FOUR

Anger coursed through her blood as she stepped into the green flames and emerged in the headmaster's study. He was sitting at his desk, scattered parchment in front of him, with his quill dipped in the ink pot.

She clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself into composure, but before she could announce her presence, the old man said quietly, "I know you're angry with me."

Her mouth moved furiously, searching for and then swallowing scathing words she knew she would regret.

Albus looked up at her, pale blue eyes piercing over those half-moon spectacles, and gestured with his other hand to the chairs in front of his desk. "Please sit, Lily."

She hated the calm nonchalant tone to his voice, hated how she followed his polite instruction, hated how the second she stepped in that room she felt like one of his students and not the independent agent—the adult—she really was.

"You knew," she accused icily.

Albus finished signing the bottom of his parchment with a flourish, and then set down his quill with a sigh. "Not quite."


James leaned against a stone column flanking the long hedge bordering the Rosier estate and checked his watch; nearly a quarter to eight. He had no reason to think she wouldn't show, and yet he couldn't escape the slithering twist of nerves in his stomach. It had been several days since their date in Paris, several days for him to stew over the letter he'd sent her the next morning—Lily, I had a great time with you last night. I'm sorry again I was called away like that. Let me make it up to you Friday, at the Rosier dinner? Yours, James—while waiting for her delayed reply—Hi James, I enjoyed our date too. Maybe you should come to Paris more often. I'll see you at the Rosiers' on Friday. xx, Lily—and then stew some more over what to do when he finally saw her again.

He'd been teased a little by the likes of Lucius and Snape when he'd shown up after them, cheeks still wind-bitten from the Parisian chill, and he'd answered Voldemort's dry observation of "I hope I didn't, ah, interrupt anything," with an equally dry, "You're the only one I'll leave a girl on top of the Eiffel Tower for, my lord." Voldemort had looked taken aback for only a moment before he'd dropped his head back in a stark laugh and then waved his hand lazily toward the body slumped unconsciously in the corner of the dungeon room. "Buy her a necklace and smooth it over, I'm sure Borgin can procure something of value. Meanwhile, I'd like you to extract some information for me…"

The jealousy of the others didn't escape his notice, nor did the fact that he seemed to get away with sass that few other Death Eaters did. James put it down to a combination of his natural charisma, historic family tree, and prodigious magical abilities; he'd always stood out, always focused on being the best at everything he did, and it had earned him an invaluable place in Lord Voldemort's inner circle. So he let the others laugh, let them taunt him when Voldemort wasn't around about how James was dating for the Dark Lord and they couldn't wait to watch him act whipped by fresh pussy when he had to dutifully parade the drab cow around as his date. Though their vulgar words had sent his stomach curdling, he'd bit his tongue and left them with a smiling, "Remember how you said that when you see her, yeah?" Snape hadn't corrected them, the jealous bastard, and they'd rolled their eyes, grumbling a lot of yeah, yeah's and whatever's, stuck in their assumption that a woman with the academic calibre to be part of an ancient secret society obviously couldn't be attractive.

But the smug satisfaction of knowing the mere sight of Lily would knock their balls off was relatively short-lived, because then different nerves had overtaken him: not am-I-doing-a-good-job-for-the-mission nerves, but full-on schoolboy crush does-she-like-me nerves.

Which was fucking stupid. Though he supposed it did help the mission along to have chemistry like they clearly did, he wasn't supposed to have feelings for her. He wasn't supposed to forget he wasn't on a real date, wasn't supposed to get tipsy, wasn't supposed to flirt like a dork, wasn't supposed to want to kiss her of his own accord, ignore Voldemort's call, and keep kissing her until morning. But he did. Badly.

Sirius had weaseled the truth out of him, as he always did, and had promptly began his old-school teasing when they were at home. Remus, for his part, had smiled kindly and reminded him to be careful, and Peter, ever the easy-going one, had just shrugged like it was no big deal to crush on his assignment. Then again, he wasn't sure Peter appreciated the gravity of what they believed Lily capable of based on who they thought she worked for, so he should probably ignore Peter on that one.

