Retribution

Chapter 10

Will You Be Honest?

James remains frozen under me for seconds long enough that I'm pulling back, redness creeping up the back of my neck. Hazel eyes blink up at me, fairly stunned, but despite the embarrassment flowing through me at my own rather unexpected reaction, I can't bring myself to regret it. The fleeting warmth of his mouth that I'd felt against mine has sent a buttery feeling settling into my chest, telling me that he's real, breathing, as strong as he is soft—

And oh, somehow, my lips are on his again, James's fingers pressing onto the nape of my neck, leaving the skin there branded, burnt, aching for more of him. The whole of him. His other arm slips around my waist, tugs me until I'm seated on the edge of his bed, body all but curving forward to sigh into him. He kisses me back, as if making up for the stillness of a few moments ago, slow and deep and gentle, and my fingers are twisting into the front of his t-shirt; his disappearing into my hair. And though I have nothing but a few dreams and just one proper instance of having done this before, the familiarity of being kissed—no, of being kissed by him—presses around the walls of my throat, cuts off my ability to breathe.

I'm in love with a person I know without really knowing.

"I couldn't find—oh, dear GOD, can you PLEASE not, JESUS—"

The shriek that cracks through the room is borderline comical, and though we're both quick to pull back from each other at the intrusion, I can't fully temper the burst of incredulous laughter that spills out from me when I spot Sirius's sulking face. James looks at me, lips swollen pink, hair askew, cheeks flushed, and smirks.

I have to divert my eyes. "Sorry," I tell Sirius, "Didn't mean to—"

He doesn't appear too pleased. In fact, there's a strange sort of stoniness flitting over his face when he glances between me and James, lingering for a beat longer on the latter. "Whatever. I just hope you both know what you're doing." When I frown, figuring that it's a bit of an overreaction from him, given what he knows about my feelings, and—if he's to be believed—James's too, he simply rolls his eyes. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, Evans. Just figured you wouldn't want to add more fodder to everything that's already being said about you."

The crease between my brows doesn't relent, Sirius's explanation not fitting in with what I know about him and his less-than-little care for public image, but James's voice derails the question on my lips.

"What's being said about her?"

I look at him again, suddenly feeling—and rather stupidly—too exposed.

"I'm guessing you haven't had a chance to talk, then," Sirius deadpans, eyes flat but steady on James. He sighs after a beat. "Fine, I'll leave you to it."

"Sirius!" my voice calls out as he turns towards the door, and I'm a little startled at the panic lacing my tone. It doesn't hit me, not until this moment, that with the exhilaration of meeting James having settled slightly, and after that impulsive, dazed kiss, Sirius's departure will leave behind only an impending discussion in the room. A discussion that I feel wholly ill-equipped to deal with. But when gray eyes turn to me, expectant, I flush with the realization that there's no postponing this. "Thank you."

He blinks. "What for?"

"Pomfrey told me. Thank you for convincing her."

No emotion makes itself known on his face at my voicing this gratitude; instead, he stares at me meaningfully. "Don't do something stupidly reckless."

And though he leaves after throwing my own advice in my face, more than any sting of annoyance, the words leave behind a warning he'd clearly meant for me to latch onto: I'm not to tell James about Peter.

"Okay, what was that about?"

"Nothing," I sigh, and then twist back around to look at James, try to appear more at ease. It doesn't take all that much effort, not when quiet happiness still flows through me just at the sight of his eyes, fixed on me curiously. I curl my fingers against my lap, curb the urge to reach out and touch him again. "He's just being an overprotective arse."

His mouth twitches. "Is that fondness I hear in the insult?"

"Why?" The question tumbles before I've thought it through. "Are you concerned? He's not my favourite yet, don't worry."

Something flickers over his expression at that, but after a moment, he offers me a genuine smile. "You're looking good."

I look down at my arms so he won't read the disappointment that pulls at my mouth. I wonder, already, if he regrets kissing me back; if he's still caught in the same nightmare I'd found him being tortured in. It's not difficult to recall the argument we'd gotten into the last time he'd let himself breach that line with me; even less difficult to recall is the hurt that had settled into my chest like a boulder at his dismissal after. I suppose it's enough to know that he's not pushed me away this time. At least not yet.

"Thanks," I say softly. "Pomfrey certainly knows what she's doing."

"That she does."

"And you?" My eyes are drawn to him again, helpless; hopeless. "How do you feel now?"

"Perfectly fine." He shrugs. "Just a bit of weakness that I'm supposedly expected to experience, but I don't, if I'm being honest. Reckon I might be killed if I tried to leave the bed though."

"What—" I drag in a breath, "What exactly happened, afterwards, at Godric's Hollow?"

