INSIDE

ONE

Today was a burning day.

Lily watched curiously as the phoenix burst into a violent rush of flames, its raw shriek echoing around the room before it abruptly ceased and the fire collapsed into a pile of ashes. A moment later, a small, fuzzy head pushed through the embers, reborn.

It was really rather symbolic of her whole situation, and she wondered briefly whether the Headmaster had planned this when he'd requested they meet that evening. From what she'd gleaned at their first meeting, she wouldn't have put it past him.

The man in question swept into the room, greeting her with a kind smile before closing the door behind him.

"Ah, Miss Evans. Thank you very much for coming."

"Of course, Mr. Dumbledore."

"Please." He gestured to one of the chairs flanking his desk. "Call me Albus."

Lily sat with a gracious smile, crossing one leg over the other as she smoothed her silk robes over her lap.

On the other side of the desk, Albus observed her over steepled fingers. "I would like to hear about last night."

Lily took a deep breath and opened with what she knew he really wanted to know. "I met him. He was…" Devastatingly handsome. Disturbingly attentive. Unflinchingly charismatic. But she wasn't about to voice observations like that. "Exactly as you described."

His face remained impassive. "Why don't you start at the beginning?"


For being The Noble and Most Ancient House of the Black family, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place felt cramped and stuffy—exactly the opposite of what Lily had expected upon learning this was her destination for the evening. Hell, her own appartement in Paris was more spacious and luxurious than this. She wrinkled her nose as they ascended the narrow staircase lined with house-elf heads and thought Albus hadn't been exaggerating when he'd described the notorious Black mania.

Lily hadn't even met them, and she already knew: these people were fucking mental.

Horace paused at a landing and turned an ornate handle before gesturing her to precede him. Following his lead, Lily crossed the threshold and found herself in a drawing room. She let her eyes sweep over her surroundings and felt her skin crawl. Everything seemed garishly rich, from the thick carpets on the floor, to the heavy brocade curtains closed along the walls, to the overwhelming mantel—to the people gazing at her from various points of the room.

There was Walberga, of course, recognizable from her portrait in the foyer, all glossed black hair and hooded eyes. Then her husband, Orion, with his own salt-and-pepper strands pulled back into a low ponytail with a single black ribbon. In an armchair, swirling a Scotch glass lazily, was their son, Sirius, looking like he'd barely aged a day from the photograph Albus had shown her of him at Hogwarts five years prior. In another chair, sitting stiffly with lank hair curtaining his face, was someone Lily hadn't been briefed on. And there, leaning against the mantel with one hand in his pocket and the other dangling his own Scotch glass, was her target.

Descendant of another ancient magical family, though one wrapped in folklore instead of fanaticism. Former Head Boy. Gryffindor house prodigy. And now, rumor had it, freshly inked Death Eater.

Albus didn't know why James Potter had turned dark, but he thought he could pinpoint when it happened: after the death of James's parents, barely a year after he'd graduated with top grades, job offers from the Ministry, and a coveted spot on the deep bench of the Montrose Magpies professional Quidditch team. He'd had it all, but after losing his only real family, he'd thrown it all away, disappearing without a trace for at least half a year before being presumed dead only to re-emerge with new, unexplainable loyalties. Sirius Black had followed him, another more bumbling friend named Peter Pettigrew had dashed after Sirius, and a third school friend called Remus Lupin had declined his last mission only to fade from Albus's sight.

For as inscrutable a man as Albus Dumbledore was, even he hadn't been able to keep the emotion from his face as he'd recounted these histories to Lily. She had seen it in the furrow of his brow, the thin line of his mouth, the sadness in those piercing blue eyes: he was troubled, deeply troubled, by losing James. He couldn't make sense of it, and even worse than James's betrayal was the domino effect that betrayal had had in stealing Sirius, Remus, and Peter from Albus's core group of supporters and in dealing a devastating blow to the anti-Voldemort cause.

Albus had patiently explained to her how nonsensical James's actions seemed, yet, seeing him here, Lily rather thought he looked completely at home. Relaxed. Casual. Smug.

