A/N: So, so much love to you all for all the kind messages on chapter one. I'm genuinely blown away and it feels so good to be back sharing the nonsensical chaos that goes on in my head.
Next chapter…a Lily POV. This is my first attempt at a dual-POV fic and I'm so excited! (And, like, nervous? Which lol because I have over a million words published at this point…but the nerves never fully leave.)
Thank you for making my November brighter. Love you all.
Chapter Two
JAMES
"Thank you," Lily murmurs the moment she and James reach the top of the cellar stairs. Immediately, the opening behind them vanishes, replaced by the most innocuous of wooden floors. While it had once taken James months to adjust to the appearance and reappearance of his parents' hiding place, she seems to take the disappearance in stride. "I don't want to put anyone in any more danger, especially not your family, but—I don't do well in windowless rooms. Between that and everything that happened and the energy it took to cast and then to focus on brewing, I couldn't—"
"You don't have to explain it to me." Truly, she doesn't. "I can't sit still to save my life."
The shop remains in the same state of disarray that they'd left it—lights dim, windows covered, floor littered with smashed bottles containing hundreds of galleons of wasted potions. Fumes still drift lazily upwards, gathering in swirling combinations against the ceiling, where greens and blues and purples and pinks all twist like slow-moving cyclones. The sweet, cloying scent of it all, heady enough to make his vision blur, propels him towards the far corner of the shop where a closed door awaits. With a brief placement of his palm, the lock on the brass knob gives way, and a new set of stairs comes into view when the door swings noiselessly upon its hinges.
She follows him silently, her footsteps barely audible in contrast to the way his draw out every creak and squeal of floorboards. The smile in her voice comes through more audibly than her steps. "You and Sirius both, to hear Remus tell it. Peter is apparently a bit better behaved."
She sounds so normal intoning Remus' name—so normal and casual and fond—that any prior understanding for Remus' secrecy vanishes in an instant.
"How do you know Remus?" he asks, the question no longer satisfied to remain dormant in his chest. "I mean—I know everyone in his life, or at least I thought I did. He's never spoken about you. Ever. How did you meet?"
In contrast to his inelegant demand and uncertain fumbling, she speaks with careful calculation. "We met through mutual friends," she explains, and her tone alone—even, soothing, completely reasonable—somehow makes her sound as though she shares deep information despite simultaneously saying nothing. "He's helping me brew something."
Another door awaits at the top of the steps, and this one, too, unlocks when it recognizes his palm. As he steps past the threshold and into the warm, comforting, familiar sights and scents and feeling of his flat, a glance over his shoulder reveals that a little of the color has returned to her cheeks. "Remus is shit at brewing. He always has been."
Her head ducks slightly as she smiles, and she gives a quiet snicker towards the floor. "Oh, I know. I think it's a mental block at this point, although he's never wanted to hear that." With more nearly-silent steps, she follows him through the open door, although she doesn't move past the entryway. Instead, she closes the door behind herself and leans against it, her hand still wrapped around the knob, as her brilliant green eyes sweep across the cluttered chaos before them. Trainers line one wall, most haphazardly chucked in a pile. In contrast, four brooms hang neatly upon the opposite wall, each one boasting a glossy handle and carefully-trimmed twigs. Quidditch gear lies nearby, an entire array of beater's pads and keeper's gloves and seeker's goggles. "Do you play?"
Further inquiries into her relationship with Remus vanish, probably as intended. "I did at Hogwarts, yeah. Chaser. Do you—"
"We didn't have Quidditch where I went to school."
A pause, one vaguely awkward and a little stilted. "Oh." Really, what else can he say?
He's heard stories about the education centers for muggleborns, of course, although they have always just remained that: stories, and those spoken of vaguely and quietly in the far corners of polite society. The muggleborns he comes into contact with regularly hold low-paying positions in the lower-rungs of businesses in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, recognizable as a distinct and separate class by the blue badges worn just above their hearts, each emblazoned with a simple 'M.' Whether bussing tables at The Leaky Cauldron, sweeping droppings at Eeylops Owl Emporium, or scrubbing floors at Honeydukes, no man or woman with such a badge has ever seemed keen to so much as look him in the face, and probably with good reason. Just such an action would have rendered a quick Cruciatus Curse from many fellow purebloods who had walked the corridors of Hogwarts with him.
The topic of school reemerges again moments later. "That's Remus' room," he tells her as she follows him down the hall towards the kitchen, and she pauses near the ajar door. "You might as well," he says as her hand lingers along the glossy doorframe. "He won't mind. Sirius and Pete and I invade his privacy at least twenty times a day."
She smiles again, another soft, pretty fraction, and nudges the door open. Light spills from the hallway into Remus' dark bedroom, illuminating the juxtaposition of his neatly-made bed, his cluttered nightstand, his carpet littered with various jumpers and t-shirts, and his immaculate desktop. The desk sits nearest the door, and Lily steps inside just far enough to touch the simple oak top. Her fingertips brush a pair of worn quills, ghost over a pot of cobalt ink, and come to rest on an open book in the center of the desk. Even from several feet away, James can make out the battered edge to the pages and the split binding that allows it to hang open of its own accord. "This is mine," she says, sudden warmth injecting her tone. "Here, look—"
He steps closer, out of the warm light of the hallway and into Remus' dim bedroom. Across the room, just visible through the drawn shades, lights flicker in the alley below them. Fire? Wandlight? It's impossible to tell either way, but the silence that accompanies the ghostly light hangs in the air almost more heavily than the typical screams that haunt his dreams.
She cradles the book between her hands, Remus' open place marked with a finger tucked between pages, and turns to the title page. Defense for Mudbloods: Volume III, heavy, black letters proclaim. Underneath that, written in careful block print in navy ink, she gestures to four words. Property of Lily Evans.
Evans. Lily Evans. It has a certain ring to it, one he almost misses entirely in the distaste that floods his mouth at the sight of the slur written so casually in the book's title.
"This is my Defense textbook from third year," she explains, her fingers stroking her name. "I loaned it to Remus weeks ago—I'd almost forgotten—"
She opens the book back to Remus' place, where a yellowed werewolf snarls gruesomely from an illustration box in the corner. Cursed, the text reads. Dangerous. Violent. Untrustworthy. Filth. Blood. Pain.
His own education on werewolves had sounded relatively similar, although certainly couched in terms that had turned his stomach just a little less.
"Do you really think he should read that?" he asks. "That's not—it can't be good for him, seeing that—"
To his surprise, she laughs.
"I said something similar, but you know Remus. He's stubborn, and it's not like it's anything people haven't said directly to his face. He wanted to know what Mary and I had learned in school and how it stacked up compared to what he and Peter had learned at Coldwell's. I'm surprised he didn't demand to see your texts from Hogwarts."