A frown creases over his forehead at the question, but the reply comes easily enough. "Just burnt myself out, I think. Pomfrey says I'd started to dip into my life source for energy once the power started depleting—" he undoubtedly sees the horror on my face here, voice quickening to appease me, "but really, that's the only reason I slept for so long. Sirius got me out in time and now I'm good, I promise. You don't—please, don't worry."

I find myself unable to open my mouth, so a nod will have to do. After a beat of hesitation, warm fingers cover mine, and James squeezes my hand gently. "Alright?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"So." He smiles, half-rueful, half-resigned. "Go ahead."

My heart suddenly takes to pumping near my throat. I blow out a heavy breath, consider the merits of delaying this further. "You know, we don't have to—not right away—"

"Lily," he says, stops me effectively. "It's okay. Ask."

I stare at him, take in the unassuming patience in those eyes, and feel rather submerged in affection for this man. It hits me like a gentle current, that beyond my curiosity for everything in this desolate world, I hold a separate, possibly stronger curiosity solely for James Potter and all the cells that comprise him. I want to know everything about him; I want to discover all the sides, the history, the mistakes, the imperfections tangled up with him. It's impossible, at this moment, to understand how I could've ever let him walk away, even if in a dream.

"Are you going to be honest now?"

The hazels in his eyes shine clear. "I'll be honest."

"Okay," I say, breath whistling past lips, mind plucking a question that doesn't feel quite as threatening to my sanity. "Your ability. How come you never told me about it?"

"I don't know," he says, eyes not exactly looking at me anymore. "You never asked."

"Well, that's just not fair. I presumed you'd tell me something so essential to your identity without requiring a direct question, James. I mean, I did ask if you knew someone with abilities, and you never said."

A hand tugs at his hair. "Yeah, I know. I guess, in the moment, it just didn't seem that important."

I scoff, instantly incredulous. "Didn't seem important? Really? Is this you being honest? Because you're saying that it didn't seem important enough to you, not even when I was losing my mind, trying to figure out if there were others like me?"

"Okay, no, you're right—" He sighs, has the grace to look somewhat shame-faced here. "That wasn't very honest of me. I just… well, I don't really like using my ability anymore. Or talking about it, for that matter."

And now, from deep within the recesses of my mind, buried under layers of panic and several days' worth of stress, Sirius's voice echoes the reason, clear as day: He doesn't like to use it.

But this hardly makes sense to me.

"Why not?" I shake my head, ease the frown between my brows only when I realize I'm scowling too hard. "I mean, I don't understand why you wouldn't. Not when it's—it's—well, it's fantastic. You were fantastic. Against the Death Eaters. I saw you."

Red has stained the skin around his ears, and endearment stirs in my belly at the sight of this unexpected humility.

"Er, thanks," James chuckles, soft, mouth curling up on one side. "But there's more to it than the good, Evans. I've done… things. Things I can't come back from. And using it only reminds me of my own failures. The power—the feeling—all of it is too destructive."

"Only if you let it be!" I tell him, body almost pitching forward in its attempt to empty the conviction into him. What he's saying—the heaviness bleeding through his tone—feels entirely too bleak, much too like the dream still weighing against my chest for me to let him believe in his own fallacies. I refuse to accept that he could have done anything that would turn him irredeemable in my eyes. "I'm sure whatever it was, in your past, whatever actions you had to take—there must have been a good reason for them."

"But do you ever really know if it was good enough?" he mumbles, mostly to himself, and discomfort churns in my chest.

"What happened?" my voice whispers, syllables too soft, as if terrified of themselves. "Will you tell me? About your past?"

He sighs, deep, heavy, but looks at me steady. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

A rueful smile. "Tall ask, Evans."

Maybe he's right; maybe it's too much—too greedy, too selfish, too demanding. I decide to prod him to the place I need, even if it means cracking my own skin open to spill every emotion I've been harbouring. "I need to tell you something." I swallow, palms clammy. "I had… more dreams. Recently."

His spine seems to snap straighter, head nodding, but the light in his eyes has turned anxious; it's easier, now, for me to read him, but his anxiety only contributes to mine, and I don't know if it's a good thing. "What about?"

"About us, actually. I saw… an argument." I watch him, don't dare to blink. "More than an argument, really. It looked like you were… like you were leaving."

The words linger in the space between us after I've uttered them, and the silence that follows may as well be an enduring echo for what it does to emphasize my unspoken question. I sit still, give James the seconds he needs to gather the answer for me; or, if the tightness of his expression is any indication, gather the courage required for the answer.

"I did," he says, finally, and something splinters in that moment—I can't tell if it's within him or me. "I did leave. I wonder, sometimes, if things would have been different if I hadn't."

"Why?" I ask, the sound a little choked.

"I had to stop him."

"Voldemort?"