He was well and truly fucked, was the truth. And as the minutes crept closer, his mind returned to where it had started in its repetitive loop: nerves at seeing Lily. She'd taken a few days to respond to his letter. Had he ruined his chances with her? Surely not, if she'd agreed to come tonight. But why did she agree, after he'd had to run off like that? Was she treating the night like a sort of test? Was he on his last chance? Was this just a pity date, because she'd already agreed and she was too nice to back out?

With a punctual pop, Lily appeared a few steps away from him, and James did a legitimate double-take as her arrival jolted him out of his racing thoughts. A black dress fit snug to her skin, hugging curves she'd previously kept hidden under fashionable knits, and it swooped artfully around her neck on one side, like a chic version of a toga, to leave a swath of porcelain skin—one arm, one shoulder, a slit across the opposite side of her chest—exposed while the twining fabric turned around her neck and into a sleeve covering her entire other arm. Dark red hair, previously put up every time he'd seen her, tumbled around her shoulders in cascading waves, and lightly kohled eyes shone brilliantly as emeralds above painted wine-red lips.

She was, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen.

Letting his smile spread instantly over his face, James approached her, resting a hand on her bare arm and feeling her light grip on his as they exchanged the air kisses etiquette required. She smelled of something soothing and slightly sweet—honey, maybe?—but with a subtle spice, not the overly floral stuff women usually wore that gave him a headache.

"You look unreal," he murmured, and she hummed her appreciation as she eyed him with a playful look.

"You don't clean up too bad yourself, Potter."

He'd worn all black that night, a crisp dress shirt and pressed slacks, with his velvet cloak thrown over his shoulder. Magical tailoring was a beautiful thing, and it wasn't like he spent his mornings in the makeshift gym in his basement for nothing; his clothes fit him like a glove, shirt stretching over broad shoulders while narrowing at his waist, slacks hugging just the right amount to an arse and thighs made by years of dedicated squats. He looked damn good, and he knew it. Still, though, hearing her say it, seeing her eyes travel a path over his body, made his chest swell with pride and his groin start to tingle.

Distraction was necessary. Stat.

"I'm glad you think so," he said smoothly, "because I've been worried about impressing you."

She resisted the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Well, matching me's certainly a good start."

James chuckled softly, turning and gesturing to the long path through the gates. "We should do that more often."

She reached a hand up to smooth an already-pressed collar and pat his chest, sending new butterflies swirling around inside him. "Always getting ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

Before he could respond, she turned and kept walking—and fuck him, her dress was open in the back, showing off sharp shoulder blades and the sensual dip of her spine above the curve of her arse.

"Potter?" She was watching him over her shoulder, a fierce energy radiating from her face, like she was…challenging him.

He instinctually rose to meet it, and something about that, that shift into competition, scattered his nerves and replaced them with adrenaline. Stepping up beside her, he brushed his fingers lightly against her low back and murmured, "You can't wear a dress like that and expect me not to admire it, Evans."

Her eyebrow arched. "Admiring the dress, there, hmm?"

Damn, she was good. James chuckled, biting his lip, then answered, "Forgive a bloke for the moment he realizes his date's not wearing a bra, yeah?"

Lily smirked at him, something mischievous in her eyes. "Forgiven," she quipped. "But only because you're so cute when you blush."

She took off again down the path, and it struck him rather forcefully that his earlier theories had been incorrect. She wasn't here out of pity, and she didn't seem like she was testing him, exactly. Whether he'd given too much of himself away or Lily was simply just more adept at reading him than he'd realized, he'd never know, but the result was the same. She was doing the thing he'd always secretly loved, the thing he'd always craved, the thing he'd always lacked in his relationship at Hogwarts: she was making him chase her.

And if there was one thing James excelled at, it was chasing.

His ego plumed like a peacock, just in time to cross the threshold of the Rosiers' front door into their entrance hall, where the eyes of everyone milling about in the drawing room swiveled to watch their arrival. Pride purred in his chest, smug satisfaction pushing his smile nearly past its limits, as he saw the plain shock and disbelief coloring the faces of so many of their crowd as they looked Lily up and down with open appraisal.

James handed his cloak off to a bowing house-elf, then made a quiet show of plucking two glasses of red wine from another elf's waiting tray.

