The thing that she has with Benjy is simple, uncomplicated.

It started out of convenience - once upon a time, a few mistakes ago, they ran into each other at a bar on one of those rare occasions where Marlene had succeeded in dragged her out, and they got to catching up on their lives since graduation. He'd been a few years above her in school - Head Boy when she'd just been appointed prefect - so their paths had crossed just enough for them to be interested in how the other's life had changed in the years since.

Benjy was getting over a break-up and Lily simply didn't have time to date around - nor did she have any desire to find something serious anyways - and somehow, a few drinks later, it accidentally morphed into Lily going home with him.

They truthfully don't have a lot in common outside the bedroom, but in it, they're more than compatible.

And so from that one night, it's become somewhat of a series of regular mistakes. Once every few weeks or so, one of them owls the other, and the other shows up on their doorstep that night. There are no feelings involved whatsoever - it's just shagging, and that's all Lily really wants or needs right now. A way to release some tension, without any of the added strings or risk of heartbreak. He doesn't care, and she likes that.

He knocks on her door at nine on the dot, and she doesn't even bother with a hello before grabbing him by the shirt collar and pressing her lips to his.

Benjy doesn't complain. They don't have much to talk about anyways.

Somehow, this is exactly what Lily needs. She'd sent a message to Benjy before that second run-in with James, but even if she hadn't, she certainly would've sent it afterwards. Sex isn't, perhaps, the healthiest option as an outlet for her frustrations, but it's probably better than drugs or drinking herself into a stupor, so she contents herself with the knowledge that she could be doing far worse.

And then Benjy slides his hand down her pants and all thoughts of what might or might not qualify as a 'healthy' coping mechanism goes straight out the window.

They stumble into her bedroom, leaving a trail of haphazardly discarded clothes in their wake. They fall into bed with a practiced ease, hands and mouths wandering with few real words exchanged.

She rides him until they're both cursing incoherently, and Lily's barely come down from her own high when she rolls off of him, standing up from the bed and going into the bathroom.

They do this every time - someone flees the scene and puts distance between the two of them almost immediately after they fuck. Lingering too long in the aftermath, letting the intimacy of the situation wash over them, is something both parties are keen on avoiding. It's probably why they've made it so far without either of them developing feelings - there's a clear delineation that what they're doing here is just sex, never making love.

In the harshly bright light of her bathroom, she can see the imprint of where Benjy's fingertips dug into her hips, sure to leave a bruise tomorrow. Neither of them are exactly gentle when they fuck - she's quite positive Benjy has marks of his own from her own hands.

It had surprised her, the first time, because she'd always known Benjy as this awkward, bumbling teenager - the rough, confident man she'd been acquainted with in her bedroom felt like a completely different person than the one she'd once known. But then again, she supposes it would be just as much of a shock for anyone else to learn that the sweet, teacher's pet Head Girl at Hogwarts is exactly the same.

Although she's not sure anyone would call her 'sweet' at all anymore.

When she steps out of the bathroom, her dressing gown on but left unfastened, Benjy is sitting on the edge of her bed, buttoning his shirt back up.

"You know you're allowed to talk about what's got you so upset," he comments dryly, not even looking up at her. "Just because this is a no-feelings-attached sort of thing doesn't mean we're not allowed to exchange any words ever."

She wraps her dressing gown around her and crosses her arms, more self-conscious of the way he's read her emotions than she is of her naked body. "What makes you think I'm upset about something?"

He shrugs. "Just a hunch."

She sighs. He's actually one of the few people who there's no harm in ranting to, so she figures she might as well vent to him a little bit instead of lying her way out. "James Potter is now with Puddlemere, and his first day was today."

A look of recognition crosses Benjy's features. "Ah, he was in your year, wasn't he? Turned into a bit of a twat after graduation though, it seems like."

Lily thinks back to her interactions with James today, thinks back to that devilish smirk of his that won't stop haunting her thoughts. "More than just a bit of a twat, really," she replies, sinking into the armchair in the corner of her room.

"Didn't he have a thing for you when we were in school too?"

She laughs, instantly aware of just how much Benjy missed in the timeline of her and James by only seeing up to the end of fifth year. "For a while, yeah," she answers. "But then we were really good friends for a while too, all the way up until we graduated and he got too infatuated with fame and wild parties and fucking every girl he laid eyes on to care about anyone he went to school with."