He nods. "It was—things were bad. The world around was crumbling; more and more people dying every day. Food shortages. Children murdered. I couldn't sit still. Dumbledore was an old, distant family friend. Growing up, I'd heard from my parents that he was one of the loudest voices in the resistance against the Death Eaters. So, when I could, when I no longer had a choice, I—" His eyes hold mine, mouth downturned. "I had to go, Lily."

"Why didn't you tell me this?" I say softly. "Back then. You could have told me the truth."

"I should have, I know that now." A frustrated expulsion of breath. "I was so young, and stupid, and I think—in my head, I thought not involving you would keep you safe, would keep you away from all the ugliness. I thought I was being brave, but now I realize it was just cowardice."

I have to look away, gaze caught on the empty chair beside the bed. My breaths come out a little shaky, though more from sadness for James, for a boy who felt he had to give up his life to stop a spreading darkness, than for any betrayal my past self had clearly been warring with. It pains me to imagine him at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years of age, willingly allowing a monster to run experiments on his body.

At least I was safe in my oblivion.

I allow my eyes to travel to him again, consider the tentative way he watches me, like he expects an outburst or accusation at the very least. I wonder, for a beat, if he's worried about some far-past fury persisting within me. And then I remember what he'd said a few minutes ago.

I've done things I can't come back from.

"You feel guilty," I say, a question just as much as a statement. "You think you leaving me was why I got captured."

His gaze falls to his lap, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck wearily. "It may not have been why you got captured, but—if I had known—if I had been there—"

"If you had known what?"

The frown between his brows deepens, irritation—or no, frustration—climbing like a vine that grips his face. "That you had abilities. If I had known, I could have tried to keep them from coming to you, I could have predicted that they'd target you."

"You… didn't know?" I mumble, shoulders slumping with the realization that he hadn't been hiding this truth from me.

"No." James sighs, looks at me with sincere remorse. "I'm sorry. It must have manifested later on, or there might have been a trigger, I'm not sure. If so, it's an extremely rare case. There is still so much we don't know about the nature of these abilities. But for as long as I knew you, before, there had never been any signs."

My head spins as I chew on what he's told me. The added layer of complexity here is not something I'd expected.

So my powers hadn't existed for the first sixteen years of my life? Is that normal? Or, what is normal, to begin with?

"But I… I knew about your ability," my voice utters, strained with confusion. "Didn't I? So how did you not know about mine? Did yours manifest when you were a kid?"

"Yes, but—" he stops, blinks in evident surprise. "How did you know that you had known about mine? Did you—"

A knowing sort of light enters the hazels of his irises, and I'm suddenly trapped under that stare. Irrational fear that he's clawed his way into the recesses of my mind and dragged out the dream I'd had has my skin heating very obviously. I lick my lips, aware that his have parted in realization.

"You saw something else," he accuses rightly, and I pinch the skin of my palm to avoid squirming in embarrassment. "What was the dream?"

What was it?

God, if only there was an answer simple and easy enough to appease his question. But the truth remains unmoving on my tongue, frozen by doubt and mortification and the pathetic fear that sharing that intimate moment verbally, out in the open, will somehow expose it to the possibility of not being real. And I…

I want it to be real.

His eyes are burning gold. "Lily—"

"Alright, time's up!" barks a crisp voice, the announced deadline accompanied by the abrupt opening of the door and Pomfrey's brusque entrance into the room. I almost breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that the tension in the air seems to evaporate by the presence of a third person. "Please return to the dorms now, Evans. Potter needs to rest."

"I'm fine," James says in instant retaliation, his eyes still watching me with unwavering intensity. I know I must be flush from head to toe, because the longer he looks, the further my silence incriminates me. And yet, the truth feels too dangerous to part with. "Just give us five more—"

"No," Pomfrey snaps. "I've already extended the promised ten minutes to twenty. No more."

"It's alright," I hurry to assuage, rising from the bed. My throat burns from all the questions I still want to ask, but I'm not foolish enough to think, given James's unflinching persistence to get a response out of me, that he will allow me to divert the conversation elsewhere. "I'll come back later."

"Evans, come on—"

"Sleep, Potter, or I will notify Dumbledore that I have decided to keep you under observation for an additional week."

"That's just devious, Poppy," says a familiar voice, and I twist around, find Sirius leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest as he smirks with obvious gloating. "I've taught you well."

"Please drag Mr Black outside on your way, Evans," Pomfrey says, arranging the pillows on the bed and practically forcing James to lie back down despite his grunts of protest. My lips press together, amusement bubbling within at witnessing the whole scene, and I wait for Sirius to catch my eye, head inclining towards the door. Outside, the corridor stands empty; no doubt Pomfrey must have convinced Mary and the others to leave already.