Horace shut the door behind them with a genial, "Good evening, everybody."

"Evening, Horace," Orion called from his chair by the drawn window. "Fancy a drink?"

"You know me," Horace chuckled. "Have you got the forty-five?"

Orion smirked and snapped his fingers, after which Lily saw a scuttle of movement near an overflowing cabinet of glassware and bottles, but then he turned his gaze to Lily. "And who is our lovely guest this evening?"

Horace placed a friendly hand on her shoulder as he announced, "May I introduce Miss Lily Evans, a colleague from Paris."

Orion's brow quirked. "Colleague?"

Lily inclined her head and answered, "I'm a Potioneer."

"Too modest," Horace chided. "She's a genius and a half, and she's only—how old are you, dear? Twenty-one? Twenty-too?"

"Twenty-three," Lily supplied.

Orion extended a hand to the open seats around the fire. "Well, a friend of Horace Slughorn is a friend of ours. Please, sit."

Lily offered a polite smile and followed Horace to an open sofa, feeling watchful eyes on her as she sat at one end, crossing one knee over the other.

A house-elf brought Horace his Scotch, then disappeared into the shadows.

"So, introductions." Horace took a sip of his drink, smacking his lips loudly, then gestured around the room. "Orion, of course, I told you of him and his wife, Walberga"—who looked utterly bored, Lily thought—"their son, Sirius"—he cast her an unexpectedly boyish smile—"this here's Severus Snape, my own apprentice"—the young man with lank blank hair gave her a curt nod, and Lily noticed he had a rather hooked nose—"and then James Potter"—he raised his glass toward her in a polite toast. The little smirk on his mouth sent an unexpected flush of heat through her chest, and she silently thanked Past Lily, who had chosen the high-necked lace instead of the low-cut velvet for this first foray into British pureblood society; though she could control her eyes and mouth, she never had mastered that betraying skin of hers.

"It's my pleasure," she said to the group, though her eyes remained stuck on the bespectacled face gazing back at her.


"Severus was there?" Albus frowned. "I hadn't realized Horace kept in contact with him. He never seemed like one of Horace's favorites."

Lily could only shrug. "He didn't say much."

The headmaster turned his head to gaze out the window, where misty rain obscured the moonlit view. "I'm sure not," he said absently. "He had a heated rivalry with James and Sirius at school. It wouldn't be altogether surprising if they still struggle to get along."

Lily thought back to the prior evening and the distance she'd noticed between Severus and the others. He'd seemed the most uncomfortable, even more than she had been, like even though he wasn't a newcomer, he didn't feel welcome.

"I assume he's smart, if Horace took him on?"

"Oh, yes." Albus seemed to pull himself out of thought as he turned his gaze back to Lily. "Incredibly intelligent, at Potions, of course, but also the Dark Arts. It came to my attention on more than one occasion that he'd invented spells of quite malicious designs."

Lily arched a brow. "But he wasn't a favorite, you said?"

Albus shook his head. "He didn't quite have the…charisma Horace usually looks for in students, nor any meaningful family connections."

She was starting to think she understood. "He was jealous. Of James and Sirius."

"Oh, yes, I dare say that was part of it, but…there is something else. I mentioned before that James and Sirius were known to be reckless trouble-makers at school, but…I might not have fleshed out very well that they could also be bullies, even though they claimed to decry the Dark Arts at the time. Severus was one of their most common targets."

Gears began turning in Lily's mind, reordering the bits of information Albus had shared alongside her own observations from the night before. He'd told her about their trouble-making—about the constant pranks and hallway antics and endless detentions—but it had all seemed innocent when he'd described it before in his lead-up to describing James as Head Boy (a natural), Quidditch Captain (a star) and N.E.W.T. student (a prodigy). Now, adding the layer of bully to the mix, James Potter's trouble-making sounded more sinister than before—and more fitting for the boy who'd ended up with a Dark Mark on his arm.

"Anyway," Albus continued, "I'm sorry to interrupt. Please, continue."


James pushed off from the mantel as he asked, "Drink, Evans?"

