time for the same old argument.

"Let's get to work, mate," Sirius said." We'll have to start now if we've any hope of finishing before five."

---

"—not to mention the impertinence, Lily! How dare you come here and ask me, after ruining half of my dining room, and after that dress, and after stealing my—"

It had been a damned miracle that Petunia had entertained a private audience with her, but she had. Lily had lost no time in asking for her favor. And now, her sister's response was going, well, exactly as she'd anticipated.

"Never mind, sister, dear. So sorry to have bothered you."

Lily stood and gave Petunia a hasty curtsy before stomping toward the door.

She shouldn't have given up this easy, but James Potter winning was less important than enduring this nonsense for another hour.

"Lily, wait."

Lily should have opened the door, stepped through, and maybe slammed it shut behind her for good measure. She should have, but instead she turned back around and faced her sister. She always turned back around, didn't she?

"What do you even want them for?" Petunia asked wearily.

"Marital bonding."

"And if I don't let you have them? Will you take them anyway?"

"No," Lily lied. Her permission wasn't necessary, but it would save time. "But I'm here for two more days, Petunia, and a lot can happen in two more days."

"So you intend to continue this rampage of destruction?"

Lily smiled sweetly. "I'll destroy a lot less if you give me what I'm asking for."

"Blackmail doesn't become you," Petunia said, her cheeks staining crimson.

Rich, coming from her, wasn't it?

"You owe me, Petunia. This is the least you could do."

Petunia rose from her chair, squaring off against Lily, even though they were on opposite sides of the room. "I owe you. I owe you? After I've provided you with a bed for two years—"

"A lumpy bed, you mean, and for two miserable years."

"—and bent over backwards to provide you with a good home—"

"You got rid of me, is what you did, Petunia, no better than kicking me out, which you're about to do anyway if I don't go with them. Not to mention holding my best friend as coercion—"

"You leaving is no less than what we both want, and you know it."

"Whatever you console yourself with so you can sleep at night."

Again, Lily turned to leave, and again, Petunia called her back.

"You want all of them?"

Damn her.

"You can blame Potter, Petunia, and then they'll be off your hands. Just like I'll soon be. And then you can decorate your goddamn mantles however you please."

Petunia reminded Lily very much of their mother in the way she pressed her palms together, deep in thought.

What would their mother think, if she could her daughters now? She'd have bawled them both out for being ridiculous, and she would have forced them to stitch an embroidery sampler together—an activity they both loathed—until she was satisfied they could work together peacefully again.

If she'd have lived, things never would've deteriorated to this point…

"You can take the damn things," Petunia said at last. "Consider it a wedding present."

Lily stared for a moment, mouth agape, disbelieving that it had actually worked. Lily nodded, and decided to leave—for real, this time—before Petunia changed her mind. She had her fingers wrapped around the handle when her sister spoke again, so quietly that Lily nearly missed it.

"I'm pregnant, Lily."

Lily turned on the spot, an unbidden smile forming on her face. After so many attempts, Petunia was going to have a child—she'd yearned for this for so long—Lily was going to be an aunt—

"Congrat—" But the well-wishes died on her lips. As Lily studied the deep lines of her sister's frown, and the protective way her hands wrapped around her stomach…it all became startlingly clear.

"Oh," Lily said, taking a step backward. Her hand groped behind her for the door, or the wall—something, anything, to steady herself. "I see."

"It never would have worked, Lily," Petunia said, almost pleading, although she wouldn't meet Lily's now horrified gaze. "It's for the best, isn't it?"

Lily didn't answer. There was nothing she could say, nothing to say—at least, nothing short of the string of expletives she longed to hurl at her deluded, traitorous, good-for-nothing witch of a sister—

"I've lost two already," Petunia said, "you know that, and it's so—you're so— I need rest, and quiet…"

"Don't, Petunia. Just, don't—"

"And, well, you can't pretend that you want to be here, can you?"

For once, her sister offered the complete, unvarnished truth.

But in all the times Lily had envisioned finally hearing it, it had never felt like this.

"You're right," Lily said. "I don't want to be here at all."

She turned to leave, and this time, Petunia did not stop her.

---

"So, St—" James stopped, frowning at the boy on their threshold.

"Stebbins, sir," Stebbins said.

"Right. So, Stebbins. Where did they go, and what did they do?"

"Miss Evans—" Stebbins faltered at Sirius's head shake and corrected course. "I mean, target one was in the, erm, her sister's room, and then she came right back. I couldn't overhear what they said. And target Mary, I mean two, went out to the garden."

"The garden?"

"Yes."

James had seen her out in the garden, with Stebbins's friend trailing too closely behind to be anything like discrete. For the price they were paying, though, James couldn't complain.

"—and then she went to the kitchens."

"And?" Sirius asked, when Stebbins stopped talking.

"Well," Stebbins said, his eyes fixed on James. "Andrews isn't allowed in the kitchen, see, on account of something that happened last year. It wasn't even his fault, but Miss McGonagall won't budge, and by the time he found me, you see, she—Miss Mary—was gone, and—"

"You lost her?" Sirius said, folding his arms across his chest. "What you're saying is you lost her."

"Yes."

Fucking dammit. Pete was the best tail of all of them, but Pete wasn't here, so no sense in wasting time being pissy about it.

"Can I still have my money?"

"No," Sirius said, as James said, "Half."

James paid the boy, patted his shoulder a bit rougher than necessary, and then sent him on his bloody way.

---

"You're seven minutes late," Lily said, far more severely than she'd intended. She'd returned early, after all, and had been stewing for some time. "Sorry," she said quickly, though she didn't look up from her diagram. Were she to look up, Mary would pinpoint her misery in four seconds flat. "I'm,"—she searched for a believable excuse—"still recovering."

"Understandable, though I'm glad to see you've survived." Mary tilted her head. "Unless she murdered you, and you're an apparition?"

"Decidedly not."

Lily frowned at her papers, her frustration simmering to a slow boil, and threatening to spill over. Life as a spirit would be decidedly less complicated than this, wouldn't it? Were she to voice this, however, Mary would point out that Lily's current stressors were largely her undoing.

She hated when Mary was right.

"Grhmp," Mary said as she peeled off her many-layered costume. "I've no idea how the kitchen staff manages in these."

"Your packages were delivered?"

"Yes, without deviations. Except—Minerva was rather tetchy with me…"

"The cart?"

"Mhm."

The gravity of the situation dawned, and Lily finally tore her attention from the parchment. "How tetchy was she, Mary?"

"She refused to send biscuits, in order to, and I'm quoting here, 'impart upon you the immense depths of her displeasure.' She made me practice that line until I had it memorized."

"Nothing at all? Not even a crumb?"

Mary shook her head regretfully.

"Tragic." And it was—she'd been counting on those to sustain her through supper.

"Never mind that," Mary said, shoving aside the paper to hop up on the table. "You succeeded! However did you manage?"

Lily had practiced this, the lie she was going to tell Mary—the easiest version of the truth.

"I told her she could blame Potter, and I held my tongue during her highly unpleasant tirade."

"And how did you manage that?"

"I spent most of it imagining the look on Potter's face when he realizes we bested him."