Except this one.

"Shall we?"

"Just because you've had your time with him…" he grumbles under his breath, but follows along dutifully, nonetheless. Before we've exited the room completely, he raises a hand in farewell. "See you later, James. I'll come break you out soon enough."

"No, you won't," says Pomfrey.

"Thanks, mate!"

"Sleep."

Perhaps it's too telling: this thud of my heart, the love that flows steadily inside not hard for me to identify anymore when my eyes can't help but turn to look at James again. But perhaps, even more telling: his gaze hasn't left me once since I'd sat next to him on that bed all those minutes ago. I smile, now, because beyond all the questions and dreams and the what-ifs, the truth remains that he makes me happy. His eyes close, a small smile lingering on his mouth as we leave the room.

It's simple, really: he breathes, and the world feels right.

"Hope you didn't let him snog the entire truth out of you," says Sirius when we're a little ways down the corridor, making our way up towards the dorms again. I find that the abrupt and tactless initiation of conversation from him no longer surprises me the way it might have done once. In fact, with my chest feeling insurmountably lighter than it has in days, there's sweet affection that simmers inside me for this man, who tries too hard to not care, only to care, perhaps, the most. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

I bite down on my lip and try not to laugh. "Nothing."

"Finally lost your marbles, have you?" he asks, but the tone of his voice has shifted, and then he's smiling too, as if unable to help himself. "Stop that! Stop staring like you've got me all figured out."

But I'm laughing in earnest now, having not done so in so long that the act of it is almost foreign to me; the pleasant ache near my ribs, the shake of my shoulders, the stretching of my cheeks, and probably most importantly, the glowing I feel inside my rib-cage. I could float away with the weightlessness of it, I think, and when I look at Sirius again, I know he understands this sensation; know he feels similarly.

The relief, the happiness that surrounds me isn't mine alone—he shares it, too.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up," he says.

"Isn't Remus supposed to be the one who reads minds?"

Gray eyes slant at me. "Doesn't require a mind-reader to read you right now, Evans. You look like you've swallowed the fucking sun."

"You're one to talk," I retort, wishing my skin wasn't so quick to turn red.

We're up one flight of stairs and halfway through another when he speaks again. "I meant it though—I hope you haven't told him about Wormtail."

"I see you're using the name now," I tease, but he only looks at me expectantly, so I make a show of rolling my eyes. "Of course, not. I said I wouldn't, didn't I?"

"Actually, you never did," he counters, and a scan of my memories proves him right. "But I figured you hadn't; not enough time between all the snogging, was there?"

"Are you seriously that bothered by it?" I huff, flushing unnecessarily. "Nothing even happened; it was just… a moment. Seeing him was a little overwhelming."

I don't know if it's the tone of my voice or the words I've spoken out loud that prompt him, but Sirius suddenly rushes forward to stand one step above mine on the staircase, arms crossed over chest as he clicks his tongue, seemingly annoyed. "Fucking hell, it's not like I disapprove or anything. You don't have to look so kicked about it."

The flash of instinct to defend myself is sharp, but I temper it; there's no use lying. I do feel kicked about it; for reasons that I can't define or articulate, Sirius Black and his cynical opinions matter.

"You didn't look too pleased back there."

"Yeah, well—" he frowns. "James doesn't do the best thinking around you. And you… you have too much power."

My stomach turns queasy. "I don't."

"See, that—that there's exactly the problem!" He groans, face etched into frustration whose reason I cannot fathom. "You don't know that you do. You don't know enough, and I'm just trying to prevent that tosser back there from losing his bloody mind over you until you do, but fuck knows it's too late. It was too late ever since we'd heard you were captured. I should have known that. But it still isn't great to see him making no efforts at all."

"I'm hardly going to start hating him, Sirius, no matter what," I argue, feeling a little sick. Since we'd heard you were captured. I try to paint a picture of that, in my head; find that it's quite akin to being submerged under murky waters—how did he find out about me? What state had he been in? "Besides, I do know more than you think."

"Really, now?"

"Yes," I glare, irritation pinching around my mouth at his disbelieving, almost mocking, tone. "I know he feels guilty about not being able to prevent them from taking me. I know we knew each other for six years before… before everything. And I know…" I trail off here, throat glommed with the words I haven't dared utter earlier. Sirius watches on, one dark brow cocked in impatience. "I know we were together before he left."

The confession hangs in the space between us, Sirius's stare—still, unmoving—making me want to disappear from my own skin, drag us back to the harmless banter of a minute ago.

I dread the questions to come my way, sense my muscles tense from the anticipation of it. My mind has yet to erase how he'd thought I'd be a bitch to James, all those weeks ago when I'd just woken up. So to let him know that I hold none of that fury or hurt inside anymore—I'm prepared for it.