Lily's eyes flicked toward the bar cabinet, spotting several bottles she recognized.

"Wine, thank you."

To her surprise, he didn't beckon a house-elf but sauntered over to the cabinet, pouring himself a fresh dram before perusing the wine shelf. Lily took a moment to admire—no, observe—him as his back remained turned to her. He was tall but not overly lanky, his shoulders broad under the luxe jumper he wore, his trousers snug over a lower half that looked as fit as a professional Quidditch player's, as though he still trained with the same regimen. Something fluttery and entirely inappropriate warmed her insides, and she forced her eyes up, though that wasn't much better when she only had a split second to take in the back of his artfully mussed head before he turned and caught her staring.

Lily had never willed her face into self-control harder.

A soft smirk teased the corner of his mouth, and then he strode towards her, dress shoes clipping softly against the carpeted hard-wood floor, only to stop directly in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck upwards.

"See if you like this." He spoke softly, something about his voice soothing, and Lily didn't realize just how much tension she'd been holding in her body until some of it eased under his kind attention. She took the glass he offered her, letting their fingers brush in the hand-off, and that same fluttery warmth started up again at his touch, though she tried to ignore it as she took a sip of the wine.

Of course it was delicious.

"Smooth," she told him with a straight face. "I like it."

He broke into a genuine smile, turning only to plop down in the sofa across from her, one arm draping lazily over the top of the cushion while he rested one ankle on the other knee.

"So where'd you study? Obviously not Hogwarts."

"Beauxbatons," she answered. "Class of seventy-eight."

Sirius sat next to James, slumping into the plush cushions. "Same year as us, then."

Lily eyed them and then Severus before playing dumb. "You all went to Hogwarts together, I take it?"

She didn't miss the dark look Sirius and Severus exchanged before James answered hurriedly, "Yeah, we did."

Orion interjected, asking, "So what brings you to London, Lily?"

Lily shifted her body towards him, uncrossing and recrossing her legs in full awareness that the movement put a slice of her skin from the knee down on display.

"My work led me to research on some plants native to Britain. Colleagues in France suggested I reach out to Horace, who graciously offered to make some introductions for me here."

Which was all perfectly true, even if it was entirely orchestrated. The full story was that Albus had found out about her research from his dear friend Olympe Maxime (who also happened to be her former Headmistress and mentor) and had been the one to suggest Lily look into those native British plants in the first place. To her astonishment, he'd been onto something, and she'd struck up a cordial correspondence with the foreign Headmaster, who had been abundantly generous with resources and introductions. It was only after her first in-person meeting with Albus, when he'd explained his proposal, that she realized the depth of the web he'd already spun.

Horace was obviously oblivious. "Well, it's not everyday an old codger like me gets to contribute to what will no doubt be the potion of the century!"

Lily didn't have to fake her blush. "Well, we're far, far away from having anything concrete—"

Horace waved her off. "Tosh. If you and Sev put your heads together, I don't doubt you'll crack it in no time."

Oh. A sudden heaviness settled in her stomach like a brick. So that's what Horace was playing at.


Lily chewed her lip, busying her fingers as she confessed, "When he said that, I…I just immediately got this horrible feeling."

Albus inclined his head. "Well, obviously, the fruits of your work in the hands of Voldemort's followers would be, to put it plainly, disturbing and catastrophic."

Somehow, that was still an understatement. "So how do I keep that from happening now that I've planted myself smack-dap in the middle of them?"

If Albus picked up on the annoyance in her tone, he ignored it. Instead, he offered her a weak smile and said simply, "You don't finish the potion."

She closed her eyes briefly, wondering not for the first time what she'd been thinking when she'd waded headfirst into this ordeal. Not only was he asking her to risk her life and possibly do questionable things to her dignity, but now she would have to fudge with her career, too, which necessarily involved fudging with the life's work of people she admired and respected.

Yet she knew, deep down, that she would stay. That she would still say yes if she was given a chance to choose again. Because this, more than anything else in her life, mattered.


