Though the form of the matter may change, the matter itself cannot.
Lily laid awake long into her first night of Hogwarts that she could remember, secretly memorizing each line in the walls, each portrait, and each astonishing spell she could. She couldn't say she did this by will, more by a subconscious need to connect it to some other part of her life than anything else, but Lily continued to do so no matter, deciding it was better not to forget this magical lifestyle again. Indeed, Hogwarts was simply magical to Lily Evans.
And because of it, she was so, so sad.
As such, she closed her eyes, still awake in the frosty night, breathing in the oncoming May morning, she slowly began to remember.
At the time, her feet were twisted into her crimson sheets and her hands tangled around her pillow. Her eyesight had tiny sparkles of tears in it. She couldn't help but push herself down into her mattress, tilt her head sideways, and then slowly let the tears fall.
The whole world was cold around her in a late winter's blush of snow. She couldn't feel her toes beneath her dress's fraying edges, but still could feel the way the bitter winds throbbed as they blew against her hair. But tears protected her, spreading a warmth she couldn't deny. She fell into hushed sobs as simple words dropped from her lips.
"I want it to May." She told herself. "I want it to be always May."
Cold sweat surrounded her tears as images of her blacks and blues and startling red curls melted into the stark white of fresh snow began to haunt her. She knew the moment's perfection as if it were her own. She could feel herself in it. But with that, she felt a chill much hasher than the wind that had surrounded her and a sadness so deep it would not end.
In the icy window corner of her room, a hollow shriek broke Lily from her memory's bleakness. Se supposed the coldness of her thoughts must have frozen the water jar to crack. Too much pain slashed her. Too much uncertainty scared her. Ice and glass mixed together on the stone floor, the rug by the window muffling everything else. From her place behind the velvet moonlight curtains of her bed, Lily barely heard it. Had she been asleep, she might not have, but as it was, Lily couldn't stop herself from picturing each tear of glass that slid down to hit the stone. She couldn't stop herself from thinking of herself, breaking from further fracture.
Tears fell softly, as did Lily when sleep met her tears.
Staring into her tea, Lily swept her curls from her face, trying to force the icy image of her pale white skin swept with snow back away from her. Her heart felt darkened, hard even, and Lily wasn't sure if this was usual. She couldn't remember.
"You hate tea." James stated the words simply enough, then sat down opposite of her, as if to emphasize the point by being there to let the words ring with his presence. "But do you put honey in that too?"
Lily looked up, shaking her hair out of her fingers, and smiling kindly despite herself. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Would you like some?" She paused, frowned and then tilted her head, just like James might have. "Or are you above honey? If I remember right, you don't like it in your coffee either."
He shrugged, tilting his own head too. "Well I like you good enough, honey buns."
Lily blinked, and she thought she might have been blushing, so she took a bite of her eggs, looking over James's head for anybody at all. A boy with gracefully dancing hair wriggled his eyebrows at her from a little way down the table, and Lily thought she might have known him once. She looked back at James.
"Why doesn't your sister go
here?"
"Well, she's too young, isn't she?" He smiled
slightly, and then shrugged. "But I doubt she'd be able to
anyway, you know. She isn't really magical."
Lily distinctly disagreed, but she let him continue.
"She's a squib, I'm nearly sure. But she hurt you so bad that I don't know. She's never done that before. She barely talks. She'd never hurt anybody, you know, but-" He trailed off uncertainly, and his face glazed over, his eyes averted towards the clouds that lazily crossed the ceiling. "She's so shy."
Lily smiled lacing his fingers through hers, letting him kiss her thumb almost self-consciously. " But she is beautiful, isn't she?"
"You know, she thought you were a vampire when she met you."
Lily eyed him with a strange light in her glinting off the paling green. She wasn't sure what to make of the words; her mind seemed to silence as soon as the past was mentioned, but she held tighter to his fingers, and stared back down into her tea.
"Yeah, a vampire. It was my fault, and I felt really awful about it. And you yelled at me to make me feel worse. I thought you were a real bitch, you know."
"You shouldn't be so honest. It's unkind."
"And you shouldn't drink your coffee with honey. It's unhygienic."
"I don't see how, James."
He simply shrugged.
"Miss Evans," the tight voice speaking her name seemed to assure her she was real, and Lily turned upon a woman with tight-set hair pulled back in a black-as-night knot. Her skin was stretched a little tightly, rather like her hair, and gray robes were draped over her slender frame. "I think you should come with me."