And yet:

"Congratulations," he says flatly, before turning around and walking up the rest of the stairs.

I've spent the last couple of hours in dazed contemplation, wondering why Sirius's voice would have rung out as unimpressed as it had. Even if James has already divulged the entire truth about our past to him—an idea that makes me not exactly uncomfortable but certainly vulnerable—there should have been more of a reaction from him; at least enough for me not to feel like a child playing in an adult's game.

Because the way he'd looked at me, towards the end… it was as if I'd told him nothing of import; as if what I've deduced about James and his guilt of leaving me behind truly do paint me in an ignorant light, still.

I blow out an exhausted breath, eyes open to the plain-looking ceiling of my room. It's hard to tell how late it is, but if I'm to guess, a little after midnight would be my bet, based on how long ago Mary had forced me to accompany her to dinner, poking and prodding to get more details of my meeting with James.

"You have to give me more than an 'it was really nice', Evans," she'd screeched. "I know Black saw you all over each other back at the clinic."

Mercifully, she'd lowered her voice for the latter part of her complaint, regardless of the fact that I'd still burned in mortification simply at her description.

All over each other.

I press a hand over my stomach now; try stupidly to curb the pleasant fluttering inside. Is that really how others might see us? I wonder. All over each other? From Sirius, the words had sounded more like an admonishment; a reluctant acceptance at best. But the idea that outsiders might perceive us as such too sends my pulse thumping in giddy exhilaration. Mary had mentioned it earlier, the supposed reputation James has unwittingly curated when it comes to me. I have not allowed myself to think of it before, haven't had the presence of mind to let myself go there. But now—

Now I sit with the feeling, the possibility of it.

Warm butter glides down my insides, and I turn sideways, hide my smile against the pillow.

Perhaps it's a little silly; grinning over a boy when there's so much else that ought to occupy my thoughts. But I shut myself to the outside world and its abyss of questions—just for this moment. I breathe in deep, and I'm just a young girl, foolishly in love.

I'm granted the luxury of staying like this for a second; another two.

And then someone knocks on my door.

For a fraction of a second, there's upset, within me—bleak reality can't help but gouge its claws into my skin and drag me out—but then, immediately after, comes the concern. The only person to have ever visited me quite this late has been Sirius, when he'd come to deposit my clothes and card on that first day at the Order. But now…

My feet swing over the side of the bed, heart tumbling in unknown panic as I move to open the door, spiralling into a pit of possibilities—each one progressively worse than the last—that could have invited someone to my room at this hour. Is someone hurt? Are we under attack? Are the boys alright? Is James?

And perhaps, it is because of this panic brewing underneath that when I finally open the door and spot the person on the other side, the blood rushing through my entire body jumps to my face. In perfect tandem with the lurch inside my chest—dizzying enough to send my fingers clamping around the doorframe.

"James," I whisper, eyes wide, mouth agape. My voice thins out embarrassingly towards the end, giving away how much his unexpected presence has affected me. "What—how did you—Pomfrey let you out?"

"A while back, yeah. It's fine—I'm perfectly alright," he answers, tripping over the phrases like he's only just realized that his feet have brought him here. He's changed out of the clothes he'd worn back at the clinic; now he stands before me in the same black uniform the rest of us wear. Only, on him, the color looks flattering in a way it never could on anyone else. Nervous anticipation floods my mouth, keeps me staring at him. "I uh… I asked Sirius for your room number."

"Right."

"Sorry, I know it's late. Well, I think it is, anyway. I've lost sense of time." He runs a hand through his hair, the action familiar enough to break me out of my stupor. "Hope you weren't sleeping."

"I wasn't," I say, and step aside, eyebrows arching slightly. My heart beats unsteadily when, after a moment's hesitation—or perhaps consideration—he steps into the little room, looking too grand for the unflattering dim lighting and simple furniture. Breath stutters within me, indecision freezing my limbs for a few seconds before I scrape out enough courage to close the door behind him. "Is everything okay?"

Behind his glasses, James's eyes flit, once, to the door, then back to me. Thankfully, he doesn't comment.

"Yeah, it's nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you."

"Okay. What about?" My hands disappear behind my back, twisting anxiously as I move to lean against the wall, watch him with faux ignorance. Even dressed in the plain cotton pyjamas and shirt I was given by Mary, I might as well be naked under the stare he levels on me, clearly not fooled.

"Your dream. What do you know from it, Evans?"

Fuck, he's relentless.

"I told you—"

"No," he stops me, "I'm interested in what you didn't tell me."

I swallow past the sudden dryness of my mouth; fail when my heart, sitting near my throat, seems to block my windpipe. "Why does it matter?"

"I don't know," he says. "Just a feeling, I suppose."