Lily didn't miss the way James's gaze sharpened in Horace's direction, like he was displeased with that statement, and another blaze of that heat swirled the wine in her stomach. Her eyes shifted toward Severus, who was already watching her with an expression that seemed eager, almost…hungry.

Gross.

She offered him the smallest of polite smiles, then returned her attention back to James and Sirius. "Enough about potions, my days are filled with them. Tell me"—she put on her most charming smile—"do you boys know any French?"

James grinned at her, something lazy but all the more handsome for it, and raised a hand to ruffle at his hair. "Not any that I should repeat in present company."

Sirius snorted into his Scotch. "Try the family motto, you git."

"Oh yeah." James chuckled, a low rumbling sound that sent more of those inexplicable flutters bouncing around her chest. "Toujours Pur."

Orion raised his glass in a toast. "Indeed."


Lily faltered, thinking back through the evening. "I don't think there was anything else noteworthy in the rest of our conversation, it was all very casual. They asked about France and Beauxbatons, and I answered their questions, all very generic. And then we got on the subject of Quidditch, and you won't be surprised to know that topic lasted awhile."

Albus nodded but looked at her curiously. "And tell me, how was James? How did he seem?"

She sucked in a deep breath, searching for the right words to use. "He seemed…normal, I suppose. He was pleasant in conversation, incredibly knowledgeable on Quidditch, it was like he knew every stat of every player. He refilled my drink for me without me asking"—she saw Albus's eyebrows dart up—"and he smiled a lot, and did this thing where he"—she motioned around the top of her head—"played with his hair?"

A sad look overtook the Headmaster's face, though he smiled to himself and fixed his gaze once again out the window as he murmured, "Some things never change."

"Sir?"

Albus returned his attention to her. "Yes?"

"Do you think he's still…" Lily wasn't sure how to finish that question. In there? Good? She'd only met the bloke once and hadn't been able to get any sort of read on him, let alone one that harmonized the boy Albus had known with the twenty-something sitting in a drawing room of maniacs like he was perfectly at home.

Those piercing blue eyes seemed to see straight through her.

"No," Albus answered quietly.

Lily held her breath. "Can I…ask why?"

"Because goodness is a choice," Albus explained. "One that the very rite of becoming a Death Eater defiles. There is a reason why I have never asked anyone to become a Death Eater in order to be a spy for our side."

Her curiosity piqued. "I'm listening."

"To become a Death Eater, one must maim their own soul."

Lily's brow furrowed, wondering if that meant what she thought it did.

"Only one act maims the human soul, Lily. Killing."

Her heart sank as Albus confirmed her theory, and nausea tinged her stomach as images of James's smiling, laughing face floated through her mind.

"The rite of a Death Eater involves killing an innocent. The James Potter I knew—or I thought I knew—would never have done such a thing."

"But how do you know?" Lily pressed. "If he was a bully, and caused trouble—"

"Because he saved Severus's life."

Lily's mouth snapped shut.

"At school, Sirius took a prank too far, Severus's life was endangered, and James saved him, at great personal risk to himself—even though they hated each other." Albus shook his head gravely. "A couple years ago, James was part of an attack that killed a member of the Order and her family. Her name was Marlene McKinnon. James knew her well from the Order, had even fought at her side before his disappearance."

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but just then, Lily thought the old man's eyes shone with tears.

"The James we knew is gone," Albus said patiently. "But the James that exists now is dangerous. And in order to fight him, I need to understand what happened."

He didn't need to impress upon her the gravity of what that meant. She was there for one purpose: to uncover that link that Albus had thus far been unable to glean.

Lily swallowed hard. "He seemed…taken with me."

Albus leaned back in his chair and surveyed her over steepled fingers.

"I think I'll be seeing him again soon."

Next to the Headmaster's desk, the phoenix squawked and tested his wings, shaking off any lingering dust as he resettled on his perch.

Albus gave a curt nod. "Good."