"He probably would have, if Sirius or I had kept them. He knows us well enough to know that we didn't." Before his eyes, she flicks to the next page, and they stare in silence at the animated transformation of a werewolf. Slowly, exaggeratedly, and with great pain present upon the illustration's face, the man's spine splits, arching upwards through broken skin into a telltale hump James recognizes well. Fur follows, sprouting from smooth arms and calves, and then bursts through the tattered fabric of the man's shirt, which falls open in shreds. His slacks tear next as the man's feet narrow and elongate and his hands twist into gnarled, mangled claws. All the while, as his face lengthens and his jaw widens and his teeth grow into long, gnashing fangs, the illustration's mouth pulls open in a silent scream James can almost hear. "He would have gotten into Hogwarts, you know." It feels important to say, although for reasons he doesn't quite understand. "Remus. He would have tested in easily if they let werewolves in."
"Oh, I know." She speaks softly, her words quietly confident. "He's brilliant."
It makes very little sense, but, wrenching his eyes away from the book to check on the soft hold of her mouth, a wild, impulsive thought hits.
He'd give a lot—an alarming amount, really—to hear her talk about him that way.
"He's said it's just as well, though." Carefully, she places the book back onto Remus' desktop. After a critical second, she adjusts the spine at a slightly different angle, as if to settle it perfectly back into place. "More than once, he's told me that he's glad he ended up at Coldwell's because he met Peter there, and life wouldn't be the same if it weren't the four of you."
Warmth floods James' chest. It's all too easy to imagine Remus speaking those words, so easy that it almost feels as if he stands somewhere in the shadows of his room to intone those very words with his typical gentle smile. "Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, we wouldn't have known Pete otherwise."
What would that world look like? It's impossible to even imagine.
Lily follows him from the room, and he hears the door latch quietly behind her. "And you two grew up together, right? You and Remus?"
Lights already burn brightly in the kitchen, and the radio plays as well—both presumably accomplished at Sirius' hands, with Peter gone for the week to source new animals for the Magical Menagerie and Remus off that morning to visit his father. An open bottle of Firewhiskey and a half-finished glass rest near the edge of the table, where a single chair sits slightly askew, as if Sirius had vacated the area quickly, perhaps as the wards had first fallen. A small puddle of condensation remains pooled around the underside of the glass, and it beckons to him. "Our dads are friends." The tumbler slips slightly underneath his fingers, and whiskey burns as it slips down his throat. "I've known him my whole life. Do you want a drink?"
For a moment, she simply eyes the bottle at his side, her eyebrows tilted downwards in a way he can't identify. Only when her gaze flickers to his face, where she holds contact for only the briefest of moments, does he understand.
She still doesn't trust him. Not entirely. And he can't exactly blame her, even if it does sting a little.
"I should eat something," she says after a strange, almost tense pause. She steps towards the radio. "If it's not too much trouble. I feel like I'm making constant demands around here, but—the magic I did—" She hesitates, her fingers on the knob. Static fills in the air. "It took a lot out of me."
A new station crackles to life. "—stay indoors," a robotic male voice intones through the radio's speakers. It's the same recording that plays at least twice a week on the same nights that the alley devolves into shouts and screams and chaos. "Wards are in place. Attempts to Disapparate will result in splinching. Apparation in is not possible. Attempts at magic—"
"Turn it off and sit down." To his surprise, she listens to both. Her left leg nearly collapses out from under her, her knee shaking as she lowers herself into one of the four chairs that line the table. "Here—" Coexisting comes easily, far easier than it should with strangers in silent rooms while unknown anarchy reigns outside. Those sharp eyes follow him, piercing through his back, as he procures a large glass of water from the tap and a smaller one to set beside the bottle of Firewhiskey. "Have a drink or don't. I'll drink it for you if you don't."
She smiles, and it illogically feels like victory.
"Can I ask—" Her slender fingers stroke the side of the whiskey bottle for a moment, and then she splashes a bit into her waiting glass. "Why on earth did you help me? It doesn't make any sense why you'd even step outside in this, but—to actually interfere—" With one hand, she lifts the water to her lips for a long swallow, one which she follows by a daintier sip of whiskey. "I mean, Remus said you have this 'saving people thing,' but—"
He'd bent to open the icebox, and his breath comes out in a frosty puff as he laughs. "He said what?"
Her smile has opened by the time he turns to look at her, the result more genuine and honest than any she's yet aimed his way. Again, it feels like victory. "I'm just repeating what he said," she insists. "But you must see it. You rescued Sirius from his family, Remus from his lycanthropy, Peter from—well, himself, to hear Remus tell it—"
Apparently, Remus had told her not just a little about him, but a lot.
He stands sharply, so sharply that his head connects with the bottom of the cupboard below him, although the sharp sting of pain barely registers. "What—" The word slips out sharply, so sharply she jerks back a little, as if slapped. A deep breath helps him stifle a little of the panic stabbing at his nerves. "What do you mean, from his lycanthropy? What do you know? What—"
She blinks once, twice, a third time; the silence in the room no longer hangs quite so easily. "I don't know much." Careful contemplation reenters her voice, as if she no longer speaks as freely. "Remus just said that you all have helped him. That's what I'm trying to do for him too."
Silence reigns for another moment. Tension holds, thick and heavy in the air, and then breaks.
"Sorry." A hand through his hair helps very little at all. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"There's nothing to apologize for."
Again, silence follows.
"Right." His cheeks warm, he returns to the comforting frost of the icebox. "How—what do you mean, you're trying to help him?"
"I really can't say much." And it shows, evident in the countless pauses that litter her slow, stilted explanation. "I'm a brewer, mostly, although I dabble in Charms too."
Grindelwald's troops, floating through the air like puppets without strings and all at the power of her hands, flashes into the forefront of his mind.
Dabble. Right.
"I've been working on a potion for over a year now." Her glass thuds dully against the heavy wooden tabletop. "A cure is my ultimate goal, although I'd settle momentarily for at least a treatment for the symptoms. I think it's possible, but it hasn't—"
In his haste to look at her, he nearly hits his head a second time. "A cure for lycanthropy?"
She nods as she lifts her glass again. After draining the contents, she looks the better for it. "It's how I met Remus. I needed someone to volunteer blood, someone I could observe, and someone I could eventually test on, although I'm not there yet. We hit it off as friends immediately. He really is so kind and intelligent, and he's helped—"
"And he never told me?"
The second time around, she doesn't so much as flinch at the sharpness that inflects his tone. "He swore he wouldn't tell anyone. It's not a state-approved attempt—and, technically, they monitor muggleborns attempting any sort of magic so closely that they don't even know that I brew anymore. I'd end up in Azkaban if anyone found out. Or worse. Probably worse."
He can only stare. "So why tell me?"
She meets his gaze unwaveringly. "Why help me?"
It comes down to that, really, and he has no response.