"It may not have been a memory, you know," I whisper, unsure where I'm leading myself. "Could have just been a dream."

And here, he takes two steps forward, suddenly making the distance between us feel infinitesimal. "Maybe. Maybe you're right, maybe it's nothing. But—" His warmth near me has become maddening; his gaze on my lips: burning. He's close enough to touch now, and he does; one hand reaching out to slide down my forearm, freeing it from captivity. My lungs are bereft of air. "Somehow, I don't think so."

"I don't—I just don't want you to regret it, again." My words come out too defenceless, but I keep steady when his eyes meet mine. "Regret me, I mean."

His face cuts to the side for a beat, jaw clenched, and when he looks at me again, I spot a helpless, barely-there smile on his mouth.

"Lily…" James says, "I need you to understand: I've never regretted you. Only what I've let happen to you."

"You couldn't have known," I implore, fingers of my right hand inching forward to land on his chest, right above where his heart picks up cadence. He doesn't move away, and I chance another step closer. His brows stitch together, almost as if the nearness pains him. I find I understand it. "You have to let it go, James. I'm not mad at you. If I ever was, that anger no longer exists in this world. There's no changing what happened, but now—now is what counts."

"It's not that easy. There are things you should know—"

"It won't matter," I say, and realize it to be true myself. A shake of my head. "You know what really matters? The fact that I had a dream, about us, together, in what I think was my old bedroom back at home." His eyes widen. I ground myself to the comfort of his touch; his fingers that remain against my palm; my hand against the solidness of him, and push past any self-consciousness. "And even if that was just a dream, even if it was the only time we were together like that, it made me realize how deep in I am when it comes to you. Perhaps have been since the very first moment you dropped to the floor next to me. I just didn't know it at the time. So, no, I'm sorry—nothing you say, or do, or have done, will make me see you any differently."

He remains unmoving for three seconds—I count them on the rhythm under his chest, on the blood thundering against my own years—and then something invisible seems to lift off of him, expression turning soft, the adoration on his features blindingly obvious.

"God, Lily," he exhales, half-laughing, incredulous. "I don't deserve you."

That doesn't sound right to me, and I think maybe I wasn't convincing enough, maybe he still doesn't see that I owe being alive, the peace of my mind, the firm hold I have on reality now—all of it—to him.

But before I can protest or do anything more than let the smallest of frowns line my forehead, James's free hand curves around the back of my neck, pulling me forward in a move that makes me gasp at the novel confidence of it. And when his lips brush against mine, once, slow, dipping back again for a longer stroke, that feels newer too. Or no, I amend inwardly, kissing him back, deep—it's still the same, this overwhelming intoxication of him. The only difference, now, is the purposeful nature of his actions. The reassurance that this is not something he's just fallen into; he's walked here, fully aware, heart beating in the open.

It makes all the difference in the world to me.

My fingers slip into the darkness of his hair, body fitting against his, cherishing the heat he presses into every inch of my skin. It's like relearning the notes of a familiar old song, and I smile into the kiss, knowing now that those moments I'd dreamed of were as real as the brush of James's thumb against my jaw, now. He pulls away, for a second, flush-faced and breathing hard. A small noise of protest emerges at the back of my throat, but his lips have curved into a beautiful, unreasonable grin.

"Why are you smiling?" He asks, echoes my question to me. "Hard to snog a smiling face."

"Nothing," I say, and I'm laughing a little. "Shut up. Come back here."

"That's a little bossy, Evans," he mumbles, but sounds only pleased by it. Even more pleased, still, when the kiss turns deeper, the warmth of his mouth and tongue sending liquid heat gathering between my thighs. He groans, low, brows pinched tight, and by the hardness that prods near my thigh, I know that I'm not the only one to feel the staggering intensity of this so physically.

My hands move to fumble with the collar of his shirt, blindly search for the buttons; finding one, two, three, and making quick work of removing them. James breathes a little harder, breaking away from the kiss to brush his lips against my neck, over the redness that has no doubt splattered over my skin. But my own breath stutters in my lungs when his grip around my waist tightens, his other hand slipping down from my neck and back to trail a burning path up the front of my stomach, knuckles barely gliding against the underside of my breast.

"Is this okay?" he asks, lifting his head to catch my expression. The hazels of his eyes have all but disappeared, but brightness like I've never seen burns in his gaze.

"Everything's okay," I answer, and fold wrap my fingers around his wrist to guide his hand higher.

My eyelids flutter closed as James drops a soft swear against my ear, his hand squeezing, thumb circling around my nipple. The sensation only heightens the ache between my legs, and I let my own hand slip from his shoulders to palm him through his trousers. He's hard enough to make a surge of blood rush to my face, to have desire flood my mouth as I imagine my fingers and lips wrapped around him.