Mary nudged Lily with her knee. "And you're certain this isn't a sexual th—" she teased, and stopped at Lily's murderous gaze. "Right. Changing topics… She must really despise the lot of them, yes?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Absolutely," Mary said. "Now: out with it. What's really bothering you? You're positively glum."

Lily worried her lip, stopped—it was going to chap, if she wasn't careful—and settled for tugging on the end of her plait. She's rehearsed this, too. "They didn't raid the room, Mary. They didn't even try."

"Oh, good." Mary brightened. "I thought it was something serious."

Lily didn't return her grin.

"And why does this distress you, dear?"

"Isn't it obvious?" When Mary's blank stare intimated that it was not at all obvious, Lily explained, "If they didn't try, they aren't worried. If they aren't worried, then they have a strong, solid plan for getting into that room."

"Damn."

"Exactly."

"So, you've been staring at the diagram since I came in. What's their move?"

Lily had been staring at the diagram without absorbing any of it, but that didn't matter. Mary was back, and she'd figured out Potter's plan, and this madness would serve as a welcome distraction for the next several hours.

"The window. He'll go in through the window."

"That's mad, though—they'd have to climb down from the library."

"Precisely. The only option dramatic enough to appeal to Potter's idiotic sensibilities."

"How will they divert her attention?"

James Potter, grinning and holding a match aloft between his thumb and forefinger, sprang the forefront of her mind.

"The tapestry, just down the hall."

---

James reluctantly handed over his matches to Sirius. Two of them, anyway—he'd do well to keep one as a safeguard.

"How long will that give me?"

Sirius tapped his chin, mentally calculating the length of time the diversion would buy. "Ninety."

"I'll only need sixty."

---

"The deviants," Mary gasped. And to her credit, she sounded genuinely scandalized.

"Yes," Lily agreed, though the prospect secretly thrilled her.

"Could we attempt a Black Sam?"

"Those are my father's books, Mary, so no…but could we manage a Charles Vane?"

"We have morals, Lily."

"Oh, all right." Lily turned Potter's timepiece over in her pocket. "What about a Jolly Roger?" Mary cringed, yet Lily was undeterred. "Well, why not? Davies could suffice, although where we'd find a net on such short notice…"

"Lily…"

"You don't think it'd work?"

"Well… It could, if we used mice…"

"Excellent. Davies could suffice, yes?"

"Lily."

"We're short on time, Mare. Save your moral objections until later, yeah?"

"It's not that…"

She ought to ask what Mary meant, but she wasn't interested in the answer, whatever it was. Now that they'd decided upon a proper course of action, her mind was occupied sorting strategy.

"I'll be back shortly," Lily said. "I think Meadows has a net." And she hurried out the door before Mary could raise a reasonable objection.

---

James pulled the rope taut, inspecting Sirius's handiwork. The knots were serviceable, sure. The length, on the other hand…

"What the hell is this, Black?"

"Sixteen feet of triple knotted rope, you arse," Sirius said. "Three feet longer than what's required, to assuage your baseless fears, so you're fucking welcome."

"Sixteen feet would be adequate, Padfoot, were I were only climbing one level. However, if you'd have paid any attention, I'm climbing two," James said, careful to speak slowly. Maximum condescension, and all that.

"You neglected to mention that, Prongs."

"I noted it right there." James waved a parchment in Sirius's face. "Honestly, mate, what is the bloody point of my lists if you don't bother reading them?"

Sirius snatched it from James's hand. "Where?"

James turned it sideways.

Sirius squinted. "Shit."

"We'll have to compensate, is all," James said. He headed to the door to Sirius's room, intent on stripping the bed. Sirius, guessing as much, impeded his path.

"Those sheets are my only consolation in this hellhole."

"So?"

"You can't have them."

"What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Swing and jump?"

James scratched his neck. "Too risky—four floors up as it is."

"Hell, Prongs, I was joking. Fuck you for forcing me to be the voice of reason here. It's not too late to run Deflective Duck."

"No!" James enjoyed risk, sure. But Deflective Duck? A dead man's wish. "I'll go fetch my own bloody sheets, then."

---

She crashed—literally crashed—into Potter as they rounded the same corner on the second floor.

Of course, she was knocked off her feet while his glasses hadn't even been knocked askew. She waited for him to move, perhaps extend a helping hand. However, he merely stood, unmoving, staring down at her as if she'd sprouted snakes from her head. Perhaps he was angry about the watch? With a grunt of frustration, Lily hauled herself to her feet.

"Mister Potter," she said, all crisp and businesslike.

"Evans." A curt nod, nothing more.

"Nice sheets."

"Nice net."

His jaw in that moment proved her bloody undoing, because it popped, or tensed—something. And that, along with the hair, and those exposed forearms, and that quirked eyebrow proved altogether more than she could handle.

Lily threw her net to the ground and fairly well charged him.

He was much too tall, even on her tiptoes, yet her hands found purchase on his collar and tugged him down. Her lips made short work of finding his.

Last night, she'd been unsure of how much had been the alcohol, versus the thrill of infuriating everyone that had made snogging him so fantastic, versus him.

Now she knew.

It was him. All him. Ten thousand percent him. And his hair, and his arms, wrapped around her, and his bloody fantastic lips.

That same feeling thrummed in her veins—landing the jump of a too-far stepping stone. Victory.

It was short lived, though, because he pulled away—too soon, much too soon. Like a desperate loon, she tried to pull him back down, but he rose to his full height and out of her reach. She ordered her eyes to open. When they obeyed, reluctantly, she found that he was glaring down at her.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

Muddled, she couldn't work out whether he meant it as an honest question, or an accusation. He hadn't let her go—his hands still braced her hips. And his sheets, along with her net, lay discarded at their feet.

Your jaw, Potter. That's what. Since she couldn't very well say that, she lied.

"Footsteps," she breathed.

A pitiful lie, yes, but the best she could muster given his breath, hot and uneven on her temple.

He laughed—his entire body reverberated with it, shaking her—and his scowl morphed into a grin. That deviant, dangerous smirk. Something like triumph gleamed in his eyes, and she couldn't force herself to look away. Her lungs burned for want of oxygen. It should have been a cause for concern, this not breathing business, yet she was quite distracted with this otherbusiness of James backing her toward the nearest wall, step by torturous step.

He stopped only when she was firmly pressed against it, his hips tucked snuggly against hers.

She had time enough to register the small smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and that his eyelashes were positively criminal, before they bumped noses and his mouth was on hers.

He'd been holding back, hadn't he? Because this was hard—punishing. Fantastic.

Was every kiss going to eclipse the last? Lily was hyper-aware of his stubble scraping her cheek, and his thumb slowly outlining the curve of her hip. How had it felt like they'd done this a hundred times before—as if they'd always been doing it? As if they could go on doing it indefinitely?

She could've missed the bloody stepping stone and drowned. And wouldn't have minded, if he went down with her.

The sodding clock chimed, bringing her to her senses. She pulled away.

They stood for a moment, inches apart, chests heaving, Lily gazing determinedly at his shoulder. He moved his hand from her hip and splayed it flat against the wall. His heart thump-thump-thumped beneath her hand.

"What was that for?" she asked, voice hoarser than she remembered giving it permission for.