"Ready for the gauntlet?" he whispered as he handed her a glass.

Lily smirked at him, letting her fingers linger over his in the exchange. "Ready for you to show me off."

Fucking hell, it was like she was speaking straight into his soul. He returned his free hand to her low back, trying to ignore the way the feel of her skin against his fingers made his pulse jump, and guided her into the sumptuous drawing room of purebloods awaiting introductions, starting with their hosts.

"Belinda," James greeted politely, maneuvering smoothly to be able to kiss her offered cheek, then clasp her husband's outstretched hand. "Dorian. This is Lily Evans."

"From Paris!" Belinda exclaimed excitedly as she smiled up at Lily. "I'm delighted to meet you, darling. I went to Beauxbatons also, though it was many years ago."

Lily's face lit up at this information, and when she responded in French, her and Belinda slipped into a quick exchange of rapid sounds that James couldn't make heads or tails of but that left him mesmerized at the sight of her. She hadn't seemed subdued, exactly, but he'd sensed a guardedness about her from the start, like she was wading tentatively into British waters and revealing herself in slow bits and pieces—which James couldn't fault her for one bit, knowing as he did exactly what those British waters contained. Yet now, speaking French with Belinda, cheeks already blooming pink with happiness, she exuded a whole other energy than he was used to seeing.

A sudden, strong urge to kiss her and drink that energy straight from her mouth infiltrated his brain, hell, his whole being, and it took everything he had not to grab her face right then, mid-conversation, and snog her so hard that she'd see stars.

When she flashed him a smile, he didn't even realize she'd caught him staring at first, and then by the time he'd comprehended that her brief conversation with Belinda had ended, Lily was already saying to Dorian, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Rosier."

"Please, call me Dorian." He covered her hand with his own. "Any friend of James is a friend of ours."

"You're most kind."

"Ah! And here's our son, Evan."

James shared a nod with the lanky bloke who'd wandered over; as pureblood Death Eaters went, Evan was one of the more normal ones, and though they'd been rival Quidditch captains at Hogwarts, their relationship had mellowed out now that they were on the same side.

Slowly, they began working through the room. Sirius was quick to break the tension with a bow and dramatized French accent as he proclaimed, "Lovely to see you again, Mademoiselle Lily." She laughed good-naturedly, answering back in kind, and if she noticed the blatant staring from their male peers in the room—which ranged from shocked to downright lecherous—she didn't say anything, just kept smiling that coy Lily Evans smile and charming them all right and left.

There weren't many other women there that evening; aside from Belinda and a couple other older wives, there was only Narcissa Black, reminding them all she was engaged to Lucius by how she flashed her ring for Lily to admire and gushed about going shopping for a gown in Paris (could Lily make some introductions?), Drucilla Flint, rolling her eyes behind Narcissa's back and greeting Lily with a practiced joke about England's horrid weather in her normal wry humor, and—

"This is Adelaide Selwyn. Ladie, Lily."

Adelaide gave Lily a once-over with her nose in the air. "Pleasure," she sniffed.

Lily, to her credit, ignored Adelaide's attitude and asked, "Were you all at Hogwarts together, then?"

"Lucius and I were actually several years ahead," Narcissa prattled, though James could tell she was preening at being thought the same age as Lily. "Speaking of, I'm going to go check on him, if you'll excuse me…"

James sipped his wine so he wouldn't say something he'd regret about her fiancé surely appreciating being treated like a child.

"I was in Slytherin," Drucilla added without paying Narcissa any mind, "with Evan, Severus, and let's see…Jasper Wilkes, you met him, he was our grade, Corban Yaxley, the one with Jasper, was the year ahead. And then these two"—she gave Adelaide a pointed look before turning back to Lily—"were in Gryffindor like the chivalrous twats they are."

Adelaide rolled her eyes, and Lily used the moment to look up at him and tease, "Chivalrous, hmm?"

"Absolutely," James flirted back.

She cocked her head to the side. "I don't think I've seen that side of you yet."

James chuckled, feeling the beginnings of a blush creep into his cheeks, but before he could think of something flirty to say back, Drucilla cut in, teasing, "Damn, James, don't keep a girl waiting," and then telling Lily in a faux-whisper, "I hear he takes ladies first to heart."