Lily looked over at James, at the way his forehead tightened up as he looked up at the woman from behind a cup of tea he had just poured himself. He smiled at them both, rather innocently, but his eyes were lost elsewhere. "Good morning, Professor. Would you like some juice before you leave our pleasant little tea party?" It seemed as if he hadn't heard her right.
Lily might have sworn she saw the woman smile, but she couldn't place her name, and decided it was better not to pretend she understood a woman she couldn't remember. Besides, she felt very much like she'd done something wrong, the woman's bespectacled eyes fixed on her as they were. She thought it would be better to follow the woman than to have her keep that look in her eye.
"No, Mister Potter," she said, her voice just as tightly pulled as the rest of her image. "I think we should save parties for a more carefree time."
"But, Professor-"
Lily slid herself over the bench, dropping James's fingers and avoiding looking at him, joining the Professor in a crisp walk across the hall. She felt odd leaving him like that, a little like she'd left herself there in his fingers, but she ignored it rather easily. It was simpler like that.
At the banging close of the Great Hall's wooden doors, the witch began to speak.
"Now, Miss Evans, I'd have liked to have spoken to you last night, but there really was no time for any of that. Dumbledore thought it was important to let you settle into the castle first. I'm not disagreeing with Dumbledore, of course, but I'm not sure that was for the best. You cast a very dangerous spell, and we can't yet be sure of the ramifications." She stopped walking, nearly at the stair of the Entrance hall. "Are you sure you're all right, Miss Evans?"
Lily paused. "Not really, no. I-I can't remember-"
"Yes, I was aware. Brenna Potter owled on your account four days ago. Now, if you haven't been informed, I am Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House."
"No, I hadn't been," Lily started, but McGonagall had began ascending the stairs, telling Lily, rather briskly, to hurry up.
Through three sets of stairs, they traveled up, up, and up. Lily vaguely remembered something called an elevator that traveled floor to floor, and the faintly wondered if Hogwarts, with all its magic, had anything similar.
She remembered her mother, with big blue eyes, looking at her sweetly, smiling, her hair wrapped up in a white scarf with Lily's own red curls spilling out. She remembered stepping into the whole in the wall, surrounded by glass on three sides, the iron door on the fourth, and the way the two moved up through the air. Her mother spelled sweetly of chamomile and honey, so beautiful, and so light, as if she was flying on her wishes. Her mother was faithful, believing fully in things Lily couldn't understand. She was magical in this, and completely and totally not a witch.
Lily looked up at McGonagall, who had stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down at her. "Does my mother know?" she asked. "About what's- what I've done, I mean." She couldn't find her words around this woman, couldn't place them as they should be or aim them where they should go. It seemed she was lost inside her wrongs now, like the Professor knew exactly how everything had come to pass, and didn't quite care. And whether that was how it was or not, Lily wasn't sure what to tell her.
"Dumbledore has written her. She has yet to reply."
Lily said softly, "I don't think she will. I can't know why, but I don't think she has it in her to understand. Tell her I've died and, and that I've gone to heaven- do you know what heaven is, because I can't remember?- but the rest won't make any sense. I don't know why."
The professor stopped at a stone gargoyle by the wall, and Lily eyed it with little thought, wondering idly if it might do a few backflips and then she'd remember everything again. But McGonagall only said "Licorice wand," and it stepped away from a gap in the wall to show a spiral staircase slowly spinning upward towards a oak door with a highly polished brass knocker.
Lily thought she might blink to make sure she really had just seen a gargoyle come to life, but was too distracted to do so, and simply followed the professor onto the stone steps. At the apex, just by a small love seat in a dark port color, McGonagall tapped the door twice with her pale knuckles, and the door opened with a slight creak.
"My dear, Minerva!" said a man's voice. He looked a little astounded to see them, standing as he was in his deep blue, silken night shirt that ran nearly to the floor and from which slightly pointy, wrinkled toes protruded. He smiled nevertheless, his deep eyes twinkling with a merry joy from behind half-moon spectacles, and his graying beard swung at knee-length as he stood to his full height. It seemed he had formerly, before their entrance, been tending to a little gray bird with a single, red feather at the top of it's head. The bird, from beside him, in a rather large golden cage that seemed to lack a door, fixed its little black eyes on Lily, and she thought then that it someday would become very beautiful. "I hadn't expected you for at least another quarter hour."