She has one. Softly, reassuringly, she extends an offering with the palm of her hand. "I won't speak on anything that happened tonight or anything I saw. I want you to know that the secrets of your family are safe with me. It only seems fair that you know some of mine too."
A retort leaves his mouth, thoughtless and glib, before he can stop it. "What, it wasn't enough to find out that you and my cousin are trying to single-handedly take down the state?"
Her eyes flash with laughter suppressed; with a sweep of one hand, she brushes fringe behind her ear. "I guess it wasn't." She stands, and her weight settles a little more easily than before. "Can I help you? I'm not great at sitting still either. It's gotten me in trouble most of my life. My mum used to—"
Down the narrow hall and echoing in the silence, a doorbell buzzes.
All returning color drops from her face. The pallor in her cheeks whitens to that of a ghost, so bloodless that she looks close to fainting, although she doesn't so much as sway. Instead, her knuckles curl into a fist at her side, and they flex there, as if searching for a wand she doesn't have.
"Fuck." The swear escapes his mouth unbidden, and adrenaline spikes there, sharp and bitter. "Fuck, what—"
"We're shagging."
Whatever he'd expected in the churning recesses of his mind, it hadn't been that.
A carton of eggs nearly slips between his fingers. "What?"
Her full mouth thins with purpose until her jaw tightens enough to snap. "We're shagging. That's what we'll say. They'll believe it. Easily. They won't even question it." Without hesitation—truly, without thinking, based on the look on her face—she pulls her blouse up over her head. "Take off your shirt—and shoes and socks, and your belt—quickly—"
The air—all of the air—promptly vacates his lungs.
He doesn't move. He can't move, truly, as the doorbell buzzes a second time, this chime held down even longer than the first. As she steps towards him, only one thought breaks through the hazy panic that clouds his mind: that of the image of Sirius' expression, no doubt every bit as panicked as his own, as he hears that same buzzing from the cellar.
Calmly, almost patiently, Lily removes the egg carton from his limp hand, sets them on the counter, and closes the icebox beside him. Her own chest rises and falls as quickly as his own, and he can hear each breath leave her lungs. "Trust me," she urges. "Trust me, James, this will work, but I need you to—"
Something spurs him into action. Is it her pleading use of his name, or her fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt, or a third press of the doorbell below them? The reason doesn't matter. Quickly, in moments almost frenzied, he follows her instructions to the letter—shirt pulled up and over his head, belt removed, shoes and socks discarded on the tile floor. "What should I—"
"Answer the door." She picks up his shirt and pulls the sleeves right side out. "Act reluctant to bring them up here, but do it. If they ask my name, give it. Lily Evans."
"I remember." Why does he have to tell her that? "So just—"
"Bring them up here," she repeats. "Once they're here, they'll leave you alone. They'll focus on me. Trust me. I know how this works."
What is 'this,' exactly? Run-ins with the state in the midst of an act of rebellion that could get them both killed? Or faking a sexual relationship with a bloke in order to get out of it?
"Go." Her hands reach around her back, as if searching for the clasp of her bra. "Go, and—which one is your room?"
A slender purple strap slips down one pale shoulder, and his heart pounds with the force of a bass drum as he looks away. "It's—next to Remus', on the left—"
"Go," she repeats once again. Almost as if on cue, the doorbell rings repeatedly, each staccato note tearing through the air. "This will work out. I promise. Just trust me."
What else can he do?
xxx
For twenty-five years, he's always enjoyed adrenaline in any form.
Positive or negative; it has never mattered. Breaking curfew at Hogwarts had flipped his stomach in the same way that had come from racing recklessly on a broom. All the full moons passed lodged in Moony's jaws had filled his bloodstream with the same heady sense of giddy intensity that had accompanied the most arousing of intimate moments with past girlfriends. The handful of times he and Sirius had nearly gotten caught at some illegal action in Potters' Potions Plus had felt nearly identical to childhood mischief and harmless pranks. The seriousness of the act had never mattered much. He'd sought adrenaline often and however he could, from the youngest of ages to the moment he descends the staircase from his flat.
It therefore makes sense—although it also very much doesn't—that the urge to laugh bubbles in his stomach as he clambers towards the shop, shirtless and barefoot with his trousers hanging loose around his hips. That urge to laugh only increases, and tenfold, at the sight of Sirius dashing from the stockroom—or, rather, at the sight of Sirius spotting him. With great, unintended comedic timing, Sirius skids to a stop so completely that he nearly topples over entirely.
"What the fuck, Prongs—" he begins, his hands moving restlessly at his sides. James, too, misses the comforting solidness of his still-useless wand. His fingers hang empty without it. "What are you—"
An explanation tumbles out as James picks his way carefully across the broken glass still streamed across the floor. "Lily and I are shagging," he says, and Sirius' jaw drops. Quickly, he corrects himself. "I mean—that's—that's the story we're going with. You—we'll say you were in the stockroom or something, but—"
Laughter bursts from Sirius' lungs, laughter so brazen and wild that the room pulses with it.
"Oh, fucking hell," he says, the words forced out between laughter. "I thought you meant—if you'd actually managed it in the ten minutes you'd been gone, I—mate, I would have bowed down to you, seriously. I mean, obviously you fancy her—you wouldn't have gone through all this trouble if you didn't—but I figured—"
A slick puddle of a shimmering peach potion sends James' heel out from under him. Only at the last minute, with a frantically waved arm, does he manage to catch himself upon the countertop. "That's not why—I didn't even know what she looked like, you git, not before—"
"Sure, sure, whatever." Sirius rubs at his face, as if to drag some of the amusement away, and comes up looking more somber save for the light in his eyes. "I told everyone to stay downstairs no matter what, so go on. Open the door. Let's playact our way through this thing."
He shouldn't enjoy it so much. He shouldn't enjoy it at all, and neither should James, but—
Maybe life has been too kind to them. Sure, life has been terrible around them—even closely around them, as close as Henry Potter and Matilda McKinnon—but to them personally? They've had it easy, wonderfully easy, from birth.
James has just enough time to feel that realization hit, flashes of a thought well worth investigating later—if later comes with his life still in his hands—before he unlocks and opens the door.
The alley remains silent, strangely and entirely and almost piercingly so. That silence rings in his ears as odd, flickering light, the same light he'd noticed from Remus' windows, backlights the duo of wizards on the stoop until their crimson robes burn like flames. Without awaiting an invitation, the one in front pushes his way past James.
"About fucking time," the wizard snaps, and it takes his voice and the dim lights of the shop for James to recognize Randall Mulciber. Eldred Avery steps in behind him and closes the door with a sharp shove. Rather than manually turning the lock under his hand, Avery opts to flick his short, blunt wand instead. The lock clicks instantly.
The empty feeling in James' hands only intensifies. His palms begin to sweat.