Lily raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh?"

But Adelaide spoke up, voice biting as she interjected, "Until he throws you away."

Anger boiled in his stomach as Adelaide fixed him with her icy stare, but then she broke their staring contest to look directly at Lily. "He's never satisfied," she said coldly. "Just so you know."

And without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Drucilla gave him a meaningful look, then told Lily, "That's my best friend cue—nice to meet you, Lily," before leaving to follow Adelaide through the mingling crowd.

Lily turned sharp, inquisitive eyes on him and held her wine glass near her mouth. "So you dated her."

It wasn't a question, but James sighed and confirmed, "On and off, but yeah."

Lily took in this information without reaction.. "At Hogwarts?"

He nodded. "And after. But not…not for awhile. It's probably been like…six, seven months since the last time we broke up?"

Her gaze didn't waver as she asked quietly, "Do you think you'll marry her?"

James choked on his wine and spluttered, "Evans, what—"

She only shrugged and said calmly, voice still quiet enough that James was confident those nearby wouldn't be able to overhear, "Just trying to figure out if you asked me here to make her jealous in between rounds."

"No," he answered immediately, insides rushing with a bizarre mix of relief and worry. "That's not—here." He cupped her elbow, drawing her toward an empty nook by a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, then continued in a hushed voice, "That's why we broke up this last time, actually. For good. She wanted me to propose, I found out she'd actually been expecting it from the holidays through Valentine's Day, and when I didn't, there was a huge fight." An entirely inappropriate laugh escaped him. "We broke up at my birthday party. Actually turned out to be a great fucking night after we got that out of the way."

Lily wasn't frowning, but she wasn't smiling either. James felt rather like he was an interesting math problem that she was scrutinizing, and he hurried to add with what he hoped was serious conviction, "I didn't want to marry her. I had no intentions of proposing. It was a school romance that ran its course, and when she gave me an ultimatum, I didn't choose her. That's it."

She sipped her wine. "I see." Her face betrayed no reaction, and not for the first time, James desperately wished he could get inside her head, just get a goddamn clue what she was thinking, but her Occlumency was airtight.

It was a good thing he was good at chasing.

He took a step toward her, closing the small gap between them, and Lily's eyes instantly narrowed at him over her wine glass. "What are you doing?"

James ducked his mouth towards her ear as he moved his hand lightly over her back and around her waist. "I'm showing everyone who's watching that you're with me."

Her mouth curved up on one side. "Territorial, are you?"

He just smirked. "Around here, you have to be."

Lily's eyebrows arched just a hint in question, so he elaborated in a murmur, "Selfish lot, Slytherins. Greedy, too. Always want whatever's shiny and new for themselves."

"Explains the ogling," she muttered dryly. So she had noticed those slimy stares.

"And the women around here," he continued, "aren't afraid to show their teeth, either."

Lily tilted her head so her eyes met his through her lashes. "Explains the ex."

James couldn't help the chuckle that prompted, nor the, "Fuck, I like you," that followed.

Her eyes sparkled. "How forward of you."

"Yes, well," he recovered, "Gryffindor, you know. Bold and all that."

"Made any progress on placing me yet?"

He swept his eyes over her face as he pondered his answer. "Ravenclaw is probably the obvious choice, you being a—what did Sluggy say? Genius and a half?"

Lily rolled her eyes playfully and took another sip of her wine.

"But I don't know, Evans. They're a little too pretentious about being smart, you know? I think you have a bold side under all that mystique, even if haven't shown it yet."

She looked pleased with that assessment. "Is that so?"

James bent back to her ear, allowing his lips to ghost over her skin before he murmured, "Yeah. Bold of you, coming here with me in this dress when you knew you'd be the center of attention."

He'd expected her to blush, maybe swat him playfully or make a teasing remark, but instead, she shifted her wine glass to her other hand so she could rest the hand between them on his waist, the heat of her touch searing through the fabric of his shirt, and brace herself against him as she tilted her mouth toward his ear. His heart pounded against his ribcage, insides fluttering with a mixture of her closeness and the knowledge that their little display was no doubt being watched by everyone in the room.