"Footsteps," he breathed.

She risked a glance: His glasses were knocked askew, nearly clean off his face. His eyes were bright, and alert. Alive. Precisely how she felt. Not any kind of owl—just James.

"You're mad." She reached up and straightened his glasses.

He laughed, low and throaty, and she repressed a shudder. "You know, Evans. I reckon you're right."

"I should go."

He kissed her twice more—short, plucking strawberries off the vine—before taking a large step back. She managed a small, shaky step, praying that she wouldn't fall and give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd made her weak-kneed. As quickly as her legs would allow, she gathered her net and rounded the corner.

She was halfway down the corridor when he called after her.

"Evans?"

She turned on her heel, surprised to find him standing only a few feet away. He'd backtracked, to catch up to her.

He leveled that grin, and her legs weakened all over again. "See you in the library, yeah?"

She volleyed back a grin of her own and gave him a mock salute with her free hand. "Looking forward to it, Potter."

---

Upon his belated return, that bloody green handkerchief fell out of his sheets and tumbled onto the ground. James had deflected Sirius's questions by going on the offensive. Namely, criticizing the shit knots he'd made on the ladder. Now, as he added length to said ladder, Sirius had launched his counter-offensive. Namely, picking apart every element of James's plan, even the bits they'd settled hours before.

"You're cert the best diversion is that tapestry, Prongs?"

"Yep," James answered.

Evans was a bloody fantastic snog, he'd give her that much. She was a bloody fantastic shrew, too.

"But—"

"Change it, then, if you can find something better."

And she'd fairly well launched herself at him, hadn't she?

"And where will they intercept, d'you think? The hall?"

Not that he'd minded—he'd been four seconds short of doing the same.

"No," James said. "The library."

"How do you know?"

James reckoned he'd be content never eat a scone again, so long as he could taste them second-hand from her.

"Trust me, mate. They'll be there."

Sirius grew silent, bored of the offensive since James refused to engage. James worked in silence until he finished the knot. He looked up just in time to see Sirius flip the map upside down.

"What if we ran a reverse Deflective Duck?" Sirius asked.

James was feeling—rattled. Buoyant. Stark-raving. He had his watch back, his wife was a fantastic snog, and he was going to trounce her to pieces in less than forty-three minutes.

"That could work."

Footsteps, his arse.

---

"You're seven minutes late," Mary parroted.

"Oh." Lily winced. "Sorry."

More like ten minutes late, all because she was a deviant. An impulsive, reckless deviant incapable of keeping her hands to herself. The rub was she couldn't regret it, any of it, because, well—James Potter was a fantastic kisser. A fool and a black-haired menace, yes, but damn…

"What kept you?" Mary asked.

"I ran into—erm—I got waylaid."

Mary eyed her critically; Lily willed herself to remain calm. She'd straightened her dress and fixed her hair as best as she could manage without a mirror. Mary's smirk told her it hadn't been good enough.

Lily reached up and patted her head. Shit—the handkerchief wasn't there anymore.

"I see you've managed to get the net," Mary said blithely.

Lily nodded, grateful she hadn't pressed the point, and busied herself with the net.

"Yes," she said. "She accepted the bribe, and gave me a scone to boot."

James had taken the watch from her pocket—fair. Had that been his only motivation, though? Because it would be criminal, really, for him to snog that well and not mean it.

"Lily…"

"Hm?"

"Are you all right?"

Lily snapped her head up, feeling herself turn crimson. "Quite," she said. "Now help me, please. We've got to get in position before they set up."

Footsteps? What had she been thinking?

---

He thumbed the watch in his pocket, pulled it out, and popped it open. Five forty-five, exactly. The next quarter hour would sort things, then. Though for better or worse, he couldn't say.

James counted backwards from five hundred.

He danced a waltz he'd been forced to learn when he was six—the replacement vase attached to his back didn't slip. Tricky work it'd been, securing it tightly enough for the climb down, yet with a knot that could be loosed and secured again in less than ten seconds. Though they'd managed, the effort had cost them dearly for time.

Four hundred twelve.

He smirked at the library doors. He'd secured them using her own bloody trick—fireplace poker through the handles. Foul play, but he couldn't risk her interfering with his rope.

Not that she would knowingly send him plunging to his death. Over the marriage thing, or the piano, sure. Even over his stunt with the wall, maybe, but not the damn vase.

He triple checked them, just in case.

Three hundred twenty-five.

James unlatched the library window. Tentatively, he poked his head out and into the crisp summer evening. He scanned up, down, and to the left.

All clear.

Three hundred.

He tugged on the rope, testing it—again. He'd secured it to a support pillar, and quadruple checked those knots. He'd adjusted the length until it was perfect: short enough that it wouldn't be visible from the kitchen windows a floor below, yet long enough that he wouldn't have to, as Padfoot had said, "swing and jump." Hopefully.

Two hundred ninety.

James checked the knots again.

Two hundred fifty.

Sirius's head appeared one story down and six rooms over. After a curt nod, he disappeared. James braced his arms on either side of the window frame and heaved himself out, so that he was perched on the sill.

Two hundred twenty-five.

Fear is normal, Potter. Perfectly rational, given your traumatic history with this sort of thing. If you weren't terrified out of your bleeding fucking mind, ten seconds from pissing yourself, that would be cause for concern…

Two hundred.

You-are-not-going-to-die-you-are-not-going-to-die-you-are-not-going-to-die-you-are-not-going-to-die-you-are-not-going-to-die-you-are-going-to-die-you-are-definitely-going-to-fucking-die

James pushed one foot off the ledge, checked once again that the rope would hold, and started the climb down.

One hundred seventy-five.

Deflective Duck sounded pretty reasonable 'bout now.

One twenty-five.

Shit-shit-shit-shit-damn-buggering-fuck-shit-hell-damn-son-of-a-mothering-cock—

Seventy-five.

James adjusted his trajectory so the rope didn't dangle in front of his mother's windows, stopping once when he'd cleared them completely.

Fifty.

He climbed up two torturous knot lengths, high enough that he could look in through the window. All clear.

Twenty-five.

He pulled the window open. Thank hell he'd had had the foresight to undo the latch during his visit the day before.

One.

James landed on the carpet with an indelicate thud. He'd never been more grateful for a hideous paisley carpet.

---

According to her spies, the boys had left their room twenty minutes prior. And from her vantage point, she'd watched Potter slip into the library with a ridiculous vase tied to his back.

One floor up, Mary was in position with the butter and—she shuddered—the mice.

Stebbins and Davies held the East Wing. A failsafe, in case her plan turned to shit.

---

The stench of burning fabric irritated James's nostrils.

Minor guilt pricked, at giving the servants more work, but that tapestry was no one's loss. It had been necessary, anyway, letting Sirius light things on fire. And it had made an excellent diversion.

He untied the stand-in from his back, swept the room for the vase, and froze.

Because he'd been a fool, hadn't he, to think he could outwit them?

He was knee deep in a puddle of horse piss.

---

She was ankle deep in a heaping, steaming pile of manure, because she'd expected Potter, yet it had been Mary who'd just come bursting down the hall.

Which meant Mary was not in position to watch the service lift.