Mulciber stretches out his stance importantly; his hands disappear to clasp behind his back. "What kept—" he begins, but he stops himself short as his eyes, a pale blue transformed all the bluer thanks to the bloodshot veins around his irises, take in the entirety of James' disheveled appearance. "What was the holdup, Potter?"
Fuck, how things had changed in seven years. Once upon a time, back in Hogwarts' halls, he wouldn't have hesitated to jinx Mulciber for speaking to him at all, let alone with such a tone of smug superiority. Back then, they'd rarely spoken, and had only interacted outside of the classroom in the most negative of ways. It hadn't surprised him an ounce to see him or Avery join up with Grindel's Gang the second they'd graduated, but dislike had still festered under his skin every time he'd caught a glimpse of either in the streets, and more intensely than ever.
Helpless. He's helpless against the pair of them as he'd never been in school.
"I have company upstairs." Act reluctant, Lily had instructed, not that he needed the instruction. Just speaking to them came reluctantly. "Sirius was in back. I guess we both figured the other would get the door."
Avery glances over the entirety of the shop, and his expression doesn't shift at the general chaos. "We've shut the district down," he says shortly. "You must have noticed the anti-magic wards if nothing else. That should have told you that something was amiss. Answering the door when the wards are in place is mandatory. You're lucky we didn't break the door down. We could have. We should have."
Yeah, he'd never liked Avery. Even at Hogwarts, when given the tiniest amount of power as a prefect, he'd taken it as far as he could.
"We answered." No trace of laughter remains on Sirius' face. If anything, faint disgust lingers around the twist of his mouth as he surveys the dramatic sweep of Avery's cloak. "It just took a minute. Calm your tits, Avery. It's not the end of the world."
Except Avery could end their world, and easily, if so desired. The sudden, sour grin that twists Avery's narrow face imparts that he clearly recognizes the exact same.
"We'll need to search the premises," he announces, and his cloak billows again as he crunches over broken glass towards the counter. "This leads to the back, right?" Without waiting for an answer, he ducks into the backroom, his wand held aloft, and disappears from view.
"For fuck's sake—" Sirius sighs, and with no attempt at volume control. With a second long-suffering sign, he follows Avery out of sight.
"Who else is on the premises?" Mulciber demands. He leaves the entryway to peruse the shop floor, the snap of his dark head immediate around every tall shelf, as if he expects an adversary around every corner. "Records indicate two other occupants—a half-blood and a werewolf. The mongrel, he works here, doesn't he?"
The muscles in James' shoulders tense to the point of pain and hold firm. Over his shoulder, Mulciber casts a taunting little smile that reeks of mockery, of power, of knowing. He won't give him the satisfaction of showing his upset—he won't—but—
But it's impossible not to.
"Remus works here, yes." The final word cracks under strain, the same strain that aches in his back. It had taken very minimal effort to convince his parents to give Remus a job after Hogwarts, although he works more behind the scenes than out front. That decision had come at Remus' hands and no one else's—a decision borne to protect Potters' Potions Plus from the boycott of bigots. "He's not home right now. Neither is Peter. They were both outside the district when the wards went down."
Mulciber nods shortly and just once. The oil in his hair gleams in the lamplight, slick and dangerous. "So it's just you and Black, then? And…your company?"
'Your company' comes out in much the same way as 'mongrel'—as if Mulciber thinks very little of whatever company James might rustle up, given who he lives with: a half-blood, a werewolf, and a blood traitor.
Maybe he does have some sort of 'saving people thing.'
"Yes."
"Show me."
Meeting Mulciber's eyes sends James hurtling straight back to Hogwarts and the past. The derision, the challenge, the holier-than-thou glint—nothing has changed. Mulciber hasn't changed, not an ounce, except to have gained a bit of power and to have apparently acquired a taste for it.
"Listen, Randall—" Mulciber's name tastes like poison upon his tongue. "I've got a woman upstairs. Whatever you're looking for—whatever made you close down the district—neither of us are wrapped up in it. You don't need—"
Mulciber's smile only grows, until every tooth shines with predatory glee. "I'll need to hear that from her, if you don't mind. And if you do mind—" He shrugs. "I don't care."
He should have fought less with the Slytherins at Hogwarts. Yet, at the same time—
Well, seven years out and he still wants to fight with them. Badly.
Act reluctant, Lily had instructed—but, again, she hadn't needed to. There's nothing feigned in the swallowing of his pride. "Alright. Fine. Come upstairs."
Victory flashes across Mulciber's face, and only every ounce of self-control in his body stops James from punching it away.
xxx
Domestic bliss awaits him past the front door of the upstairs flat, a bliss so natural and easy that he wonders, for one wild moment, if he's stepped into someone else's home.
Music floats through the air; the scent of frying sausages accompanies the honeyed notes of "Felix Felicis State of Mind," an oldie and one of his mum's favorites. Even from the doorway, he can hear Lily singing along with the radio.
"Is everything alright?" she calls the second the door opens. Without awaiting an answer, she adds a second question. "How many eggs do you want?"
What had he expected, truly? His overwrought brain hadn't allowed him the time to even contemplate what he might find in the kitchen, but he certainly hadn't expected to find Lily standing at the stove, a spatula in one hand and the other cocked casually upon her hip.
And, even though she'd begun to undress in front of him, he hadn't expected to find her clad only in the button-down shirt that he'd just stripped from his torso. The rest of her clothing—and his belt and shoes and socks—lay nowhere in sight.
She'd taken her hair down, too, thick red tresses unwound from their intricate plait, and the heavy mass swings faintly between her shoulder blades with the subtle shift of her body. With a question on her face, she glances towards the doorway; the question grows exponentially when her eyes slide past him towards where he knows Mulciber lurks, brilliant in his crimson robes. Silently, carefully, she lowers the spatula in her hand to rest upon an empty burner beside her. Then, quite simply, she waits.
What is he meant to say? What is his next move? How is he supposed to play out this act she's set up between them?
"There's issues in the alley," he explains. The day's stubble slides roughly under his fingers as he rubs at his jaw. "They're conducting door-to-door searches, although I'm not sure what for. Mulciber, are you satisfied?"
"No." A muscle jumps in each of Mulciber's cheeks, but a smile doesn't emerge. Not then. The wand in his hand twists neatly—threateningly—between long, bony fingers. "No, you know how this goes. I have to search room to room, and I'll need to examine her wand."
He's sat through searches before—scores of them, those that have tried his patience greatly, although never as this—but Mulciber's latter demand gives him more than a moment of pause. "Her wand? Why—"
"Standard protocol when investigating mudbloods." Mulciber's voice comes out slickly, slimily, like hot grease or oil. "That is what you are, isn't it?"
Lily turns back towards the stove. Wood creaks underneath her feet as she shifts weight upon bare legs. She answers towards the sausages. "Yes."
