Introspection
Chapter Two: Simply Alone
Lily woke up to the sound of her teeth chattering and the blunt throbbing in her jaw and teeth from the jarring, repetitive collisions. She huddled deeper into the insulated, warm cocoon of her black cloak, taking up the hood to warm her tingling scalp and her ringing ears and reaching inside the pocket for her gloves and wand.
"Damn it!" Lily hissed when she didn't feel the familiar wooden shaft in her pocket. She pressed her mouth together in a thin line and squeezed her eyelids tightly shut to stifle a sob. "Come on, Lily; this is no time to over-emote." Her calm, rational voice broke into the silence, hoarse but steady and familiar. She also knew that she wasn't over-emoting; this was a life-or-death situation. "You know that crying won't get you anywhere."
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, then drew on her woolen gloves, rubbing her hands together to create friction and savoring the warm burst of blood circulating into the numb appendages anesthetized by cold. Lily clenched her hands into two loose fists and rubbed her thumbs along the palms of her hands, licking her chapped lips and shivering for a moment.
"My God, I could use a cigarette," Lily moaned softly. "I shouldn't have quit. Not only would I be more relaxed, but I would have fire. Of course, if I had my wand…"
Her jaw tightened to keep her teeth from chattering, preventing her from talking. In the enveloping silence, Lily's mind was dragged involuntarily to what had just happened and why she was alone, in the Forbidden Forest, in ankle-deep snow, at night. The downpour of snow had filled in her tracks while she had slept.
Images of hooded, masked figures swathed in black, Unforgivable Curses thrown about like inconsequential playthings played over and over and over again in her mind, then one of the terrifying figures screaming, "Fucking Mudblood!" and Lily looked down the receiving end of the wand like a frightened deer in the headlights. Remembering the pain of the subsequent "Crucio!" made her twitch involuntarily and her heart race with agony and fear.
A flash of red light had flown to the black-garbed figure, distracting them.
Lily had bolted like a coward.
She tore off the red-and-gold scarf violently, tears stinging her crusted eyes. Lily looked at the thick, warm yard of material then buried her face into it, letting the knitted cloth soak up the heated saltiness of her tears.
She didn't deserve to be a Gryffindor. She'd run away with her proverbial tail between her legs so that everyone could defend themselves on their own, left them to die beneath the onslaught of the Death Eaters. Had Gryffindor been there, Lily was damn sure he'd shake his head and kill her himself. She wasn't fit to be in the house that was the very epitome of bravery when she had deserted all courage and honor and retreated like a dog, a beaten, lowly tramp.
These Death Eaters hated her because of her "inferior" Muggle-born blood. They didn't hate her; they hated her ancestors and the fact that she was a witch, even without a single droplet of magical blood. And her sister hated her for that reason too, even if she hated her differently, from another perspective. To Petunia, Lily was a freak of nature. She'd reduced her own sister, her flesh and blood, to a freakish, spell-casting, wand-wielding, one-woman circus. That had a repulsive charm to it.
Then Lily thought of her parents and the legion of family who knew and found it either a fascinating topic or abhorred her magic. She'd never see her parents or her two remaining grandparents again. Oh, God, she'd die out in the forest, alone, with nothing but thoughts and memories to morbidly comfort her.
Crying, she shifted into a world of floating, deep black oblivion.