"Mary, what are you doing here?" she said.

"It doesn't matter, Lily."

"What? Why not?

"Because— I tried to tell you earlier…" Mary said, then she burst into tears and Lily couldn't get another word out of her.

---

Eighty seconds left.

Four nearly identical and equally hideous gold and white vases stood sentinel throughout the room. He had no idea which was genuine. Either Dursley collected the fucking things, or none of these were real, or—

Damn it.

Seventy.

C'mon, Potter. Think.

He dismissed the rhododendrons and the lilies out of hand, which left purple columbines and sunflowers.

There was something poetic about the columbines, wasn't there? The meaning was plain. James took two steps toward the vase when another image popped unbidden into his brain—her paintings in the tower.

Sunflowers.

Sixty.

Fitting too? Right? Depended on what he thought of her. Or, more importantly, what she thought of him. Was this another bleeding test?

Fifty.

Fuck. He changed trajectory—the sunflowers. A risk, sure. One he was willing to take.

Thirteen seconds to make the switch, taking great care not to spill the water.

The doorknob rattled. Unacceptable, as he had thirty seconds to spare, and Sirius had yet to give the warning. His father walked in, then froze in the doorway. James, who had one foot out the window, likewise stopped in his tracks. They observed each other warily.

"Son," his father said, brushing a weary hand over his face. James recognized the gesture as his own.

James nodded curtly. "Sir."

"Don't call me 'sir,' James."

"Then don't call me 'son,' Dad," James retorted before he could help it.

James's father laughed. Stepping into the room, he closed the door with a deafening click.

"Your mother isn't best pleased with you," his father said sternly. Except, it wasn't stern at all—more his father's idea of what a stern voice ought to sound like—and it didn't suit. James almost pitied him. "Perhaps it would be best if you avoided supper this evening?" he tried again.

James grinned. "Of course."

His father looked as relieved as James felt.

"Dare I ask what tomfoolery you're doing with that poor vase?"

"Not if you want to be able to keep honest with Mum, you won't."

"Off you go, then."

A loud crash boomed from the corridor.

Zero.

"That's her, Dad," James pleaded. "I've got to go. Please don't—"

His father nodded. "I'll distract her so you can slip out. And close that window…"

James shut the window and dove behind the sofa just as the doorknob rattled.

---

"Mary, what do you mean the vase isn't in the Potters' rooms?"

"Just as I said."

"But—"

"She found—everything—out…this morning," Mary said between sniffles.

Lily had just gotten her calmed down. A harsh response would push her to sobs again, so she measured her response carefully. "How, Mare?"

"I don't… know. She was just…so nice, and I didn't even realize…what was happening until she'd gotten the…entire story bloody out of me."

Lily had the same experience the morning before, and patted her shoulder.

"Mary, Love, where did she put the vase?"

Mary wasn't listening. "She just wanted to teach a lesson, Lil, to all of you. And I mean…she wasn't wrong, was she? She suggested a decoy. And I couldn't argue with her…"

"It's all right, love, just—"

Mary looked up suddenly, "Oh, Lil. I'm sorry."

"It's okay—it really is. Just—do you know where she put it?"

"In that alcove on the landing…"

"Hiding in plain sight," Lily muttered to herself. "Brilliant."

The girls sat, silent, while Lily pondered this strange turn of events and Mary dried her tears.

"Why didn't you tell me about any of it?" Lily finally asked.

"I tried, but you rushed out."

"The moral objection?" Lily asked, guilt bubbling.

"Yes."

"You could've tried harder, you know…"

"No," Mary insisted, recovering her smile. "I needed to keep you busy. And I didn't want to spoil your fun."

Valid, all of it—Lily couldn't have argued if she'd have wanted to. So she stood abruptly, pulling Mary up with her, and together they set off for the vase.

---

James's hiding place behind the couch afforded him a partial view of his parents.

"Those children, Monty," James's mother huffed as she slammed her singed gloves down on the side table. "What are we going to do with them?"

"Cut them loose," his father said impassively.

"Really, Fleamont, this is no time for your jokes."

"Only trying to lighten the mood, dear."

"Well, don't."

"Now, Effie, calm down," his father said. "They're suffering from a healthy dose of rebellion, that's all. We expected no less."

"That doesn't make it easier to bear, darling."

Something like guilt tugged at James's conscience at hearing the exhaustion in his mother's voice.

"Are you second-guessing our choices?"

"No."

"Because we came all this way for her, you know. We heard about her ages ago. She's—"

"—the only one who can match him, I do know." She sighed wearily. "You haven't been here all day enduring their shenanigans."

Indignation swiftly squelched down the guilt—they'd been planning this for ages? They'd come here expecting no less? What in the bloody fucking hell…

"I've been keeping Dursley company, dear, I'll remind you."

"Bloody hell, Fleamont, I'm sorry, I nearly forgot. How was he?"

Shock replaced indignation at hearing his mother swear so indelicately.

"Unbearable," his father assured her, "in more ways than you can imagine. At any rate, we've only to endure this nonsense for another—"

"Forty-one hours. Eighteen of which, I assure you, I will be sleeping, or pretending to."

James's father placed his hand on the small of her back and led her to the sofa. James might sick up if they kissed.

"What are we going to do," she asked, "if we return home and they don't settle down?"

James balked—awfully presumptive of her, wasn't it?

"Assuming she comes," his father said.

"Yes, assuming."

Better.

"We leave them to their own devices, pack any valuables we don't want destroyed, escape to France, and wait for news of our first grandchild…"

Grandchild? Grandchild?

"Wonderful," his mother said. "And, my love, how do you propose we endure supper tonight?"

"Three hours in their company is a daunting prospect, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"Fortification is in order, I think." James's father stepped to the side table, produced a bottle from the cabinet, and poured two drinks.

"Keep pouring," his mother said, and when his father handed her an overfull glass, she extended her thanks. He remained standing as she swiftly drained it, and only after refilling it for her did he take a seat next to her.

"I warned Sirius that he's to keep James away from the table tonight at all costs," she confessed.

"Too right."

"And do you know what Lily's companion, the dressmaker, told me?"

James wanted to hear what Mary said, and he had no reservations about eavesdropping further, but his father lightly tapped the back of the sofa. As James did indeed need to get the fuck out of there before his mother noticed the vase, or the rope, or him, he made his way toward the window. His father feigned a coughing fit, which allowed him to open the window and grab the rope. Silently, he pulled himself through and began the brutal climb, taking the excess rope up with him.

---

She and Mary moved briskly through the corridors with singular purpose: the vase. Two floors away from their goal, however, they were waylaid by a smarmy, smirking Sirius Black. The foul stench of acrid wool and smoke clung to his clothes. At least she'd been right about the tapestry.

"Ladies," he said, giving them a sweeping bow.

"Mister Black," they chorused.

Inspecting their empty arms, he crossed his own. "You don't have the vase?" he asked. When they offered no response, he demanded: "Lift up your skirts."

"Pull down your pants," Mary retorted, while Lily—somewhat more reasonably—noted out loud that he didn't have it, either.

"You two are together," he said.

"Indeed, we are," Lily said coolly. "And your mate is unaccounted for. Shouldn't that be cause for concern?"