There, finally, Mulciber's smile breaks free. He bears every tooth in a grin almost feral, and it's one he directs entirely towards James. "I knew it. Potter, I'm impressed. Back at Hogwarts, you always acted like you were above the rest of us who slummed it sometimes, but here you are—"
Irritation stabs at the back of James' neck with the force of an axe swung. "Let's start that search, shall we?"
Laughter spills from Mulciber's chest in a steady stream of guffaws, each one as harsh and ugly as the laughter that had once echoed the corridors at Hogwarts. The mere sound of it makes the tips of James' fingers itch—and then, swiftly, helplessness follows. His wand matters not at all.
"Sure," Mulciber agrees, still chuckling. "Let's."
"My cloak is in your room," Lily says before they can duck away fully. "Will you grab it for me? My wand is in my pocket."
Meeting her eyes comes difficultly. In contrast to the vivid red curls around her cheeks, her eyes have gone greener still, almost painfully vibrant in the dim kitchen light. His shirt gapes a little further at her collarbone as she stretches one arm up and around her head to sweep her hair all to one shoulder, where it remains for only a fraction of a second before a delicate strand of fringe spills over one cheek. Immediately, his fingers itch again, but not for his wand.
"'Course." Behind him, Mulciber gives another snigger. "Three eggs, please."
She smiles. "Sure thing."
Mulciber's laughter abates as he begins his search, replaced by a stony seriousness only further highlighted by the lit tip of his wand. He asks for no further permission as he strides into open doorways and throws open closed doors, and he searches silently as he probes far corners of each room, muttered casts falling from his lips at random times. In the dark, messy confines of Sirius' closet; beside a stack of clothing in Peter's room; underneath Remus' bed—spells in shades of light blue and deep golden and dark red spark and flash and scan. Each one strikes like an unspoken taunt, further grating on James' nerves already stretched thin, until he breaks.
"Seriously, there's no one else here," he very nearly snaps as Mulciber approaches his room. "There's no need for any of this. I would think that my word would count for something, but you're—"
Mulciber pauses with his hand on the doorknob. He smiles rather strangely. It's not a look James likes. "Your word doesn't count for anything, though. It's a shame, really. It could have, if only you'd chosen differently at Hogwarts. You had plenty of chances."
And so he had. He'd never once regretted not following a different path—an easier path—and, looking at the sharp mocking in Mulciber's eyes—
He still doesn't.
That mocking spills over, once again falling free in thick, mirthful laughter, the second Mulciber pushes open his bedroom door.
A single bulb burns dimly from the lamp at his bedside, one he hadn't left on that morning. He also hadn't left his bed unmade, although the pulled back duvet and the rumpled sheets catch his attention next. And then—
Shoes. A pair of women's boots, black leather and low-heeled, lay directly past the threshold, one tipped upon its side. A matching set of dark socks rests nearby, trailing towards his bed. Behind them sits a pair of jeans turned half inside-out; several feet away, discarded near his desk, is the blouse he'd watched Lily pull from her torso. Her bra, all purple satin and lace, drapes across his own shoes and socks beside the bed. And his belt—
His belt loops around one of the exposed wooden slats of his headboard, the buckle open and lying limply across one pillow and the implication clear.
Any hint of danger vanishes from Mulciber's countenance in an instant.
His wand lowers; again, laughter comes, harsh and sharp and ugly. "Oh, well done," he says, and it sounds like true praise, the truest praise James can imagine from him. "Like I said—always thought you were above all this, but there's nothing like a mudblood, is there? Except maybe a muggle. They'll let you do anything, although—if she's letting you tie her up, there's not much that one can say no to either, is there?"
Adrenaline twists painfully in James' stomach, coiling until it aches. He doesn't trust himself to answer.
Sirius and Avery await them in the kitchen. In contrast to Avery's stiff bearing and twisted mouth, between his sprawled posture to the casual way he twists his whiskey glass between his hands, Sirius wears a look of utmost comfort. "—at least feed me, since I gave you the freedom of the flat," he says as James enters, and he speaks with all the openness of a good friend, his very being one of nothing but easy charm and banter. "C'mon, do you think Remus or Pete would have the decency to give you this much space if they were home? No, you know Pete would be bugging James for every spare minute of his attention, and Remus would have set up some—"
"Anything?" Avery asks shortly.
Humor still shines too brightly in Mulciber's eyes. "Nothing incriminating, at least." Those same pale eyes watch, undeniably curious, as James joins Lily at the stove to hand her both the jeans he'd picked up from his bedroom floor and the cloak he'd snagged off the back of his desk chair. "You'll have to do that here," he adds, and a fresh grin twists free across his jaw. "Get dressed, that is. It's protocol not to let suspects out of sight. You understand, I'm sure."
The good humor on Sirius' face collapses.
James can feel his own expression settle into identical lines. "Don't be daft," he says, the words spoken just barely on the other side of snapping. "You literally just left her alone in here while you went all over the flat. Don't—"
"It's protocol."
The irritation between his shoulder blades slides down his spine like a knife drawn slow and taut. "Fuck protocol. That's not why you're doing this. This is humiliation, and you're not—"
"It's fine, James." Lily sounds more even—far more even—as she bends at the waist to slip her jeans over her ankles. His shirt dips forward dangerously from the smooth skin of her chest, and he has a single second, maybe two, to spy a soft scattering of freckles and a smooth swell of skin before he forces himself to look away. By the time he looks back, she has her zipper secured and the snap closed. With short, efficient movements, she pulls the hem of his shirt down over her hips and smooths the fabric downwards once, twice, a third time. It offers the only hint of nerves; in contrast, she speaks almost robotically, as if she reads off a script. "My name is Lily Evans. My muggleborn ID number is 3982. Let me turn the sausages so they don't burn, and then I'll get my wand for inspection."
"Here." Sirius stands, drains the rest of his drink, and takes her place at the stove. "I'll do that. You have enough to deal with."
Again, Mulciber's mouth twitches. "Chivalrous." Without further ado, he stretches out an open palm, one covered in rough calluses and gone black from soot. "Wand."
It takes Lily less than a second to pull a thin, worn wand from an interior pocket of her plain black cloak. Faint engravings, perhaps mother-of-pearl that has seen better days, swirl across the handle as she offers it silently.
After a glance towards his watch, Avery wastes no further time. "Empty your pockets too."
Injustice claws at James' throat like a hand with long, jagged nails. How many times have Grindel's Gang questioned him over the years, or searched his flat, or investigated the shop below? If he'd ever kept count, he'd lost track long ago. It had long-since become routine. Yet he'd never had his pockets searched, never been spoken to with such utter disregard, and never been forced to hand over his wand. The very idea of the latter—of someone taking possession of his one link to power in the world—spurs a fresh wave of disgust that crashes over him like a wave.
