YOU ONLY SAY YOU'RE SORRY

4/?

BY: Meredith Bronwen Mallory

PAIRINGS: Lily/Narcissa, Remus/Sirius, eventual Harry/Sev

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the fourth chapter of my Harry Potter femslash fic, "You Only Say You're Sorry". Previous chapters can be found at Comments and feedback are lusted after without shame. Thank you so much for your time, and I do hope you enjoy this. ^_^

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You Only Say You're Sorry 4/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

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IV. Loyalties

[Yesterday]

It's quiet in the Gryffindor common room, after dinner, and it takes Lily a while to realize that this near-silence is because of her. It is aimed at her, sly glances from the other first years, level looks from older students and whispers between the grades. A reproach she can feel, but doesn't understand, as she sits on the wide window seat, talking with Arthur Weasley about automobiles.

Arthur is so gangly and foppish-- though such a word should probably be used on older men-- and his nearly-orange hair sticks out at every angle. Lily finds him to be rather adorable, sort of like Sunshine, the hamster in her kindergarten class. At the same time, he has the ability to make her just a little nervous-- perhaps more self-conscious than apprehensive, but it is there. He thinks Muggles are *fascinating, and is quite content to listen to her as she goes on about the things that make her homesick; the telly, being able to give her mother a ring, soda pop. He nods in all the right places and asks her for details, but after a while, she begins to feel rather like something under a microscope. Now, look class-- (and the children squint their eyes, looking down the mirrored tubes)-- eww! what is that?

Right now, Arthur is saying how he wants to own a car someday-- blue maybe, or green; he can't decide.

"Silly," says Molly Weatherby, off in the corner wrestling with Transfiguration homework. "What would you do with one?"

"Drive it, o'course," Arthur preens, and Molly shakes her head at Lily, as if they are both privy to some joke.

"Men," scoffs Molly, with the authority of a child who knows absolutely nothing of what she's talking about, but has heard it from Mum.

"You can take Molly for a ride with you," Lily suggests, smiling at the third-year girl, having seen just enough movies to have some vague idea of the word 'date'. "You can drive slow past a moonlit lake and play something by the Beatles." She means to tease him a little, or else to replace the joke Molly thought she understood, but Arthur just nods attentively, as if she has just described an important ritual. She is conscious, very conscious, of the sheer alien nature of their lives to one another. Aware, painfully, that she is as strange to him as he is to her, though perhaps not quite so wonderful.

"Which song?" asks Arthur, who can not see that Lily's face has turned to a sort of brittle glass. Does he even know what she's talking about? Maybe he thinks the Beatles really _are_ bugs; maybe, in this world, there are insects that can sing, because the Mandrakes certainly can cry.

"'Can't Buy Me Love'," Lily replies, because he is waiting for an answer, and she doesn't know how to tell him she was only kidding. Petunia has a record of that song, though she doesn't play it often-- the other side is 'Day Tripper', which is more to her style. Arthur blinks expectantly, and Lily begins to hum, just a little, off key. Her voice is very soft and stark, as illustration, against the stone chamber walls. "Can't buy me lo-ove, everybody tells me so," she sings, not looking up anymore, but rather at her feet. At her black Mary Janes, scuffed a little-- not even proper witch's shoes-- swinging back and forth as she kicks her legs. "Can't buy me lo-ove..."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Arthur!" Molly cries, "Don't pester Lily so much! Here," she cleans off the table next to her, "you have homework, too!" Her smile is wide and toothy, becoming somewhat apologetic as her gaze rests on Lily. Dear Molly-- it occurs to Lily that the Weatherby girl often pops up like that, coming to her rescue when the petri dish becomes as tad too small.

"Stupid Muggle-born," someone says, and Lily blushes, because they heard her sing-song and she doesn't have a very good voice. "You ought to forget about all that rot-- who needs it?"

"I like the Beatles, and car rides," Lily mutters softly, though really she only likes long ones, in the summer, when her family goes to the beach. Once Petunia falls asleep, Lily likes to roll the window down; the salty wind gets in her hair, and in her mouth, tasting like freedom.

"Muggles," someone else spits, mockingly, "who needs _them_? Anyway, you can always Apparate."

The sentence is barely finished before a girl nearby says, in almost a growl, "My Mum's a Muggle! You just watch it. With that sort of talk, maybe you ought to have been in Slytherin!"

"Me, a snake?" now both students are on their feet, a ring of friends scooting closer around them, to get a better look. "You want to come over here and say that?" There's a general push forward, and Lily unconsciously slides back on her ledge, as if to dissolve into the wall.