"No," Sirius said, though he didn't walk away. They squared off, she and him, each unsure what to say, yet both unwilling to part ways…

Finally, Sirius said, "Where is Prongs, then?"

"Incapacitated," Lily lied, feeling mightily smug about it.

"What do you mean?"

"You'd better go find out, yes?"

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

"Are you?"

"Am—"

"Bloody hell, Black," Mary said. "He is incapacitated. In the library, mind, and quite possibly in a great deal of discomfort, and you're standing here arguing like a complete git, and just think about how incredibly furious he's going to be with you when he realizes you could've helped him, and you were too busy flirting with us—"

Lily believed Mary, and she knew the story was a stack of falsehoods. Oh, she could have kissed her.

"All right!" Sirius said. "If you're fucking with me, MacDonald…"

Mary and Sirius stared each other down until eventually Sirius's high cheekbones tinged the faintest pink. Subtle, yes, but Lily took that as a marker of full on panic.

With a curt nod, he deftly sidestepped them, rounded the corner, and made for the library in what sounded a flat run.

---

What had Mary told his mother? Disconcerting, that.

James kept a vigilant look out for Evans—and her possible traps—as he made his way through the corridors. Every step did nothing to assuage his discomfort, however, because she wasn't there.

Nor was she on the next flight.

Or the next.

Which meant—

James was not surprised when Sirius came jogging around the corner.

"I fucking knew it," he said, staring at James. "That bloody shrew."

"What?"

"That you weren't idiotic enough to get yourself trapped."

"'Course not," James said nonchalantly, trying to conceal his panic. Because why-was-Sirius-here-and-what-in-the-bloody-fuck-was-going-on. Then he saw Sirius's flushed face and realized he wasn't alone. Sirius reached the same conclusion.

"Prongs," he said seriously, clapping James on the back, "I ran into the girls."

James's stomach plummeted. "And?"

"I don't know how to say this, mate…"

"Yeah?"

"They didn't look the least bit ruffled…"

"Shit," James said. "Which can only mean one thing." He held up the vase in his arm for Sirius to see. "This isn't the vase, is it?"

Sirius shook his head gravely, and wrapped a steadying arm around James's shoulders.

---

"I swear, Lil," Mary said despondently. "It was here twenty minutes ago."

"How on earth could they have figured it out?"

"I don't know."

They stood, forlorn, facing an empty alcove. No vase. No flowers. Nothing.

"We've been duped, Mare." Plain and simple, wasn't it? Although how he'd pulled it off, Lily hadn't the faintest idea. There was nothing else for it: she'd once again underestimated James Potter.

"Could she have told them?"

"No," Lily said. "And yet, I can't believe they outsmarted us."

It didn't add up—any of it. The shock hadn't set in. For the second time in an hour, Potter had left her weak-kneed, although for different reasons…

"What are we going to do?" Mary asked.

"I'll have to face him, I suppose, and endure the humiliation of his victory."

"I'm so sorry, Lil—"

"No, Mary, you didn't do anything wrong. Really." And though Mary looked at her doubtfully, Lily shook her head. "Thank you," she added sincerely, "for all your help."

"I'll release the mice into your sister's room while she's at dinner," Mary said, grinning.

"Stick one down Potter's trousers while you're at it." Lily returned her smile. "You are my favorite, you know—"

"I do."

"And thank you—for—the other thing."

"Oh," Mary said, brightening, "You mean, not reminding you about the plans and the sh—"

"Precisely."

"I would never—"

"Of course not." After a pause in which Mary gave her a meaningful look, Lily sighed. "I've got to go face him now, don't I?"

Mary nodded, then gave her a sharp salute. With another miserable sigh, Lily, slumped and dejected, turned and skulked in the direction of the tower room. She was four steps away when Mary called out to her, "There is a bright side to all of this, Lil."

Lily raised an eyebrow.

"At least you'll be able to get that green scarf back from Potter."

She scowled at Mary. Really, she ought to have known.

"Oh, wipe that look off your face," Mary said, wagging her eyebrows suggestively. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make him…less…insufferable…"

Before Lily could retort, however, Mary turned around and fairly well skipped away. Lily watched her disappear around the corner, then, when she was sure Mary wouldn't double back, deviated course to the kitchens. There, though she endured McGonagall's brisk, unpleasant—and yes, deserved—lecture, she left with a basket heavy laden with spoils. Decidedly worth it. For though she herself had no appetite, the food would make an excellent bribe.

And if that didn't work, she wasn't above holding it hostage.

After stopping by her room to freshen up, she could justify delaying no longer and trudged off to the tower.

---

As Evans climbed through the trapdoor with another basket in hand, James squelched down his nausea and gave her a winning smile.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I did it?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

She had the vase—they both knew it. For whatever the reason, however, she played along.

"Do I have to?" she asked, looking thoroughly miserable. Would she stoop so low as to feign misery, to sharpen the sting when she pulled the vase from the basket? Yes, she would.

"Yes," he said.

"Fine. How'd you manage?"

"I am James Potter, mischief maker, Marauder, who can purportedly cheat his way out of any scrape."

He'd hoped for a smirk, or a retort. For her to come clean and put him out of his misery. Instead, he got nothing—she was definitely playing her. He redoubled his efforts.

"Oh, c'mon, Evans. Tell me you're impressed."

She folded her arms. "More annoyed than impressed."

"Ah, you are impressed though."

"How did you manage?" she asked again, carrying this to the point of absurdity.

In for a pence… "I told you, I'm James—"

"Cut it, Potter. That's not the damn—"

"—vase, I know." James deflated, half relieved, half dreading her inevitable triumph—she was going to be insufferable. He lay back on the blanket and made a study of the ceiling. "How'd you do it?" he asked. "Where is it hiding?"

"Are you still playing at that?" Evans snapped. "I told you to stop."

He shot back up. "Me? You're the one dragging this out."

"You're the one feigning martyrdom."

"It's not an act, you arse—"

"Where is it?" James demanded. "In that basket?" He reached for it, but Evans scooted herself in front of him.

"Wait—James. Stop."

He stopped. Glared at her, sure, but he stopped.

"You really don't have it, do you?" she asked.

She was going to make him say it. He crossed his arms and refused to answer. He wasn't, after all, above petulance.

"I'll take that as a 'no' then?"

He gave a vague sort of gesture that might be interpreted as a shrug.

"I don't have it either, Potter."

He snorted derisively.

"Honest!"

His scowl faded when he caught her gaze—she wasn't lying. James replayed their conversation in his mind, kicking himself. Of bloody course she'd been despondent, if she'd thought…

He was an idiot.

"Where the hell is it, then?" he asked.

"I don't know," she moaned, throwing her hands in the air.

"How did this happen?"

"Your mum—she teased the story out of Mary this morning."

"Mary?"

"She's torn up about it," she said, "so don't waste your anger…"

"Far from it, Evans. She has my utmost sympathy."

When Evans nodded ruefully, he motioned for her to continue.

"Well, your mother switched it—the original—for a random vase in the passage."

James's stomach plummeted three floors. "Where—er—exactly did she put it?"

"In plain sight." Lily looked at him curiously. "The alcove between the third and fourth floors."