Yet Lily doesn't balk in the least. With no expression whatsoever, she carefully lines up the contents of her pockets upon the tabletop: a duo of lipsticks, a quill case, fragments of parchment, several sticks of chewing gum, a few loose potions vials, and a small mirror.
From his own pocket, Mulciber procures a small device no bigger than the cigarette case once attached to Henry Potter's nondominant hand. It glitters strangely in his palm, the appearance more liquid than metal, as the top swings open on invisible hinges. Almost carelessly, Mulciber presses the tip of her wand to the inner cover.
"What—" James begins, but Mulciber cuts him off.
"Mudblood wands are registered. This will tell me every last thing about Evans here—every job she's ever had, every place she's ever lived, every run-in she's ever had with the law, every spell she's ever cast."
At the stove, Sirius clears his throat, the sound low and disgusted. "You're joking."
"No. Did you expect the state to give wands to people who are basically muggles and just trust them to follow the law? They don't have that capability, Black, not like you or I do."
"What's this?" Avery asks, a narrow potion vial clutched between his forefinger and thumb.
"Madam Primpernelle's Anti-Wrinkle Balm." Lily leans back against the table, perching on the edge. "You're welcome to try it."
Mulciber snorts, his eyes still darting from left to right. "Cheek. Work at the Owl Post, do you?"
"Yes. Three years now."
"And you were in Ireland before that?"
Does the very air in the room still, or is it James' imagination? Do Avery's shoulders tense as he reaches for a second potion vial, or is it all in his head? Is that a sudden, new sharpness in Mulciber's tone as he no doubt considers the same thing that flashes through James' mind: that while widespread resistance to Grindelwald in Britain had died out decades earlier, rumor had it that the strongest pockets still in existence remained hidden in covert bases in Ireland?
"Yes." Lily tucks a long swath of hair behind one ear. "I had an apprenticeship there arranged by Horace Slughorn. I'm sure my file says that too."
It's a name James hears often around his parents' shop, but rarely spoken with any faint amount of affection. Mulciber undoubtedly picks up on the same, and his eyebrows hit his hairline. "It does, but it doesn't explain how you got Horace to set that up. I can't imagine he was eager to stick his neck out for a mudblood. I'm sure it took a lot of…convincing on your part. Horace, he's not a man keen to do something for nothing. So how'd you—"
Again, irritation stabs at James' back "Is this necessary? I don't know what you're looking for, but—"
Any hint of taunting amusement drops from Mulciber's tone. "We're looking for terrorists who killed at least one good man, and maybe a second, if Healers can't piece him back together. That's what we're looking for, and, yes, this is necessary. I know you're upset that we interrupted your shagging session, but we'll finish up and let you get back to it in a minute."
Killed.
The air truly leaves the room at that, and it shoots from James' lungs directly.
In contrast, Lily doesn't so much as blink. Her head tips faintly, dipping subtly to one side, and her mouth shifts almost imperceptivity. Patiently, almost overly so, she clasps her hands in front of her waist and waits.
She'd murdered a man, perhaps two. If he and Sirius were connected now—
"Hold on." Mulciber crosses the floor in several short, efficient steps. At Avery's side, he twists the opening of the device in his direction. "Hold on. El, are you seeing this?"
At her waist, Lily's hands separate. The fingers of her right hand spread, tight and waiting.
Avery takes a moment to scan the device before him. His eyes move much slower than Mulciber's, and perhaps his brain does too. "You're from Cokeworth." He doesn't phrase it as a question.
Lily's left hand goes to the tabletop's edge, where she squeezes as he intones the code she'd spoken to Mary and Marlene. "Yes."
The back of James' neck begins to sweat.
Mulciber begins to laugh. Somehow, it sounds even nastier than their Hogwarts days.
Sirius' shoulders twitch as if physically pained. "What—"
Slowly, carefully, Avery slots pieces together. ""That's a mixed settlement, isn't it? Some muggle, some mudblood, some blood traitors and their offspring?"
"Yes." A second later, understanding replaces the lines that mar Lily's pretty face, although she looks no less pleased. "Are you—"
When laughter joins from Avery's lips, the resulting duet is enough for James' fists to curl.
"What?" he demands, suddenly seventeen again and trapped in Hogwarts' corridors with no hope of recourse—only now it's worse, much worse, with his wand trapped uselessly in his back pocket and with the authority of Grindelwald written all over their cloaks. "What—"
"So—" Mulciber takes a breath. He licks his lips, as if savoring a particularly tasty bite. "Did you meet Severus there, or did Horace introduce you later?"
The frying pan flies from Sirius' hand, clattering to the tile floor with such force that all five of them jump.
Lily's mouth opens as if to respond, but James beats her there, all thoughts of murder and mayhem and potential public execution suddenly a distant memory.
"You know Snape?" he demands, unable to help himself, and the entirety of Lily's body jerks backwards in surprise.
"What?" she asks in return. "I—yes, but—did you know him at Hogwarts? Why—"
"Oh, we knew him," Sirius said. Sausages roll across the floor, leaving a shiny trail in their wake, and he makes no move to recover them. "Foul, slimy, worthless—how do you know him?"
"Oh, I can't wait for this." Glee twists Avery's face even further than his usual stoicism, and sits no better across his narrow features. "We should have pieced it together sooner. Redhead mudblood, works at the Owl Post—how many can there be? And she's shagging Potter? Severus is going to—"
Mulciber whirls to face James, the movement so quick that James nearly reaches for his wand on instinct alone. "You didn't know?" he asks. He runs a hand over his face, one that does nothing to wipe away his smile. "You really had no idea? You just—what, you walked into the Owl Post to send a package, met her, and asked to show her your package instead? You had no idea about her and Snape?"
Ever-present nausea crests anew in the pit of his gut. Only sheer force of will keeps him from responding.
Mulciber continues regardless. "I guess this is either fairly new or you just haven't done much talking. I'm a little disappointed, honestly, if you went into this not knowing about her and Severus, because it seems like just the sort of thing you'd do." Once again, he licks his lips. Saliva shines along with mirth. "Don't tell me you didn't know that Severus has been after this mudblood for years."
For the first time, Lily's patience snaps.
"You don't know what you're talking about," she says, the words clipped. "You really don't. That isn't—"
If Mulciber registers her words, he doesn't show it. His gaze remains locked on James, the intensity burning, as if he seeks to sear any potential reaction deeply into his memory. "A couple years ago, Evan—Evan Rosier, you remember him—saw Severus mooning over some mudblood who worked at the Owl Post. Said she was pretty enough she shouldn't have had to work in a menial job like that—that some pureblood would have happily set her up in a household somewhere to use. Severus, he got all bent out of shape at that—I thought he was about to hit Evan, honestly. He swore that his mudblood wasn't the sort, and would never degrade herself that way. And yet…here you are, and here she is."