"Well," she whispered, "that's the chivalrous thing to do when you like someone back."

His fingers tightened on her waist, smile spreading instantly at the sound of those words and the giddy, schoolboy thrill they sent up his spine. She liked him back. She liked him back.

The next instant, all of the glass in the room exploded: chandelier, vases, clock, stemware, windows. James had only a fleeting glance of wine splashing into the air as their glasses burst in their hands, and then the force of the windows just behind them exploding propelled them forward into the room. His ears rang, the screeching, shattering sound of breaking glass mingling with screams, shouts, and rushing air that could only mean one thing: an attack was in motion.

Thinking only of getting Lily to immediately safety, James held tighter to where he'd grabbed her somewhere on her arm and focused all of his energy on his room at home as he twisted on the spot.


She stumbled onto a hardwood floor, dizzy, and within moments the dull, throbbing ache of what felt like a hundred paper cuts overwhelmed her whole body, sending tears hot and fast down her cheeks.

"I got you," came a husky voice somewhere behind her as an arm looped gingerly around her stomach, holding her securely at the hip.

"What—"

"Shh," he soothed. "You're safe here."

Stupidly, nonsensically, despite the fact that she'd only been in that drawing room in the first place because of him, Lily believed him. Though, she supposed she didn't have much choice, given the circumstances, and if she'd allowed herself to be alone with him at perilous heights on more than one occasion (and while being tipsy to boot), then being alone with him now wasn't much different.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, forcing deep breaths in and out to try to carry herself through the aching, stinging pain.

"I need to pull the glass out," he told her, his voice quiet but controlled. Lily latched onto his steadiness, needing to feed off his calm as she mumbled acquiescence. Hands lifted her hair, holding it to one side, and then Lily felt the loop of the dress around her neck fall away, though the tightness of the bodice at least kept it securely over her breasts.

"Which requires that I cut that," he added belatedly.

Lily hummed, still focusing her thoughts on staying calm through the pain—but, at least starting to feel assured that her life was not in imminent jeopardy, she could spare a few for banter. "Sure you're not just trying to get my clothes off, Potter?"

His mouth was suddenly at her ear from behind her. "Trust me," he murmured, "this is not how I envisioned taking this dress off you."

"Who said you would have gotten it off at all?"

He chuckled dryly as he pressed closer, his front brushing against her backside so she felt the faintest hint of the semi-hardness behind his trousers. "Maybe I wouldn't've," he admitted, "but I would have tried damn hard."

Lily smiled despite herself, eyes still firmly closed. "Fixed me yet, Potter?"

That seemed to return him to the matter at hand, and he murmured, "This is going to hurt like a bitch, Evans, but it's the only way."

She gritted her teeth. "Just do it."

Lips pressed softly to a spot on her head just above her ear. "I got you, don't worry."

Mid-shiver, his spell hit her, and she heard herself scream like she was outside her body; it was blinding pain like she'd never known, like shards and dust were sifting from her skin like spilling sand.

But it was over as quick as it had begun, and when James said, "Done—Evans, look," she opened her eyes to see the dust and tiny fragments shimmering together in a dazzling, slow tornado.

"That was all—"

"In your skin, yes."

"But—how—"

He vanished the glass with a wave of his wand and then turned his face back to hers.

"Your back was to the window," he said softly. "And there was that cabinet on your other side, plus the chandelier above us, and our wine glasses. I think you got hit from all sides, and you had more skin exposed." He paused, jaw clenched, before muttering, "And I think it was part of the curse, for the glass to latch onto skin it found and fester, or something. The Order likes to act righteous, but they fight just as dirty."

It was like all the oxygen had vanished along with the glass. "The Order?"

Thankfully, James took her shock as confusion, and answered, "Of the Phoenix. Albus Dumbledore's resistance group. Aurors, mostly, with some other people from Ministry. They're pretty rag-tag."

Her head spun. "Why would they—it was a dinner party."

James sighed and cupped her face, forcing her scattered eyes on his. "Evans," he said softly, and Lily couldn't tell if his voice was more full of amusement or pity, "welcome back to England, remember?"

Her mouth moved wordlessly as she tried to wrap her mind around everything that had happened in the last half hour, but James rested his thumbs over her lips with a gentle, "Shhh, later. How's your back?"