He massaged his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. "Opposite the tapestry with the goats?"

Lily bit her lip, but stopped when she saw his gaze flicker to her mouth. James removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Sirius smashed it," he said finally. "To warn me when she headed back to her room."

"I'm sorry," she said lightly. His stomach jolted for entirely different reasons. "Did you say that Sirius smashed our vase?"

"He didn't do it on purpose, Evans, so don't take your disappointment, or anger, or whatever, out on him—"

"I'm not angry. At least it's gone, and the world is better off for it."

"Besides, it's my fault."

"How do you figure?"

"I reckon she figured we'd try to come after it. She definitely discerned we'd set the tapestry on fire—"

"Well, yes, so did I, so that doesn't—"

"She placed the vase there intentionally," James said, "knowing full well about the tapestry and, by proximity, the vase." He looked to Evans, but she wasn't comprehending his meaning. "See—breaking vases is sort of our, er, signature."

"Signature?" Lily bit back a smile. "You have a signature?"

"Don't you?"

"Erm…no."

"Well, we do, and she of course knows. She always knows, and she put that vase there to set Sirius up, and you can disbelieve me, Evans, but she's my mother, and I know her…"

"I want to believe you. It's just—I've met her. And she is your mother, but on the whole—on most accounts, that is—she seems, well, rather lovely?"

He scoffed.

"She can't be that devious, James, I don't believe it…"

"Remember the island?"

She smiled. "Well, you did purposefully steal the boat and shoot a hole through it…"

"And forcing us to share a room last night, hm? That was 'rather lovely?'"

"Erm—well…we were a bit ridiculous last night, weren't we?"

"Rhododendrons are her favorite flower for a reason, Evans," he said darkly.

"And?"

"Remember your flower meanings."

A long silence followed while Lily digested this. Then, quietly: "Your mother is terrifying, James."

He slumped. "I know."

"Brilliant—"

"Of course."

"And nice."

"Terrifying, all the same," James said wistfully. "I'm quite fond of her, myself."

Lily produced a bottle of whisky. "And what shall we do with this, then?"

We. He hadn't thought that far ahead, truthfully. She'd brought supper, hopefully, thinking he'd won. And it probably wasn't poisoned.

But he could leave her, go find Sirius, and…what?

To delay giving an answer, James checked his watch, then stifled a curse. Nearly seven. They'd wasted an entire bloody afternoon chasing after a damned vase, and for what? Nothing to show for it, and one bloody day left—one day and a bit, technically—to sort this out.

He studied her. She looked apprehensive, nervous, rather like he felt. The bottle was a peace offering, or an invitation. Something.

He didn't want to leave. More than that—he really, really wanted to stay.

James Potter, he told himself, you are really, truly, a fucking arse, and he held out his hand expectantly.

"I, for one, could use a drink," he said, and she handed it over. He took a proper swig. "And what's in there?" he asked hopefully, tilting the bottle toward the hamper.

"Your supper," she said, placing it between them. "Most likely your lunch, too."

"You are brilliant, Evans."

"I know."

"Nice, too."

He liked to see her blush, and to know he was the cause.

But as they parceled out the food, her frown returned. "You know," she said, "I was rather looking forward to smashing that vase."

His mouth full of bread, he wordlessly slid his imposter vase toward her. Least he could do, really. She ignored it, tilted her head as if something had just occurred to her.

"Did you choose the sunflowers or the columbines?"

He shrugged.

"I'll find out when we fetch the rest from your parents' room. I did, after all, promise my sister we'd dispose of them."

"You—what?"

"She detests the things," Lily said cheerily. "They're anniversary gifts from Dursley's horrid sister. She agreed to let me have them if she could blame their demise on you."

"Thank you for throwing me under the carriage…"

"You'll never have to meet her—if you're lucky."

James didn't doubt her. How could he get along with anyone who had such shit taste in vases? Petunia Dursley was living proof—even the imitation he held in his hands was awful.

"Well, this one is ugly enough to suffice in the meantime," he said, "so if you need to indulge the urge…"

"I can't."

"The satisfaction is gone?"

She nodded glumly.

"We could tip it out the window…"

"I'm not inebriated enough for that."

"Give it time, Evans." With a roguish grin, he handed her the bottle. "Give it time."

---

As their families were cloistered in the drawing and dining rooms, she and James had full run of the castle, and gathering the vases proved appallingly simple. On their second trip, with the last of the vases in hand, Lily stopped at the head of her favorite staircase and drummed her fingers on the banister.

"Have you ever?" she asked.

"Sure. Mum forbade me after age eight, though."

"You fell?"

"A story and a half," he bragged. "Broke my arm in two places. Couldn't keep from using it, so it healed crooked." He transferred the vase to his right arm and held out the left for her inspection.

She couldn't see that it was at all crooked, really. But he looked so damn proud, like a preening peacock, that she smiled and nodded as if she had.

"Did that stop you from doing it again?"

He carded a hand through his hair, then rocked back on his heels. "What d'you think?"

"Petunia keeps the banisters polished," she said in mock seriousness, "to act as a deterrent." She drummed her fingers again.

"She's determined to ruin all your fun, isn't she?"

"She hopes to stamp the impropriety out of me."

"And did her plan succeed?" he asked. Before she could answer, he clarified, "The banister, I mean. I know the overarching campaign of turning you into a proper lady is an utter failure."

Lily nudged the stair rail with her hip. "What do you think?"

"Improper ladies first, then," he said, plucking the vase from her arms.

In a well-practiced maneuver, Lily braced herself with both hands and hopped onto the rail.

"Sidesaddle? Are you mad?"

She grinned. "You know, I think I might be." And then she let go.

While this was nothing to the long, winding staircases she'd grown up with, the polish added speed, and thrill. Fierce, wild joy overtook her. She had to bite her lip to keep from shrieking.

Too soon, the ride ended, and Lily landed on her bum with an indelicate whump.

"Was that supposed to be a landing?" he called, his voice quaking with laughter.

Though she never could stick the landing, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, she said: "You can do better?"

In answer, he set both vases down and mounted the banister, rather like a horse. Rather like a man riding his childhood pony, really—his overlong limbs rendered the scene ridiculous. On his descent, he let out a loud whoop. If she'd have known he was going to, she wouldn't have taken such care to be quiet. But then he was moving, fast, and she barely had time to jump out of his way. He landed gracefully on his feet and gave her a sweeping, dramatic bow.

Now he really looked a preening peacock, the bloody showoff prick. She rushed up the stairs, to keep from kissing that stupid smirk off his face.

They alternated turns, running up and then sliding back down. She indulged in her shrieks, Petunia be damned. If they were found out, James assured her, they'd leave the vases and run.

He landed perfectly every time, sometimes bowing or saluting—to rub salt in the wound, no doubt. When he somersaulted, however, she rewarded the effort with a light kick to his bum.

She, on the other hand, always landed in a tangled, giggling mess on the rug. Not that she minded—this was the closest thing to flying.

Well, next to kissing James Potter, perhaps. But that was a mad, horrid, dangerous idea.

So, when he offered to catch her and save her backside some pain, as if that wouldn't lead to something more, she politely—albeit reluctantly—declined. She'd expected an argument, but he merely doubled the carpet over on itself to better cushion her falls.