"Hush up, the lot of you!" Molly says firmly, her accent thicker with the anger on it, or maybe that's just annoyance. "We're all _Griffindors_ 'ere, never mind anything else. Takes all kinds, mind you." Lily just sits where she is, teeth hard on her tongue, because she she doesn't want to say to Molly that they weren't all Gryffindors-- brave and loyal and true-- this morning in Arthimancy. Then, they were just a bunch of people throwing things at someone, and a whole bunch of other people not doing a thing. "And," the third-year girl adds with an air of authority, not so much queenly as matronly. "We'll all be a lot of failing Gryffindors if we don't study for Transfiguration."

That seems to return things to their regular balance-- or at least drag gazes back to textbooks, instead of the undrawn line they're supposedly choosing sides of. For a few minutes, Lily is carefully still, making herself invisible. There's a trick to it, and she needs to concentrate, because right now all she wants to do is go upstairs and crawl under her covers-- all the way under, like a mouse safe in its hole. It's a long, narrow way up; not as long and precarious as her attic bedroom, but it will do. A step away, she's so relieved, it must be that she looses focus, for suddenly there is a hand on her shoulder, jerking her back into the land of things that can be seen.

"Hey."

It's the boy from Arithmancy-- not Severus, but the jaunty boy, with the easy posture and the too-certain smile. He's peering at her, brown eyes bright behind carelessly angled glasses. Lily blinks several times, on the off chance it will cause him to vanish, or else return her to that dimension behind sight. But his hand is still on her arm, a terrible anchor, and it occurs to her that her little tricks will not work here as they did at home. Here, you really can be invisible-- it's not just a state of mind.

"Hey," he says again, as if to make sure she's heard him, and after the word he leaves his mouth open a little, clearly expecting something.

She says, "James", because the name has just sifted, whole, to the surface of her mind. Said with Sirius' voice, thick with camaraderie.

"That's right." His smile brightens without a single twitch of muscle. "And you're Lily."

(Lily, yes, of Lily and Petunia-- two opposing flowers created by a woman called Rose. A whole history of blossoms, littering the English countryside; Iris, Violet, Lilac, and one Columbine, who was burned, ages ago, for a witch in some Northern county. Only now does it occur to Lily that she really might have been-- a witch. Caught in the act, found out-- as if she'd been lost somehow. Tonight, Lily will dream of the fire licking at her heels.)

But right now, this James is looking at her, waiting, and all she can do is nod because her throat is as dry as underbrush in the heat of summer. The word "witch", the word "muggle"-- the whole thing catches, and oh, does it burn.

(Petunia says, snidely as Lily is sprawled on the playground concrete, "You'll get yours someday.")

"I wanted to apologize," says James, which makes her look at him more closely, and at herself, the reflection of her own eyes in the lenses shielding his. What does he have to be sorry for, she wonders, back there behind the glass? Is he protected back there, or trapped? She can't tell; and because she can't tell, she stays quiet. This is something that annoys people-- but she only remembers that later, of course-- this silence. If she doesn't have anything to say, she doesn't put words out to fill up the space. Instead, she waits for the right ones, and sometimes it takes a while.

"For earlier today, in Arithmancy," he elaborates. "I'm sorry if you got hit. I wasn't aiming for you."

"Oh," thinks Lily, and then realizes that she's said it out loud. His grip on her arm tightens momentarily, before vanishing altogether. He looks sheepish. "You didn't hit me."

"Well," James nods, as if he was somehow right all along, "good, then."

"Will you apologize to Severus?" she asks, realizing a moment too late that he was about to turn away.

"Snivellus?" his turn to blink, now, and she winces. Does he know that those glasses refine his gaze, focus it unbearably? Like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She tried that once, out of curiosity, frightened when the green patch of grass began to smolder. Small things can be so dangerous. James wears his perplexed expression the way he seems to wear everything else-- with a sort of graceless charm.

"You were aiming for him," she murmurs softly, a mere statement of fact, not at all confrontational-- perhaps that makes it worse.

He's frowning in earnest now, with all his fresh, boyish face, "Well, yeah." There's something behind his eyes, though, in the dark ink of the pupils. Unconsciously, she leans a little closer, as if this will make it more clear. Lily knows this tone he is using-- she's heard it before, on others-- it's a careful, disinterested sort of annoyance. He feels perfectly justified, says the tone, he does not question himself.

"Alright," says Lily, coming to some only half-conscious realization. She turns, filled with something too chilled to be relief.

"Why should he?"