Her words come out with such unexpected vitriol that Benjy cringes, but that doesn't stop her from finishing. "And he was just… god, he was acting like such a self-entitled prick today. Like… like there was nothing wrong with how he left things, like he never loved me, or anyone, or anything, from before."

Benjy finally looks up at her, fully clothed now, and gives her an appraising look. "So you're hurt."

"I'm not hurt, I'm pissed off," she answers defensively.

He scoffs. "Sure, whatever you say," he replies, clearly not believing her. "I think you've just decided to mask your real feelings with anger because being angry gives you a protective shell, but that's just me."

He shrugs casually, like he hasn't just thrown an incisive analysis of her emotional state at her like a knife to the chest.

She can't figure out how to respond to that, and as a result just gapes at him as he stands up, fixes his hair, and walks to her bedroom door.

"This was fun," he says, and leaves it at that as he first exits her bedroom and then, based on the sound of her front door opening and closing, exits her entire flat as well.

Lily just sits there, knees curled to her chest, trying to fight off Benjy's words. She doesn't give enough of a damn about James Potter anymore to be hurt by him. She doesn't want to be his friend anymore, doesn't want anything to do with him really, so why would she be hurt by him acting like he doesn't know her?

Benjy's wrong - there's nothing more to this than cold, hard fury.

She's angry that he's been able to turn into this horrible sort of person and face no consequences for it. She's angry that he's a complete prick and still one of the most successful up-and-coming players in the League, his athletic skill kept completely separate from his behaviour off the pitch. She's angry that she has to put up with his arrogance again, with none of the gentleness of his nature that she'd once grown attached to.

And that's all there is to it.

The first full-team practice comes the following afternoon, and it naturally finds Lily on her broom, weaving through the players and barking out orders.

She's comfortable here - despite the sense of constantly feeling like she has to prove that she belongs, it's undeniable that she's well-suited for coaching. Her notes from the scrimmage match have been etched into her memory, and she's making sure to bring them up whenever she can.

She earns herself an approving nod from Harrison as she makes a comment on Corinne's dodging.

Beyond her boss, she catches another set of eyes trained on her more than once during practice. James seems positively confounded by her field presence, but also sometimes just looks at her with intense interest.

The first time she comments on one of his shots, there's a brief moment where she's sure he's about to fall off his broom.

It lasts only half a second, and goes unnoticed by anyone else, but it's enough to make Lily laugh under her breath. If he's surprised that she's treating him just like every single other player on this pitch, he sure as hell better get used to it. She's turned keeping her personal feelings fenced off from her work into a fucking art form.

The practice goes on for nearly three hours - James's arrival to the team is so late in the off-season that there's a lot of catching-up required for them to be ready for the first match of the season in a month and a half. But regardless, they look good, and Harrison tells the team such when they all huddle together at the end of practice.

Lily's not on equipment duty today, so she goes straight into the locker room. She showers quickly, changing into yet another iteration of her go-to uniform of a sweatshirt and joggers, her hair instantly creating a wet spot on her back before she has a chance to use a drying spell on it.

"So," Mari says to Lily, as soon as Lily walks up to her locker to retrieve her bag, "got any exciting plans for the rest of your day?"

"Hardly," she replies. "You?"

"Other than dealing with two toddlers, which is always some form of excitement, nope," Mari answers. "I don't do exciting things anymore - I've got to live vicariously through the rest of you."

"Sorry to disappoint on that front, then."

Mari laughs at that, before zipping up her bag and telling Lily goodbye. Lily's just about to follow suit and leave, but she's interrupted just as she finishes getting all her stuff packed up.

"Hey, Evans," a voice behind her says, and she recognises its source before she's even fully turned around. "Can we talk?" His eyes shift to the other players still around them. "You know, catch up on our lives after Hogwarts like you suggested the other day?"

Fuck, she'd never expected James to actually hold her to that. And she's got a pretty good feeling that it's just a cover for something else that he wants to talk about instead. "Er, sure," she answers. "When?"

"How about now?"