Considerate bastard.

The clock eventually chimed ten, signaling the end of supper. They wandered back to her gable room, vases in hand. Impressive, that he could push the stone footholds in from memory.

As they worked their way through the gingersnaps, James regaled her with an amusing story explaining how his watch got ruined. It featured—of course—property damage and alcohol. Lily quite agreed that replacing the watch was the least Sirius could do, given his role in the original's demise. He wouldn't explain the nicknames, though, however much she pressed.

Finally, they turned their attention to the vases. Smashing them felt more like a chore than revenge, at least until Lily adapted Mary's favorite pastime—tucking tiny, unflattering embroidered caricatures into the needlework of Petunia's more elaborate dresses—for their purposes.

James declared her plan brilliant and took his pick of her soft pastel sticks, and she split the vases between them—two apiece. The fifth they decided to keep as a souvenir.

He immediately pulled a vase onto his lap and hunched over, pastel in hand. Lily, for her part, couldn't decide which of her repugnant suitors deserved the places of honor. After some scrutiny, the handles of one rather reminded her of Bertram's ears, and the puffed out bottom of the other served a passable likeness for Westenberg's bulging cheeks.

She set to work on Bertram first.

Except Potter was terribly distracting, wasn't he, with his pursed lips and the way he sucked in the hollow of his right cheek. Only the right, not the left.

Lily redirected her attention to Bertram's ridiculous mustache, perfecting the twists of the ends. She put in his sharp eyebrows, and that damned cleft chin he'd been so proud of. It wasn't nice, drawing unflattering depictions, but the exercise proved too cathartic for Lily to entertain a prickling conscience.

The moment she'd finished with the chin, she rewarded herself with another glance at James. He had a smudge of yellow pastel on the nosepiece of his glasses from pushing them up.

She fought the urge to bend over and rub it off, instead sketching Bertram's enormous sideburns. Much as she tried to focus, however, Potter kept teasing her attention away.

Oh, not intentionally. He wasn't paying her any mind. In fact, this was the first time in two days she hadn't seen him fidgeting. She watched, mesmerized, as his hands moved with practiced skill: sketching, shading, and then filling in the details.

She heard the echoes of the stately grandfather clock two floors down, calling out the end of the day.

How bloody long had she been staring? He hadn't teased her about it—perhaps he hadn't noticed? She peeked again.

No, he had a little half-smile on his face. He knew.

Embarrassed, she immersed herself in Westenberg, fussing over his bulbous nose, complete with hairs and large, flaring nostrils. She got rather carried away in adding the moles. More than she remembered, really, but as it was for dramatic effect, she allowed the indulgence. She'd just started on his thick, single eyebrow when Potter announced his work complete.

She hurried to finish, trying not to flush under Potter's interested gaze. She couldn't berate him for staring, could she? Not after all the gaping she'd done. Once she'd finally finished, she set her vase aside, then stretched forward to pick up the nearest of his.

The portrait was good—not nearly as unflattering as her renderings. If this girl was as pretty as her likeness, he would've been hard pressed to make her unflattering. An unpleasant feeling twisted Lily's stomach. Mary might've called it jealousy.

"And who's this?" Lily asked casually.

James shrugged. "A blonde from Lincolnshire."

"She's beautiful," she said, striving to keep her voice impassive.

"She was awful." James shuddered.

"Oh?"

"Goats. Trust me—you don't want to know."

Curiosity burned; she did want to know—every sordid detail, anything that would keep her from this baseless jealousy—yet he offered none. She handed back the vase. He moved to the window, pulled open the sash, and tossed goat girl unceremoniously out the window.

He paused there, Lily assumed to appreciate the grounds, or the stars, or both. She took full advantage and appreciated the unobstructed view of his arse. He wiggled it, and he laughed, and she swore under her breath.

"And who's this?" he asked, still grinning once he'd returned to his spot. He inspected her vase. "Cheeks?"

"Not cheeks, Potter. His name is William Westenberg."

"Sounds perfectly stodgy."

"He was a complete gentleman," she answered primly. "Respectable and inoffensive in every way."

"Except?"

"Oh, you know, he was twice my age and suffered both from severe sneezing fits and an unfortunate fondness for beetles."

"That is unfortunate."

"Quite. I'm sure he and his beetles are perfectly happy together, though."

"His moles, too," James said. After counting them, he held the vase up to his own face, so they were side by side. He blew his cheeks out so she could compare. With a laugh, she held her hands out, and he returned it to her arms, muttering some comment about lovers reunited. He gave a hearty farewell salute as she moved to the window and sent poor Mister Westenberg careening to his doom.

The moat muffled the landing, but it was satisfying enough, watching it fall.

She settled back down, cross-legged, across from Potter. "And this lovely lady?"

"The Brunette from Wales."

"She's also very pretty."

"And she was just as awful as the other."

"What was her fatal flaw, then?"

He pondered the matter. "Too many to name."

"Ah. And what was it you called her? The other?"

"Blonde from Lincolnshire."

That—hm. "Wait. Am—am I the redhead from Surrey, then?"

When he didn't answer straight away, she busied herself with a loose thread on the blanket.

Suddenly, he scooted closer and knelt before her, both of his knees brushing the hem of her skirt. It was too close by far, but not for him, apparently, because he leaned forward until his face was level with hers. He plucked the vase out of her lap and set it on the blanket. And then, because that wasn't close e-bloody-nough, he placed his pastel-covered thumb under her chin and lifted it so that her eyes met his.

He spoke, slow and steady: "I never took the trouble, Lily Evans, to learn their names."

Lily swallowed, her heart skittering in her chest, her cheeks coloring at the intensity of his unwavering gaze.

The silence begged her to speak, or to act. Something. Because that gesture—aside from being sweet— was very telling, whether meant it to be or not. They only had a day and a half left.

She couldn't bring herself to speak, move, blink.

His hand cupped her cheek, this thumb tracing her jaw. He was going to kiss her, wasn't he? And she was going to let him.

Except, she couldn't let him. They still had a day and a half left, after all, and this was all muddled, and wanting to snog a bloke didn't mean you wanted to marry him. What she needed, really, was sleep, and a clear head, and most of all, Mary.

So she ducked her head and backed away, slipping out of his grasp. His hands dropped to his knees, and he backed away.

For want of something to do, to break the awkwardness, she thrust the vase back at him.

"Here's your brunette back," she said, plastering the false, bright smile she'd learned from Tuney on her face. "Go on, then."

He pulled it from her grasp, and silently moved to the window.

It was safe to look again, now that his back was turned. He took great care in perching the vase on the windowsill, making minor adjustments until it was perfectly balanced, poised. With the smallest of flicks, he sent the wretched brunette, vase and all, tumbling over the edge. Moments later, a distant splash signaled her demise.

He lingered at the window, his shoulders hunched, while Lily busied herself with gathering the scattered pastels and sorting them into their little wooden box.

When he faced her again, though, he was all smiles, the tension seemingly gone from his shoulders.

"And who is this?" he asked, settling back down and nodding toward her vase.

She passed it over, and he inspected it with a furrowed brow.