Lily blinked, her awareness going to the dull ache of her skin. "Sore," she answered.

His brow furrowed, and he moved around her only to exhale a quiet, "Shit."

"What?" she demanded, head automatically twisting over her shoulder, which only resulted in making her wince.

"You know how skin looks when it's been cut but stopped bleeding? Swollen, pink?"

"Yeah," Lily breathed.

"Well," James said simply, "That's all of your skin that was touched by glass."

She groaned softly. "Don't happen to know a charm for that, do you?"

"Not a charm…" he muttered, "But I might have something else. Hang on, wait here."

He disappeared through the door, and Lily glanced around, finally taking in her surroundings.

Which very quickly revealed a bedroom—James's room, by the looks of things. A short way's away from the fireplace was a king-sized bed swathed in silky-looking linens; on one of the nightstands sat a small pile of earmarked books. Next to the wardrobe was an old-looking trunk adorned with magical stickers and etched doodles, and on a desk by the window, standing amidst scattered parchment and stray quills, were two framed, moving photographs: one of an older couple beaming on either side of a grinning James in a cap and gown, and the other of four boys, taken the same day, arms around each other with a glittering lake behind them.

Body aching, legs feeling weak, Lily stepped out of her heels and padded across the patterned rug, plush between her toes, to sit heavily at the end of the bed. She was in his bedroom; in his house. She thought she was sure they were not inside Number Twelve, though Dumbledore hadn't told her anything about where James lived—maybe he hadn't known?

Distant footsteps approached the door, and Lily looked up to see James walk back in, holding up a tube of ointment in his hand. "Let's try this."

He sat next to her, and Lily turned her body gingerly to expose her back to him, holding her hair over her shoulder. Within moments, his fingers were on her, gently spreading ointment that was unnaturally cold to the touch, and she spasmed with a violent shiver.

"Alright?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, just—that stuff's cold."

She heard the smile on his voice. "Too soon for a line about warming you up?"

Lily smirked, shaking her head, but then before she could retort properly, her head lolled to the side as James worked the ointment around her neck and over her shoulders with a little extra massage that was wholly unnecessary but very much appreciated.

"You are good with your hands," she mused aloud.

"I told you that was true," he teased, voice low.

Lily didn't say anything, content to let her tense muscles relax under his touch as she tried to mentally get a handle on the situation.

But James removed his hand from her neck without warning, and as she felt the weight of him behind her leave the bed, she fluttered open her eyes to find him kneeling on the ground between her legs, eyes fixed on her collarbone as he smeared the cold salve around the front of her neck.

Her breath hitched as she took him in: inky hair askew, sweat dried by his ear, remnants of the exploded wine coloring his neck, evening stubble darkening his face, jaw clenched in concentration—or maybe also self-restraint—as his fingers worked steadily around the front of her neck and shoulders. The only part of him that appeared untouched by whatever they'd just lived through were his glasses, frames shiny, lenses clear.

"Your glasses," she said softly.

"What about them?"

"They didn't break."

James froze, then met her eyes for the first time since he'd knelt in front of her, a confused focus knitting his brow. "I keep protective charms on them," he said, like he was thinking aloud. "To repel water, keep them clean, stuff like that. The one protecting the lenses must have been enough to deflect the curse."

Lily reached out a tentative hand and stroked her finger down the side piece, then pulled away when she reached where it met his hair. He was staring at her, like he was taken aback but also didn't want to startle her, and it made her smirk. "You're pretty smart, Potter."

He smiled softly back. "I try." Then, sounding a little strained, "Last bit."

She held her breath, bracing herself for the inevitable touch, and did her best to contain her shiver when his fingers skimmed over the tops of her breast, rubbing the salve into the narrow area of cleavage that had been exposed from the cut of her dress and the nearby spots where the glass had managed to weasel underneath the fabric.

"Okay," he said huskily, turning his attention to screwing the cap back into the tube. "This stuff takes a few hours to completely sink in, but you'll be good as new once it does."

He pushed hastily to his feet, turning smoothly as he did to go set the tube on a nightstand, though Lily didn't miss the subtle adjustment he made to the front of his trousers as he went.