And-- stop! She does this perfectly, like a delicate mechanism, even if she doesn't want to. It's not a good idea to walk away from people when they're talking to you; it makes their voices want to follow you, chase you down. It's Sirius speaking, of course, sliding off the arm of the couch with an animal's bulky grace. Remus-- the fairer boy he'd been sprawled next to-- remains where he is, watchful, as if tensed to intervene. Lily offers him the barest tilt of her lips, quick so no one else can see. His old, childish gray eyes flash briefly, and he looks so tired-- the stance of someone baring the mantle 'peacekeeper'. Then, Lily dutifully raises her eyes to the strange lines and colors that are Sirius Black. "Why the hell should he apologize to bloody Snape, of all people?"

"It's his business, not mine," Lily replies truthfully, "I was just asking."

"You don't get to, do you?" Sirius peers down at her, over James shoulder. "That guy is bad news. You helped him! He's Slytherin!"

"But he wasn't." It's said softly, mostly because Lily is following her own train of logic and her attention is focused inward.

Disbelief. "What?"

"Until a two weeks ago, he wasn't anything," she raises her hands, as if to hold up the idea, to argue and illustrate it, "before we were sorted, I mean. And I wasn't Gryffindor, either. I don't feel any different."

"Merlin's spawn!" Sirius snorts now, tossing his chin-length mane, "Did you _know_ him two weeks ago?"

"No."

"So it doesn't count!" While there is something very definite and strange in the way James is making his face blank now, Sirius doesn't notice, leaning on him while he condescends to explain. "Look, missy."

"Lily," James corrects.

A roll of ebony eyes. "_Lily_." He moves to stand in front of her, blocking the stairs, "Snivellus is bad news, trust me. His whole family's been throwing their lot with Dark Wizards since anyone can remember. If you're not careful, he'll hex you or turn you into something awful."

Lily can feel her eyes narrowing and bites into her lip. She thinks about her thick volumes of fairy tales, old leather bindings trust worthy and worn-- about the feel of them in her hands. This keeps her from balling up her fists; because, how can you tell? In the stories, the shining golden princess would cast her light and eat away at the witch until there wasn't anything but shadows. And Lily knew, even then, that she'd never sleep like a peaceful statue, never bite into an apple without thinking twice, never let a handsome stranger help her up onto his white steed. She knew, before anyone else told her, that she was in the ether with the witch.

It's as if Sirius can see that she is not convinced, but he doesn't back down-- his stance shifts, and Lily knows that every eye in the room is on her back. The gazes are crawling down her spine, gathering at the base, and James seems to have stepped a little closer to her for some reason.

"Besides," Sirius waves a hand, as if polishing his argument, "he's a pouf. His hair's so long-- you can tell."

"Your hair is long," Lily points out, and starts to walk around the taller boy.

There's sputtering, "Are you trying to--"

"Siri..." that must be the Lupin boy, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa.

"Leave her alone, Sirius," James says pleadingly, and if Lily were to turn around, she'd see him glance at Molly Weatherby, but she's not paying attention. Instead, she plants her gaze right in the middle of Black's forehead, tilts her chin up and spreads her feet apart as if she's just picked up a sword.

"You're wrong about Severus," she says, quiet and clear, "you're just wrong. Now." She imagines she's wearing armor, just like when Petunia's shoving becomes too unbearable, and she has to push back. "Let me pass."

She doesn't wait, though, she darts around him, too lithe for her imaginary chain mail and helmet. Up the stairs, one two three and loosing count. His voice follows her, of course, but she closes the door on it, leaves it knocking with the words, "Boy, is she dense." Off come her black robes, her skirt, her knickers and her tie-- watch them fly! She tosses them gracelessly towards her trunk, sits on her bed in her panties and her little pink silk shift, eyes on the plain 'muggle' photo of her family. She keeps it pinned to the lid of her trunk, along with a picture of her house and the fairy prints she cut out of magazines. Mother, Father and Petunia at the train station, on platform 9 3/4-- one of those instant snapshots that she had to blow on for the colors to come up. Mom looks enchanted, Father unreadable, and Petunia just as cross as always.

("Better the devil you know." Who said that? Father, on one of the rare occasions Mum let him have more than one drink.)

Sliding under her covers, Lily pulls them all the way up over her head, cheek on the pillow while her fingers trace the beautiful, willowy timber of her wand.

"This isn't going to make things any easier," she tells it quietly, because Professor McGonagall says that your wand is a part of you, and Lily thinks it ought to be informed. Be ready. She closes her eyes and settles into her bones.

And Sirius is still wrong, because she's not dense. She's not solid at all, but rather like a vapor-- she rises from her marrow, up and up and up, until no one can reach her.

No one at all.