"Is this Aubrey? Bertram Aubrey? From Hampstead?"

"The very one."

"You almost married him?"

"You know him?"

The vase threatened to crack under Potter's tight grip, and his brows were constricted so closely together that he might have had one. How reassuring that she wasn't the only one prone to fits of jealousy.

"I kicked that pompous git's arse at fencing. More than once, I might add."

"I suppose my experience was similar. I knocked him over the head with a candlestick."

James's face cracked into his wide, boyish smile. "That was you? He didn't shut up about that for months."

"I suppose I was his redhead from Surrey, then?"

James threw his head back in a burst of hoarse laughter, which she recognized as Black's from the night before. "Well," he said, once he'd recovered, "you dodged a sword, didn't you, not getting stuck with him."

"I'm better at dodging than he is."

"Clever bit with the ears," he said, holding the vase out. "The handles are a bit small to do them justice, but the likeness is passable."

"Thank you."

"Send him off with the others, then, and good riddance."

She took it gingerly, careful to avoid brushing his fingers, but she did return his smile.

She lifted Aubrey with a handle pinched between her thumb and forefinger, not unlike she'd seen McGonagall do to Stebbins on several occasions. The handle was covered in pastel, however, and the vase was so damned heavy that she nearly dropped it. Quickly, she lifted it through the window and let go.

As Aubrey fell, James hummed a funeral march in the background.

---

Funeral march was appropriate, wasn't it? She was going to be the bloody death of him.

She was thinking who-knew-what, now, as she stuck her head out that window, resting her forearms on the sill. Her silhouette was dark against the bright, moon-lit sky, and she craned her neck, to better see the constellations.

There were worse ways to go about dying.

He'd wanted to kiss her. More than kiss her, maybe. Except she'd seemed nervous, or scared, or something of both. He'd been half relieved, when she'd slipped away, half frustrated, half—

She broke into a yawn, arms stretching over her head. Not unlike they'd done around his neck, earlier.

Fuck.

"What time is it?" she asked, her voice laced with a sleepiness he hadn't noticed before.

Smiling slightly, he reached into his pocket and fished out his watch, squinting to read it in the diminishing candlelight. One? Damn. He'd slipped past exhaustion sometime yesterday, and was lingering now in some in-between state. Like being pissed. Only without the pleasant warmth buzzing in his ears, telling him his awful impulses were brilliant.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"Do you want to see something?"

"Does it involve going out that window onto the ledge I saw earlier?"

"Yes." Her voice was earnest, almost wistful. "It's risky."

Hell, she was trying to tempt him.

"Then not particularly, no."

She pulled herself back through the window. Instead of returning to the blanket, she sat down right there, leaning against the wall with her head resting against the sill. "Had enough dangling out windows for one day, have you?"

"I have, actually."

That sly, knowing smile teased the corner of her mouth. Wars had been started for less.

"It's only a shimmy, three steps, and a tiny hop, Potter."

"I'll take your word for it, Evans. And since we're in need something to do, and since our biscuits are tragically gone, I'll have you know I always keep two things on my person for instances such as these."

"Lily."

"What?"

"The 'Evans' bit is old, don't you think?"

The funeral march reverberated in his head. "Well, Lily, I keep two things on my person at all times."

"Your ego and that comb your never use?"

"Clever."

"I am, thank you."

"The two things I always keep on my person, Lily—"

"I'm going to revoke your name privileges if you abuse them by saying it like that."

"Are you done interrupting me?"

"It is a privilege to be interrupted by me, Potter."

"James."

"I already called you James—"

"I'd noticed."

She wasn't teasing him, she was flirting with him. Boldly. And he was flirting right back.

"Go on then, James, tell me what they are."

He unleashed the sharpest version of his Marauder smirk. "Cards." He held out his left hand, palm out, to reveal a battered, sagging box. "And as you know, matches." He slid his right thumb against his middle finger to reveal his last, lone match. "Well, a match."

She fought her smile. And the harder she fought, the more he stared, trying to make her smile. And then he was trying not to smile, and they were both idiots, weren't they?

She cracked first, breaking into a wide grin. Her laugh, when it came, was loud and dissonant—a cord played wrong. And it was infectious, wasn't it? Sometimes—when relief wasn't possible, for instance—a laugh would suffice for unwinding the tension.

So he joined in, losing control, and they laughed themselves properly silly. He laughed until his sides ached, for no reason in particular. Several minutes had passed before he could trust himself to look at her again.

Her, and her rosy cheeks, and her face nearly divided in two. Perhaps he'd best not look at her again, yeah?

The laugh had worked though. He wouldn't object to a snog, sure, but the last of the knots between his shoulder blades had eased.

When she'd finally wiped the last of her tears away, she said, "Cards, please, but don't throw the match away…"

Except she cut herself with a long yawn, which he also found infectious. Maybe they'd best forego cards, or early morning ledge climbing, or any of it.

"New plan, Lily."

"Hmm?"

"I think it's time for bed."

She covered her mouth again, vainly trying to stifle another yawn.

"Good." She looked around the gable room. "We can't sleep here though."

He was already tidying the room and setting the trap door into motion. After closing the window above her head, he held out his hand.

"If you can make it down the ladder, I'll escort you to your room."

"'It's not me who'll have a hard time with the ladder, y'know."

She was wrong about that, though; he had to keep her steady the whole way down. With the castle's lights dimmed, they moved slowly, making their way largely by moonlight. They made it exactly three corridors, James half-supporting her, before she declared quite dramatically—and quite adorably—that she couldn't go another step.

He took both of them by surprise, then, by scooping her into his arms.

She didn't object, instead nestling quite snugly into the crook of his shoulder. Could she hear his galloping heartbeat?

She told him when to turn, but their journey was otherwise silent, punctuated only by his footfalls and their increasingly frequent yawns.

"That's my door."

Except, when he nudged it open with his knee, the room was bloody tiny, and freezing, and sparsely furnished with what looked like centuries' old castaway pieces.

"I think there's a mistake—"

"No—this is mine."

"This is your room?"

"They'd put me in a broom cupboard, if the bed would fit."

He wasn't sure if she would regret the admission in the morning, though it wasn't anything he couldn't surmise from this horseshit.

"I've seen servants' quarters," he started, but she clamped a hand over his mouth.

"James," she said. "Bed."

He nodded gruffly, and she removed her hand. When he deposited her onto the bed, she immediately curled in on herself, dress and all. He pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her. After indulging in a light kiss to her forehead and tucking an errant curl behind her ear, he stepped away.

"Get some sleep," he whispered.

"Mhm—" she said, rolling over and snuggling into her blanket.

He was nearly to the door when: "James?"

"Hm?"

"Where are you going?"

"To bed."

"You cut your sheets to shreds, remember?"

"That is a solid point." He'd forgotten. He looked at her floor. "You don't have a rug."

She scooted as far as the wall would allow and, wordlessly, lifted the edge of her blanket.

His resolve broke. This was probably a terrible idea, but even with the map, he wasn't sure he could find his way back. The invitation was frankly too tempting to pass up. He sank onto the bed, too knackered to care that it was only a lumpy straw mattress.

"'Night, Lily," he mumbled, but she was already drifting toward sleep.