James groans aloud, teeth scraping against my collar bone, and I shift around, tortured, needing him everywhere all at once. I don't realize he's managed to work through the buttons of my shirt until the heat of his touch is suddenly akin to a scorch on my skin. His hand sweeps over my sternum, breaches the edge of my bra to gently knead at my breast. I sigh in pleasure, head tilting back to rest against the wall, and can't help the whimper that escapes my lips when he rolls my nipple between his fingers.

"Lily, you—" His voice breaks off, choked, and I open my eyes, sluggish, when his other hand moves to cover mine, stilling the strokes over his outline. "You'll have to stop that. You affect me too fucking much."

I huff out a breath. "Is that a bad thing?"

James tangles his fingers with mine, brings my hand up to softly brush a kiss on the inside of my wrist. "No," he whispers against the jump of my pulse. "It's not a bad thing."

"Then let me—"

"No," he says, lips slanting into a smirk when a frown pulls at my face. "Maybe some other time. Tonight… I want it to be about you."

My heart is a creature trapped, helpless to the emotions he and his words invoke in me. I'm being burned alive; his touch like a livewire that erupts sparks all over my being—and I can't tell if it's him or me or just us, but it's hard to think when his forefinger and thumb pull at the drawstrings of my pyjamas, his mouth capturing mine again in a kiss that has me slinging an arm around his neck, fearful of being splintered apart by the feelings burgeoning inside.

His hand dips inside my waistband, and the oxygen in my body has perished.

But he pauses, delving no further. "Lily, look at me, love."

I'm helpless to do anything but obey, the endearment tugging at my heart with unbelievable force. And when I catch his eye, notice how openly he's allowed his emotions to be on display for me, I realize Sirius had been right: I hadn't known the power I hold over James.

It's identical to the one he holds over me.

It's love.

It's written all over him; on the gentle smile on his lips, the pink-stained cheeks, the relaxed muscles of his face as he watches me. I don't need to ask him, nor does he require me to spell it out, not in this moment. So, I simply let myself feel, a quiet gasp filtering past my lips when his fingers touch me, finally, and prompt my grip around his shoulders to tighten.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, that feels so good." I scrunch my eyes shut, moan into the warmth of his skin. He shifts to hike up my knee using his free hand, and I'm suffused with arousal, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from being loud. "God, James. Don't stop."

"Have no intention to," he says, and there's something so breathy about his tone that I need to look at him again. He stares back at me, lips parted, the pink on his cheeks now a dark red, glasses sitting skewed over his nose. There's awe there, on his expression. "You're so fucking beautiful."

I fail to string together words that would satisfy my need to express how he makes me feel. So I shake my head, find his lips with mine, and come apart in his hands moments later.

When the knock sounds on my door this time, I'm already on my feet, swinging it open within half a breath's notice. James smirks at the enthusiasm, eyebrows arched up to hairline, but I shrug a shoulder—there's not much left to give away, at this point—and step aside to let him in. Outside, the hallway stands eerily silent, artificial light bleeding onto the tiles and floors. An absurd surge of discomfort has me quickly closing the door.

"Alright?"

I turn to look at James, standing in the middle of my room, now dressed in his own set of pyjamas, and rub down the hairs rising on my arms. "Yes, just being paranoid, I suppose. Thanks for coming back."

After he had completely driven me over the edge and I'd felt wave after wave of pleasure rocking through my limbs, James had held me steady against him; my legs unreliable in their recovery. His lips, lingering on my temple, had curved into a grin, hand slipping out the waistband of my knickers. "Sorry for making such a mess."

"Maybe you should let me make one to reciprocate," I'd panted into the heated skin of his neck.

"That sounds entirely too enticing," he'd said, voice strained, shifting on his feet in a way that had let me know he wasn't being untruthful. "But I'd meant what I said earlier, Evans. For tonight, I don't want any of it to be about me."

I'd pulled back at the note of tenderness in his tone, chest aching with a burst of longingness I didn't understand. "Will you stay with me, here? Tonight?"

The left corner of his lips had twitched. "Again?"

"I'll be better prepared this time."

He'd laughed, the sound honey-gold and glowing. "I'll stay. But, um—" a quick darting of his eyes, chin tucking low as red bloomed on the tips of his ears. "I'll need to take care of myself first. Can't lie next to you like this."

The beat behind my rib cage had sped up, stomach simmering tellingly again. "Oh."

"Yeah." He'd looked at me, then, for two silent seconds, before pressing his lips against mine almost desperately. "Sorry. I'll be right back."