"Don't pretend to be surprised, Albus. I told you I'd be bringing the girl at the beginning of breakfast."
At this, the man smiled. "Have a seat, Miss Evans. I'm sure all this will be hard to take in." He conjured up a rather extravagant pink couch just behind her, and though she thought she just might fall over onto it, she, instead, remained upright.
"No, Professor, I don't think I should."
Dumbledore eyes gave a funny little glint, and the pink couch disappeared, and in its place was a sturdy looking mahogany chair. "I hope this suits you better then. We might be here a while."
Lily blushed, feeling rude and a little insufficient. Her words were mumbled, but it seemed she said, "Sorry, Professor,"
"Whatever for?" He didn't seem to be listening though, as he waved his wand absently, turning to smile faintly at her.
McGonagall, stood, still, stiffly by the door, as Dumbledore motioned for her, too, to take a seat in one of the chairs by his desk. But he remained standing.
"Now, Lily, you stayed with the Potters for Easter. How did you find the manor?"
She was surprised by the question, expecting some sort of lecture, despite the seemingly gentle demeanor of the professor. However, not completely sure how to answer, remembering so little, she began the expected remark at its pleasantness. "It's pretty there. I mean, of course it's pretty, but… oh, I don't know.I can't remember anything good about it, but I feel wretched about it because I'm not sure there was bad either. I, well, I'm not sure what to make of myself. Did I really do this to myself?"
Dumbledore sighed, looking over at McGonagall. "Perhaps I should have called you here sooner." He brought his long fingers together, and Lily couldn't help but look at a large golden ring with a strange symbol that wrapped around his left pinky. "I see you're very curious, still, and I can't imagine you doing this to yourself. You cast extraordinarily advanced magic; it is a great feat for such a young witch. Had you simply wiped your memory clear, this would be a different matter, and I would have no choice but to send you to St. Mungo's. But you are suffering the results of an ancient magic, a very deep one few understand now. You would not be likely to come across it- even in Hogwarts."
"I don't imagine I could have found it anywhere else. I'm Muggleborn- James said I was, anyway- and I-"She stopped speaking, very aware she was simply rambling now. She drew herself together again, still feeling a little fragile, like she was about to break apart again, and all her thoughts and feelings would go everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. "What is St. Mungo's?"
"The ward for magical maladies." McGonagall said softly. Her eyes were a little wide, though she had obviously heard the story before. She tried to remain silent.
"Could it have been an accident, Professor?"
Dumbledore sighed. "That would be most frightening, but yes. It is possible. But where might you have learned to create such an accident?"
The three were silent for sometime, each in his or her own set of thought, though with the same general idea.
What if I'm evil, thought Lily. James speaks of dark times ahead, of deaths that have taken place. He speaks of fear, though he seems so strong. What if I am dark? What if Muriel hates me because she is a pure, beautiful, singing angel, and I am dirty. I am dirty.
McGonagall spoke, "We have spoken, Albus-" But Dumbledore shook his auburn beard, and raised his wrinkled hand, looking very old.
"Yes, we have, and I'm sure Lily is aware we will continue to speak. These are dark times, for now she can rest easily without the trouble of that." He looked at Lily squarely. "Do you remember anything of that night?"
"A little. Maybe it's just that I was found there, but I think I remember falling in the snow, and I remember being very cold. I couldn't feel my fingers at all. I must have been at a party because I was dressed in velvet or silk, or something soft like that. And I wished that it was May." She stopped for a second to smile, trying to stop it, but failing. "And then James found me."
"Yes, Misters Potter and Black found you."
"Sirius Black, sir?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled ferociously but he seemed to frown harder. "Yes. Do you remember him?
Lily frowned too. "No, I don't."
"Now Lily, I don't expect any of this to make sense to you right now." McGonagall muttered weakly as she led the girl from the office and up more stairs in the northern direction of Gryffindor Tower. She sighed as they reached the seventh floor. "But I want you to keep away from anyone you don't think you should trust. One must be careful, and you are so vulnerable now, you should be so tenfold."
Lily stepped up from the last stair. "Professor, what if I can't trust anyone?"