Maybe that was it—his sudden self-control, his obvious effort to hold himself back, entirely unlike his prior flirtation and blatant advances—but Lily felt an unexpected surge of affection for him. She stood up, smoothed the front of her dress, and then let out a hiss as she winced at the stiff pain of healing skin.

James was in front of her in an instant, a steadying hand back on her hip. "Evans?"

When she opened her eyes, it was to see his lips right in front of her. She'd noticed that from the moment she'd seen him that evening, that her heels put them at the perfect height difference to kiss. Her gaze flicked back up to his eyes just in time to catch him glancing down at her mouth, and Lily held her breath, heart suddenly frantic in her chest. She knew she should kiss him—hell, she'd spent the past few days wanting to kiss him, day-dreaming about kissing him—but just then, her body exhausted with the stress it had been put through, her thoughts in turmoil over the betrayal and confusion she felt at what James had said about the Order, the thought of trying to kiss him, trying to romance him, just felt wrong.

And not, she realized with a jolt, wrong in the way that she felt like she'd be doing something morally bad by kissing him, but quite the opposite: like kissing him would feel right, so right, that not giving their first kiss the kind of moment it deserved—not one where she was sore and tired and confused (and no doubt a horribly stiff partner in bed), but one where she was herself, excited and eager and happy (not to mention limber)—would be something she might regret.

So she shook her head, ducking her gaze to focus on absently smoothing his shirt over his chest. "I should go home," she said quietly. "I'm sorry, I just—after all that—I need to be by myself and just—I don't know. Get to a new day."

His voice was low, gravelly, but with a new kindness. "You don't have to apologize. You deserve some rest."

Lifting her eyes to his face, she saw him gazing down at her in concern. "Thank you," she told him. "For…helping me. Healing me."

The faintest of smiles appeared on his mouth as he stroked a knuckle down the side of her face. "Like I ever wouldn't? Evans, you don't have to thank me for that."

Warmth unfurled in her chest at the sincerity in his voice, and she found herself stretching up slightly, even in her heels, to reach his cheek. "I know," she whispered, letting her nose graze his skin, "but I still want to."

And she pressed her lips to the faint dimple that betrayed his smile at her words, leaving a bright smudge of red on that marble skin, before stepping back from him. She took in one last sight of that disheveled hair, his darkening eyes, those tense shoulders, and with a final smile, she turned on the spot and disappeared.


"Not quite?" Lily demanded, feeling her temper boil at the surface. "Not quite? I had glass embedded in my skin, I'm lucky I even made it out of that room alive—"

Albus held up a hand and raised his voice just enough to speak over hers. "The attack was not sanctioned, though"—he grimaced—"I do admit it was my fault."

She fell quiet and slumped back in her chair, frowning. "I don't follow."

The headmaster steepled his hands, expression grave. "We knew of the dinner party," he admitted. "That crowd puts them on all the time, they're always socializing, and we're usually surveilling."

"Just…surveilling?"

He nodded glumly. "Just surveilling. Friday night was no different. My instructions for those Order members on duty had been to watch and listen, not to initiate any sort of attack or confrontation."

Lily arched a challenging brow. "So why weren't those instructions followed?"

Albus swallowed thickly, looking down at his desk. "Because I put someone in the field who was not ready to return."

"What? Why—"

"Because," Albus explained with a sigh, "one of our best members, a highly skilled Auror named Caradoc Dearborn, disappeared last week, and we believe the Death Eaters were behind it."

Her heart seemed to speed up and slow down at the same time. "Oh."

Albus inclined his head. "Benjy Fenwick was one of his best friends. He'd insisted he was okay for the field, and as he's one of our strongest fighters, I, against my better judgment, believed him. His partner that evening, Edgar Bones, told me that Benjy had grown increasingly agitated watching so many Death Eaters mingling and drinking through the windows, especially"—those light blue eyes seemed uncharacteristically sad—"James Potter, whom Benjy, Caradoc, and Edgar had all once considered to be a friend, akin to a younger brother."

The words escaped her in a whisper. "That's awful."

"I'm afraid that's not all," Albus said heavily. "What bothered Benjy considerably was the sight of James drinking and smiling with a, and I quote, beautiful woman on his arm."