And then he'd left, gifting me with space I hadn't known what to do with. After my senses had cooled somewhat, I'd grabbed my access card and rushed to the bathroom to clean up the wetness trickling down my thighs, all the while highly aware that I had a good chance of colliding into James there. And though I'd heard the echoes of another stall opening and closing while washing myself, and spent several seconds in indecision, blood buzzing in veins, throat dry, I'd eventually taken the path back to the room, slightly mortified by my own greed.

Presently, I find him observing me with some mixture of amusement and concern, one eyebrow cocked, and I've only just realized that he's said something in response to my gratitude.

"What?"

"I said—" he sits down on the bed, the sheets still rumpled from when I'd been lying there, about an hour ago. "Did you think I wouldn't? Come back?"

"Not exactly," I say, insides a mess as I move closer to him. "Just wasn't sure, considering what happened last time."

Something shutters in his expression at that, and I'm tempted to bite my own tongue for bringing up the topic again. "I'm really sorry about back then," says James, sighing as his hand reaches out, fingers slipping comfortingly between my own. I marvel at the visual of it as he pulls me down to sit next to him. "Even sorrier for the things I said afterwards. I just didn't know how to tell you about us without talking about the rest, and—and I already hated myself for the lies I was feeding you, when you were clearly unable to trust anyone or anything else. I was so bitter, at myself, at the circumstances. I knew I had to wait until you started getting your memories back, but then I'd gone and fucked that up, too, by kissing you like that. So I just lashed out and tried to push you away, because I didn't deserve—"

"Stop saying that." James blinks in surprise, words halting as his eyes jump sideways to look at me. I squeeze his hand, stare back, hard. "Stop saying you don't deserve me. I've never thought of it that way—you feeding me lies or any rubbish like that. You told me everything you could, given the circumstances. And maybe, back then, I might have thought hearing the truth would bring me peace, but it was never quite that simple. There was so much I didn't understand, so much my mind wasn't ready to take in. So however I've pieced the flashes of my past back together, James, I'm not unhappy about it."

I tilt my chin up, dare him to convince me otherwise.

But after silence persists for a handful of seconds, with a heavy exhale, he drops his forehead on my shoulder, and I still entirely, afraid he'll move away, even after everything. "You're fucking amazing, you know that?"

"Well. You're not too bad yourself."

James laughs, one arm snaking around my waist, dragging me all but over him. My fingers clutch to the front of his shirt, a small noise of exhilaration rushing past my lips when he shifts us around the bed, stretching vertically so that I've no choice but to be trapped between him and the wall behind me. It's captivity I certainly don't mind.

I adjust sideways to face him better, drink in the sight of him: hazel eyes glinting, lips curved lazily, hair a disaster. He's happy, relaxed in a way I've never seen him before, and a part of me expands with hubris at the thought that I have contributed to this version of him that lies next to me.

"What?" he asks, and I know what he's talking about; I've been struck by a disease—I can't stop smiling.

"Just surprised to have you here."

"Still?" His smirk pulls up higher, thumb brushing against the skin revealed around my hip bone. I try not to dissolve under the contact.

"Still," I confirm. "Surprised Sirius even let you come here in the first place."

James groans. "Wasn't easy. He even tried to rope Remus into convincing me to stop."

"He's just looking out for you."

"And you're defending him now?" he gapes, and I have to press down on the hilarity bubbling up my chest. "What on earth went on between you two while I was asleep?"

And here, guilt stirs inside, unbidden and dark, my mind more than aware that I have been less than honest about certain things with James, too. But I've given my word to Sirius, and there's more to lose than gain by expressing my suspicions to him right in this moment. "We just… bonded over some things. Turns out he and I are more alike than expected."

James chuckles, face turning to muffle the vibrations into my pillow. I want to capture the sound there, never lose it to nothingness.

"I could've told you that long ago," he confesses, fingers tracing distracting patterns over my upper arm. "Although, don't let Sirius hear you say that; he'll be unbearable." At the incredulity I've been unable to mask, James rolls his eyes, the action fully exaggerated. "What? Just because he's behaving like an annoying berk right now doesn't mean he doesn't have mad admiration for you."

"And he's told you this himself, has he?" I snort.

"Doesn't need to," he says simply. "I know. He trusts you with his life."

I wonder if the same could be said about James; about his evident blind trust in me, in the Order, in all of us. But just as soon as the fear following that train of thought appears, I push it away, refuse to consider the darkness looming outside this room and night. That can come later—will come later, I know. All the conversations about my capture, about Snape, our abilities, and my role in the revolution: all of that will come later, too.

But for now, I let my gaze trace his features, safely lock away the quiet joy that shines through in them, and gently remove his glasses, touching his lips with mine.

For now, I let us be enough.

A/N - Wheeee I'm back! Please leave me some reviews, lovely beings. On an unrelated note, Happy Diwali to all my beloved Indian readers! May you have the most prosperous year ahead.