The moment she Apparated back into her appartement, Lily exhaled a massive sigh of relief, kicking off her heels and slumping against the back of her door. The meeting had been simple enough: drinks, name drops, blasé commentary on socially acceptable topics. Lily got the impression they did that quite a lot, as none of the Blacks nor James were actually this thing called employed. They simply lived, existing among their pretentious finery and outrageously good alcohol. It was no wonder they'd all seemed somewhat bored; they probably ran out of things to fucking think about if that's what they did all day.

Granted, Lily knew plenty of wealthy people in Paris who essentially did the same, but at least the French were sexier about it. In the social circle Lily was peripherally connected to, one could always trust a salon to include music, lively talk, and a lot more laughter, at minimum. Walberga Black wouldn't know what to do with herself.

Lily snickered deliriously at the thought, trying to picture the matriarch—lips pressed in a thin line, nose in the air, speaking only to offer the occasional piece of judgment—thrust into the rush of Paris nightlife. The image entertained her for a short while, but then faded to the reality that if this type of stuffy gathering was what the rest of her societal interactions were to be, Lily had a very long road ahead of her indeed.

A distant tap on her window drew her back to her feet, and with a wave of her wand, the candles adorning the walls bloomed with flame, lighting her way across the airy room. Lily undid the latch, letting a burst of chilly October air inside along with a tawny owl who dropped a letter in her hand and then settled on the ledge, waiting for a reply.

With a sigh, Lily broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, not surprised in the least to see the message awaiting her there.

Can you meet in my office tomorrow evening? Say, 8 o'clock?

Summoning a quill and ink from her writing desk in the next room, Lily scrawled a hurried, Yes, see you then, on the back of the note, refastened it to the owl's leg, and shut the window.

Despite its bore, the evening had managed to be emotionally exhausting; she wasn't sure she was even up to processing it yet. With heavy limbs, she stripped off her dress robes, dropping them for Future Lily to pick up, and collapsed into bed.

In what felt like only minutes, more tapping on the window roused her abruptly from sleep. Lily cracked a bleary eye and let out an uncouth groan as she saw daylight pouring through her windows, but the owl tapping at the glass was not to be ignored.

Scowling at it, Lily slipped out of her bed, wrapping a silk sheet around her as she went to the window. Unlike Albus's owl the night before, this one was a bright, snowy white, and, when she opened the latch, it flew over to her writing desk, where it stretched its feathers in an ostentatious show.

Somehow, Lily didn't have to guess who'd sent it, though the thought made her stomach somersault.

"A little early, don't you think?"

The owl gave a low hoot and promptly stuck out his foot.

There was nothing for it; holding her bedsheet around her chest with her elbows, Lily untied the letter, briefly studied the slanting, looping lines forming the words Lily Evans, and then unfolded the parchment.

Good morning, Lily.

I enjoyed meeting you last night. With the way Sluggy talked up your work, I'm sure you're busy, but if you're ever keen to see more of London besides the inside of No. 12 (it's creepy, I know), I'd be happy to show you around.

Yours, James

Lily reread the letter, then read it again, unable to suppress the fluttery sensation building in her chest as she studied his handwriting and let the words sink into her brain.

James Potter had asked her out. It almost felt a little too easy. She'd known going into this mission that it would almost guarantee romantic involvement with him, but until this moment, reading his letter not even twelve hours after they'd parted, she hadn't let herself think about that in detail. Hell, before last night, she'd only seen one teen photo of the boy.

But now she had met him. She'd seen with her own eyes that James Potter was dashing. Suave. His tortoiseshell glasses gave him an air of sexy academia, which had always been her greatest weakness in men, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled, which was often for someone who was apparently steeped in the Dark Arts.

Evil people weren't supposed to look like that. Weren't supposed to laugh and joke and flirt like they hadn't killed innocent families and ruined lives. Weren't supposed to be intrigue incarnate, tempting her into an attraction that already felt all too real.

Lily let out a deep breath she'd been holding, gathering her wits. (Or as much of them as she could find without having yet had her morning cappuccino.) She had a job to do—one that could only be done from the inside—and she wasn't about to let herself get distracted.

"You might as well make yourself comfortable," she told the owl, only briefly wondering about the state of her sanity. "I'm not going to answer until tomorrow."

There were rules to these things. Obviously.