The professor was silent for a moment. "Then you must trust yourself." She squinted awfully as she led Lily to a portrait of a large lady in a pink, frilly dress, and then she spoke again. "I shall allow you a three day hiatus before you begin classes again. I expect you to study over those three days, and hopefully by Thursday you'll begin with you're schedule anew. Is there any chance you remember any of your lessons?"
Lily wanted to look her straight in the eye and say, 'I don't even remember my name.' She decided it was better not to, and shook her head. "No, Professor,"
McGonagall looked as if she had expected this negative answer, but, still, her breathing seemed tighter as it was spoken, and Lily thought she should have said something a little less certain. She felt insolent for saying so, and she tried to smile to make up for it, but it felt more like a grimace.
The Professor pulled her own sort of tight-lipped smile. "Yes, well, as expected." She turned away, and started down the stairs, not even thinking to say a goodbye.
"Professor," Lily called. McGonagall looked at her, turning slowly to do so, but turning nonetheless. "Will you write my mother as well. I mean, I'm not sure I should; I think I'd hurt her. I think she'd say something about Gods and Jesus and the Church. I seem to remember something about that. She'd say I'd done something wicked for this to happen. But you, well, you're the closest thing here to a mother, as head of house, I think. I think she'd understand it better if you told her."
McGonagall was silent for a moment, and then she spoke. "Yes, Miss Evans, I think I will."
James looked at her, his forehead creased. "I'm supposed to be in class, you know, but when you go off gallivanting with the professors, I get a little unnerved. You know all they want is sex, the little perves."
Lily figured he was grinning, sprawled across one of red couches at the corner of the Common Room, warmed by the fire, and looking like a chiseled god. She supposed he must have waited there for her to return, spending at least an hour thinking, praying, whatever it was James did when he was alone. He sat up at her entrance, speaking at the bang of the portrait closing, hoping he would make her laugh.
She collapsed next to him on the couch, letting her head fall into his lap. "You're skiving for me," she said, giggling lightly, because it seemed such a strange offering.
"I'm supposed to. I'm your mate." He laced his fingers though her hair, smiling, rubbing the soft skin with his fingertips. Something about his way with her was very sexual, she realized absently, and she felt she just wasn't a match for him, but smiled anyway.
"Really now? I wasn't aware."
She sighed, and he must have heard it, because he took her hand, saying, "Come with me."
Lily looked at James, and her eyes hurt. It was dark in his room, and somehow that suited it. Dark drapes were pulled across the three windows, each bed was shrouded by dark crimson velvet, a little darker than her hair, but a faint golden glow shone lightly from a large desk around which lay six beds. James's was second to center, she assumed, as he pulled her towards that one, siting there, drawing them both through the velvet. For some reason, it seemed like he was the only thing that mattered.
He kissed her gently enough, lips barely touching hers, barely there butterfly wings to her own. She felt foolish, clumsy. And he kept telling her she was beautiful, more amazing than anything he had ever touched. She drew back, kissing his collarbone, kissing his wrist, as he pushed her down on the bed. He brought his fingers though her red curls, and his eyes looked dark, lost, wondering.
She knew she felt just like him, like they were the only thing that mattered, like nothing in the world could compare to this moment.
"Lily," he said softly, pushing her robes over her shoulders. "Lily I want you to promise me something."
"What?" she asked, suddenly breathless, suddenly unsure.
"Promise you care."
He reached away from her, into a drawer by the side of the bed, into the nightstand. She looked at him oddly as he pulled out a paper bag as he lay it between them. She sat up straighter crossing her legs into a pretzel shape, trying to peer in.
He sighed. "Lily, I think I'm in love with you." And she kissed his cheek.
"I think you're insane."
"And I don't want you to love me, since you'd hate me if you knew the truth." He tilted his head. "But you do know, don't you? Somewhere in you, you know." He looked down at his hands, like they'd been somewhere rotten. He sighed. "I'm gonna tell you everything you are," he said. "Everything."
"James," her voice was small. "What's in the bag?"
"Fairy dust, Lilia. To make it real. It's illegal here- has been for centuries. But it doesn't hurt anything, and it doesn't change it; it just makes it more. It's dangerous to non-magic folk- to Muggles and the like."
Reaching into the bag, she took a pitch, cocking her head at the way it shifted colors. It was cool and warm, and it seemed as if it was barely there.
James dragged his fingers slowly up her foot, leaning down to kiss each toe. "Lily, you're holding pure magic."