She doesn't think 'no' is a valid option right now, given that she'd just been talking about not having anything else to do today, and there are still other people around them, undoubtedly eavesdropping on this conversation. As far as they know, she and James are nothing but casual acquaintances - rejecting his seemingly innocent offer would surely raise questions.

But even still, she doesn't even know why he wants to talk to her.

"Now works." She does her best to conceal the defeated resignation in her tone.

"Great," he says, flashing her a grin that she knows is entirely for show.

She throws her bag over her shoulder and follows him out of the locker room, not really knowing where they're going or what to expect.

Which means she's certainly not prepared for what happens next, which is James dragging her into a large storage closet and immediately casting a Muffliato on the door.

He turns to face her, arms crossed and an expectant look on his face. "Do you mind explaining to me what the fuck that was about?"

"What?" It takes more effort than she cares to admit to not let herself be distracted by the way his biceps flex against the fabric of his T-shirt.

"You calling me a self-absorbed prick and then just… fucking walking away. Where the hell did that come from?"

Is he… is he really that fucking dense? It's suddenly a hell of a lot easier not to focus on his body when he's being this much of a twat.

"You literally didn't even know I worked here," she replies, and her voice is soft, deadly. "You graduated Hogwarts and got sucked into Quidditch and just… what, decided to forget about everyone and everything from your school days?"

He scoffs. "Well forgive me for being surprised to see you for the first time in three years, at my new team's training facilities of all places."

"You're missing the point," she says, exasperation evident in her voice.

He cocks his head, challenging her to continue. "Which is?"

Instead of answering his question, she flips one back on him. "Why'd you lie about not being Head Boy to Harrison yesterday?"

"That doesn't answer my question. And I didn't lie."

"Well you certainly skirted the truth pretty hard," she retorts. "And I'm not answering your question, because if you really can't figure it out on your own, then you've become even thicker than I thought."

He doesn't budge. "Excuse me?"

"Tell me," she adds, unable to control the vitriol on the tip of her tongue, "what was it that killed all your brain cells - too many bludgers to the head or too many lines of dragonflame?"

Anger flashes in his eyes, but it doesn't last. He doesn't answer her either, and somehow that's finally the last straw. She's still not sure if he's playing dumb or has actually completely lost all sense of morality and self-awareness, but either way, she's fed up with it.

"You were so good for a while, you know," she snaps. "Got your ego in check, stopped acting like the entire fucking universe revolves around you... and then you go off and become a professional Quidditch player and stick your head right up your own ass again."

His hand flies up to his hair, and he leans against the door. "What are you even talking about, Evans?"

"Just because you didn't give a fuck what anyone else in your graduating class got up to after Hogwarts doesn't mean no one else did. I've seen the stories of what you get up to when you're not on the pitch."

He looks at her blankly, blinking a few times as he registers what she's said, and then his face twists into something darker, thunderous.

He takes a step towards her, so that she has to tilt her head up to look at him. "And you believed them? You believed what some trashy tabloids were printing about me over what you knew about me, the person you knew I was?"

She feels something twist in her stomach at his words and the implication behind them, the implication that the magazines may not have gotten the whole story, but she refuses to cower under his glare; she's not going to give him what he wants and take a step back. He keeps trying to do this, trying to intimidate her into backing off, and she's not going to let him.

"I don't know you anymore," she says simply.

He falters at that, something unreadable crossing his features. Eventually, he takes a step back again, shaking his head. "You always did look for the very worst in me, didn't you, Evans?" he mutters darkly.

That's absolutely not true - she's looked for the very best of him in times when it wasn't there, and been ruefully disappointed as a result. Looking for the worst in him just seems more likely to be the accurate conclusion at this point; he's got no right to be angry about that after everything.

"Yeah, well, it's not like I've had to look very hard."

She's baiting him, she knows that, but the verbal sparring is something she can't resist.

"Ah yes, because you're just an absolute bloody saint, right?" he says, and there's an unmistakable fury in his voice now. She's oddly pleased with that, with the fact that she's goaded him to her level. "Lily fucking Evans, judging the rest of us mere mortals from her massive high horse, because she's never made a single mistake in her entire life. And why bother with trying to separate fact from fiction in making those judgments, because she might as well just pick the worst version of the story and stick with it, yeah?"