James' mouth opens, an unplanned retort halfway across the tip of his tongue, before any response falters and then dies entirely. Four sets of eyes stare at him, waiting, awaiting a reaction that—
That what? How do Mulciber and Avery expect him to react? How do they want him to react? With anger? With disgust? With vitriol? With jealousy, maybe, the jealousy of a lover suddenly aware of his woman's past with the bitterest of enemies? All of it, almost certainly, and the latter most clearly. And, worst of all—
All of that does brew in his chest, frothing like a bubbling cauldron, no matter how he tries to stamp it down or wipe it from his face. The fire simply catches and burns brightly, and has everything and nothing to do with the piercing green of Lily's and the fascinating force of her magic and even more to do with the simple reminder of Severus Snape's very existence.
Where had he gone after Hogwarts? Immediately after they'd finished schooling, the rest of his horrible mates—Mulciber and Avery and Evan Rosier included—had followed in their fathers' footsteps and joined Grindel's Gang. For years, he's run into them sporting crimson cloaks and increasingly smug smiles all around Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade and London proper. But Snape—
Where had he gone? Had he taken the crimson? Or had he faded into the background, slithered into some hole in Knockturn Alley and set up shop, owing allegiance to no one, only creeping out to socialize briefly with old schoolmates or—
Or to check up on a pretty muggleborn acquaintance—or friend, or lover, James really has no idea or way of knowing—who has paled so dramatically from her spot perched on James' kitchen table that, despite it all, he suddenly worries for her health?
Lily shatters the silence first. "I'm sure you'll want to run and tell Sev all this as soon as you can." Her throat bobs, perhaps with regret, or perhaps James simply regrets hearing the use of such a nickname. "Don't let us keep you."
Cruelty reigns in Mulciber's short, sharp laugh. "Quite right." He closes the device in his palm with an unnaturally loud snap and tosses her wand her way. She catches it between fingers that faintly tremble, no doubt more fodder for Mulciber's cruel joy. "You're free to get back to it, Evans. If we have more questions, I know where you live."
It's a threat, and a clear one.
Despite it all, James finds himself answering for her. "Leave her alone. If you have more questions, I'll answer them."
Stupid. It's stupid, it's reckless, it's maybe the dumbest thing he's ever done in a long line of stupid, reckless decisions. And yet—
He knows, even then, that he'd do it again.
Mulciber offers one final parting shot upon departure, a comment given over his shoulder with a lazy, careless smirk. "Nice to finally put a face and name to the mudblood I've heard so much about," he says as Sirius leads the way back to the hallway to escort them down to the shop. "If you ever want to quit that Owl Post job, just let me know. Evan was right. We could get you set up with some pureblood gent who would be happy to treat you right, since Potter's apparently not keeping you like he should."
It takes James every available ounce of self-control James not to slam the door after them.
By the time he returns to the kitchen, Lily once again stands at the stove. The sausages have vanished from the floor, and she cracks eggs single-handedly into the frying pan returned to heat. "Three, you said?" she asks, as if she can physically feel him hovering in the doorway.
"Yes." Somehow, even more tension reigns than before. "Here, let me do that. You should—"
She holds up a hand, and it halts his single step in his tracks. "No, let me. Please. It's—honestly, it's the least I can do. This is all my fault. I'm so sorry. So sorry. I should have stayed downstairs, but I just—I keep making things worse, and I—"
"Don't—"
Again, she waves her hand. This time, it only cuts off his words. "I'll stop. Just— sit or something. Please."
So he does, perching on the very edge of his seat no matter how hard he tries to get his spine to unlock. As he refills Sirius' empty whiskey glass, "Moondew Mysteries," another oldie, flows quietly through the radio.
Sirius doesn't return, and he can't exactly blame him for it. They eat together, just the two of them, in silence no longer quite so companionable. Her trembling subsides eventually, fading the more she eats and finally fading entirely when he refills her water glass, which she drains immediately.
"Thank you," she says finally, her eyes on the remnants on her plate. "I'll never be able to repay your family for all of this, but—especially you."
Food sits uneasily in his stomach, weighing heavily atop nerves still stretched taut. In adrenaline's place, exhaustion slowly settles like a heavy blanket across his shoulders. "You don't owe me anything." Her mouth opens, undoubtedly to argue, but he heads her off. "I mean it. You don't. You know, maybe I owe you, since you let me exercise my 'saving people thing.' It's been a little while."
A tiny smile tugs at one corner of her mouth. Looking down, she once again reaches for the hem of his shirt that she still wears, and she twists fine stitching underneath fiddling fingers. "Remus' words. Not mine. You can take that up with him." Under her fringe, she glances up. "Seriously, though, I'm really sorry. That whole situation had to be incredibly uncomfortable for you, but I didn't know what else to do and I knew they'd buy us shagging as the reason I was here. It seemed like the easiest fix, but—"
"There's no way it wasn't more uncomfortable for you."
She shrugs; somehow, it looks more defiant than defeated. "I'm used to harassment from Grindel's Gang. I imagine you're not."
He can't argue there.
"It's fine." Again, she looks primed to argue. Again, he cuts her off. "No, seriously. It is. You did what you had to do, and—it was brilliant. You were brilliant. I mean—" Against his will, his own smile responds. "The belt? Nice touch."
For a second, she simply stares. Then, she devolves into laughter, and any remaining tension in the room shatters entirely.
He joins her—stomach unclenching, shoulders relaxing, face aching with amusement that errs on the side of hysteria. Soon, the kitchen is awash with it all—with warmth, positivity, with camaraderie so brilliant that it glows, so thick he could choke on it, and happily. It feels, simply, as if darkness has vanished and morning has come.
Alive. He's alive, more alive than he's been in years.
Her face shines pink like the morning sun even after her laughter tapers off, and she keeps one hand cast over her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says yet again, but it sounds less than genuine for the first time. "I did what I thought would distract them, and—I figured it would work. Most of that lot, they're all the same. It worked, didn't it?"
"It definitely did. You're brilliant."
She flushes a little more, and the color suits her, a fact he very nearly tells her. Only biting his tongue—quite literally—keeps him silent.
She resumes cooking shortly thereafter, intent on bringing a veritable feast to those still trapped in the shop's cellar, and refuses three separate offers to help. As more oldies filter through the radio's speakers, as the comforting smells of sausage and eggs once again reach their peak, and as he allows himself to relax fully, the warmth in the room doesn't dissipate. It continues to linger around the corners of the room, as soft and reassuring as the whiskey that tickles James' throat, and that alone sparks the courage to ask a question perhaps better left unasked. "What's this about Snape, then?"
She hesitates, her back to him and a spatula held aloft in one hand, but only for a second. Without turning, and with only a shade of reluctance, she speaks. "We grew up in the same village. We didn't meet until I had my first burst of accidental magic that was strong enough to trace. State officials came the same day, and…Cokeworth is a mixed settlement, so there's magic there, but not a lot. It spread pretty quickly that the Evans family had a witch in the family who the state would have to take away."