Her stomach turned. "They don't know about me."

Albus shook his head. "No. I chose to keep that a secret so as to not risk jeopardizing your position, yet Benjy would have undoubtedly refrained from acting out as he did if he had known the truth."

Unreasonable anger at this man she didn't know, this Benjy, swirled just under the surface. "But—what was even the point, what did he hope to do—"

"Nothing," Albus said resignedly. "He saw James, he lost his head, and lashed out before grabbing Edgar and fleeing the premises."

Lily frowned, her mind niggling on one piece that didn't add up. "You keep saying…that he saw James. What is it about James that triggered him? Their old friendship?"

Albus leaned forward over his desk, folding his hands in front of him. "That, and…we've heard some intelligence, over time, that James is Voldemort's, shall we say, top interrogator."

Her stomach leapt into her throat as Albus met her eyes, and she breathed, "What?"

"It is highly likely," Albus went on, "that if Caradoc was captured, he would have been interrogated before presumably being killed, and that James would have had a hand in that interrogation."

Her pulse thudded wildly under her skin, mind racing as it added up information Lily didn't want it to realize.

Albus was frowning at her. "Lily? Are you alright? You've gone rather pale."

She gulped. "It was him. It has to be."

The headmaster only appeared curious as he prodded, "What makes you think this?"

An unexpected sob choked her throat as guilt engulfed her chest. She'd withheld potentially vital information from Albus, and for what? Because she'd been embarrassed? Because she'd been falling for him and his stupid good looks and charisma, when he was probably nothing more than a classic player anyway? Adelaide's words echoed in her mind. He's never satisfied. Why had Lily thought she'd be any different? Why did she care?

In halting, croaking sentences, she told Albus what she hadn't before: about getting tipsy with him, going up on the Eiffel Tower, being about to kiss, witnessing the bizarre behavior that led to his hasty exit, puzzling over his subsequent letter.

"It just—it didn't make any sense, and I thought—ugh, I felt so stupid about it, and it was all conjecture, I didn't know—"

"Lily," Albus said sternly, "there's nothing you could have done to prevent what happened to Caradoc, I need you to understand that."

She wiped the back of her hand across her nose, nodding weakly.

"Adding together what we both know," Albus went on, "Caradoc went missing while James was in Paris with you. If he'd been called away, as he described it, by Voldemort, then Caradoc was already in their custody. Though, it is curious…"

Lily sniffed. "What's curious?"

Albus frowned. "That they took Caradoc without him. James, I mean. Caradoc is a highly skilled Auror, if James's skill was unnecessary, that is foreboding indeed…though perhaps, Voldemort himself wanted to do it, he does seem drawn to trophy killings, and it would still make sense to have James do the interrogation to leverage Caradoc's feelings and their shared memories…"

Albus's thoughts, like a stream of consciousness, only twisted and twisted the knife that felt plunged inside her organs. One of his best men, gone. While she was chatting with Dahlia about dating, he was gone. While she was daydreaming about kissing James, he was gone. While she was picking out her dress and doing her hair and fantasizing about different ways the night could end with James's hands on her body, he was gone.

And he was gone because of James. She'd been pining after a torturer; a murderer.

It was stupid, how the weight of those words hit her now. She'd known them, in some rational part of her brain, to be true; had even ruminated on compartmentalizing her feelings because of them. And yet, she hadn't fully appreciated their gravity until now, when he'd left her presence—a date that had made her feel like a crushing school girl again—only to commit the gravest acts of immorality.

She couldn't allow herself to think about the aftermath of Benjy's curse, couldn't allow herself to picture concerned hazel eyes and gentle touches that lit a whole other kind of fire across her skin. Those moments were irrelevant against the heaviness of his evil and the revulsion she felt for falling for him, even if it was just on the surface, the charm he wanted everyone to see.

"I don't know if I can do this," she blurted out.

The moonlight captured the wizened wrinkles of the headmaster's face, the silver of his hair, and for the first time, Lily thought he looked truly weary.

"I of course cannot force you to stay, Miss Evans," he said slowly, voice measured, "but I can assure you that you are capable of far more than you think."