"How old were you?"
She cracks another egg into the pan. "Five."
"They were going to take you away at five?"
She gestures vaguely with one hand. "They take children younger. The youngest I ever knew of was a boy of about two—he'd thrown his parents' couch out a window in the midst of a tantrum. It's only the really strong magic that they catch, so the ages range. Some children get away with small bouts of accidental magic for years before they're caught. Did you not know about this?"
"No." Should he have? Sure, he'd known that the state took custody of muggleborn children capable of magic, but he'd always assumed that that must have happened at eleven, just as he'd packed a trunk to head to Hogwarts at that age.
At five, he'd probably still picked his nose, probably still loathed any and all vegetables, probably still refused to sleep without a lamp because he'd feared the possibilities of what might lurk in the night. If someone had pried him away from the reassuring warmth of his mum's arms and the careful attention of his dad, he—
He probably wouldn't have survived.
She doesn't call him out on his ignorance. "I didn't go at five. My dad's a pretty likable man and he had decent connections. The wizard in charge of our district liked him. For the right price, they let me stay another three years. When Mum and Dad couldn't afford it anymore, the state took me away." Again, she makes that vague gesture with her hand. The second time around, it looks almost like an attempt to brush away the past. "It was easier for me than for my parents, honestly. Kids adapt easily. That's why they take us so young. The state school…it was all I knew after a while, so it wasn't too bad. I made a lot of friends. I learned everything I could. I met Mary, and I wouldn't trade her for anything."
"And your parents?"
"I didn't see them again until I turned eighteen. Even then, I wasn't supposed to. We were allowed to write monthly, but nothing else."
"That—fuck, that's awful." Even as he says it, it falls entirely flat.
She slides eggs onto a waiting plate and reaches again for the carton. "It is, but it makes sense within the context of the regime. They want to train up proper witches and wizards—third-class citizens, of course, but definitely not muggles. Contact with the muggle world would get in the way of that."
What can he say? What words exist to offer any sort of comfort, any sort of sympathy, any sort of hint at the revulsion he feels at the very center of his being?
"I met Severus after the state tried to take me away the first time," she adds. Her words come more haltingly, now, a little more guarded and a little less certain, like a piece of the story not often told. "The whole neighborhood knew what I was, which made for some difficulty. Everyone knew I was on borrowed time, and resentment builds in a place like that, where there's no escape for muggles who are regulated and kept in line in ways that we can't even begin to imagine. It might not seem like it, but—I had a way out. I knew that even as a child, and Severus—he found me. We became friends. We wrote after I went away, and kept in touch periodically. It didn't surprise me at all that he tested into Hogwarts. Afterwards, he introduced me to Slughorn, who kind of took me under his wing." The first note of bitterness creeps into her tone. "That did take some convincing on my part, although not the kind most people would assume."
Yet again, what can he say? "I never—I didn't assume that." The words struggle awkwardly against his tongue. "Although—I wouldn't judge you or anyone who had to do something like that. This world—our world—I know it's not fair."
Again, it falls short. And yet she casts him a look over his shoulder that almost makes it feel like he's said something profound, and it's more than he deserves. He doesn't deserve the tiny way she smiles or the softness in her eyes despite the hardship in her life, and his own privilege has never weighed more heavily on him than it does under her gaze.
"It's not," she agrees. She turns back to the stove before she speaks again. "I take it you and Severus aren't friends."
"No." It comes out shorter than intended. "We didn't get along at school." How can he even explain it all properly, at least in words concise enough that he won't keep her at his mercy all night, subject to stories he'd rather forget? How can he sum up years of childlike animosity that had festered and grown into something deeper and more horrific the older he'd gotten—and not just with Snape, and not just with Mulciber and Avery either, but with so many at Hogwarts who had attached themselves to the powerful in order to transform the castle into a mirror the larger, more bigoted, more dangerous world? "We had different views of the world. I could get more into it, but that's basically what it boils down to."
She doesn't pry further. Whether she understands or not, she lets it go entirely, and disappears into his bedroom not long after to change.
"Grindel's Gang can't connect anything to me, and therefore to you either," she tells him as she hands him back his shirt. When he slides it over his shoulders, it smells sweet and lightly floral. "I expect they'll leave you alone after this."
"And you?"
She gathers her hair onto the top of her head, a lengthy undertaking during which she seems to think. As soon as she secures the loose bun in place, her fringe slides back down into her eyes. "That's harder to say. But I'm careful, and I'll make sure nothing from here on out gets connected to you."
"I don't mind." It slips from his mouth unintended, perhaps more open and honest than he can afford to be, and certainly more reckless too. Still, he doesn't take it back.
She smiles up at him, the tilt of her lips a little sad. "You should. You definitely should. Come on, we should get back. I'm surprised Sirius has managed to keep Mary in the cellar this whole time."
He follows her from the warmth of the kitchen, out into the hallway, and then down the stairs. In contrast to the homey warmth of his flat, the shop stands barren and empty and still in a state of utter disarray. In one far corner, a smashed batch of Scintillation Solution still smokes faintly. "The magic you did—" he blurts out, and she pauses near the counter, the platter of food spread between her hands. "It was the most impressive thing I've ever seen in my life."
Slowly, her mouth opens. Just as slowly, she responds. "Thank you."
Hunger once again gnaws at the edges of his mind, hunger and determination that borders on desperation. "I want to know more about it. I want to know everything about it. Who taught it to you? How does it work? Is it something I can learn? I'd—fuck, I'd give anything—"
"I can't talk about it."
He'd expected as much, but disappointment still crashes. "I wouldn't say anything. I promise."
"And I believe you, but it's not my choice. I'm already going to get in a ton of trouble for tonight. If I say anything else—" She doesn't continue, but she doesn't have to. The very way her forehead breaks, as if pained, speaks volumes he doesn't want to hear.
And yet desire still froths rabidly in his insides, churning uncontrollably. "There's nothing I can do? There's no way you could tell me anything or—"
"Not without clearance."
"How would you—would you try to—"
She sighs; her eyes close briefly. When she opens them, resolve weighs heavily. "I'm going to have to report all this. If I can—if I can—I'll mention that you're curious about what we do. Is that enough?"
It's more than enough. Possibilities break open inside his mind, each more powerful and promising than the last. The chaos outside the door, potential problems of the future, the reality of everything they'd faced that night—it all fades into the background, replaced by an overwhelming swelling of joy.
"Yes. Yes. So will I—"
—see you again? He only catches himself just in time. The very question—let alone the way he asks it—sounds far too eager even for him.
She catches it anyway. "I expected you would. Didn't you?"
Yes. In his very marrow, he'd never doubted it, and somehow—
It's enough. At least for then, it's enough.