A laugh bubbles from Lily's lips, sardonic and hollow. "I never claimed to be a saint, and trust me, I'm not. But I know a fuckboy when I see one, and you, my dear, have turned into the spitting image of one."

He just stares at her, his features hardened.

"You asked me why I called you a self-absorbed prick the other day," she says, her voice quieter now, "and the simple answer is that it's because you are one. You stopped giving a damn about me - about anyone - after we graduated, and next thing I know you're all over every tabloid getting trashed and fucking a new girl every night. Your reputation says everything I need to know to confirm that I'm right about you."

He throws his hands up in the air, and that's when Lily knows she's fully cracked him. "For fuck's sake, I worked my ass off for years to get to where I am - you really think so little of me that you think I'd just fucking throw all that out the window just so I could get fucked up every single night? Do you really fucking think I'm capable of doing all of that and still being able to play like I do? Because there's no way - you're a fucking assistant coach, you know what types of regimens we're held to, and you just… you know what? Fuck this. I don't owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me an explanation?" she repeats back to him. "You don't owe me an explanation? Potter, you owed me like five explanations years ago. I can't believe you can't fucking see that."

"Maybe so, but I sure as hell don't owe you one now," he replies, stepping away from her once more. "Not when you're too busy making accusations to even listen anyways."

And with that, he turns the door handle and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him so that Lily's all alone in the darkness.

Of course he just left her in a fucking storage closet. That's just totally on brand for him at this point. He just flies away and leaves her on the cold, hard ground. Fucking classic.

She doesn't even bother leaving the closet to Apparate home, throwing her bag on the couch when she gets there with perhaps a little more force than necessary. She just… god, his inability to even acknowledge that he's turned into a totally different person since graduation, and that he's done some pretty fucked-up things since then, it's all just so infuriating.

He needs to learn to take responsibility for his own damn actions. Photographs can't lie. There's overwhelming evidence that he's exactly the person she said he is, regardless of his insistence to the contrary.

But her attention is quickly diverted from James and their argument when she notices that something came in through her mail slot - a glossy envelope addressed to a Calypso Selwyn.

Seventh Year, April 1978

If given a list of options of how to spend her Friday night, Professor Slughorn's monthly dinner parties would certainly not earn a spot anywhere near the top of her list.

It's not that she's got anything against the professor himself - she actually quite likes him, and he's positively enamoured with her and her potions talent - but the company he invites to these things is… well, most of them aren't really the type of people she'd ever like to grab coffee with after she graduates, despite how many times she's been invited to do so.

Especially the man she's currently talking to, whose name she's long forgotten at this point, but has taken to waxing poetic about his dragon handling experience to her. Which is a topic that she, truthfully, could not give fewer fucks about. And despite that, she's nodding along interestedly, asking questions that make him light up and go off on yet another tangent, and generally just being far more charitable towards him than she should be.

It's turned into a bit of a game at this point - seeing just how many times she can feign total fascination and how many of Slughorn's esteemed guests end up singing her praises to her professor by the end of the night. It's not like there's much else by the way of entertainment at these sorts of things.

She asks him a question that causes him to spark off into a long speech about Antipodean Opaleyes, and it's as he's speaking that she notices the headmaster lingering in the back of the room - which is surprising on its own given that she's never seen him at a Slug Club party before. What's even more alarming is that Dumbledore's eyes are trained on her.

She doesn't know what to make of that at all.

But she turns her attention back to the man in front of her instead of lingering on it too long. "It seems to me, then, that they're overclassified, aren't they? Out of a stigma towards dragons rather than an actual reflection of their danger level, yeah?"

The man - Ernest? Eustice? Earnhardt? - claps his hands together gleefully at her words. "Exactly!" he exclaims. "Your understanding of dragonkind is really excellent - are you sure I can't interest you in a career in dragon handling?"

Quite literally, over her dead body. She doesn't even have an O.W.L. in Care of Magical Creatures. "I suppose I'm not totally opposed," she lies easily.

"But she's got a much more promising career in Potions!" Slughorn appears out of nowhere at her side, jovially talking her up once again.

She once preened at his compliments of her potion-making abilities - brewing had been her ideal career path until she fell out of love with it somewhat in sixth year - but now she feels a sense of shame at his words. She doesn't know how she'll break it to him that she's actually no longer got any intention of following the path he thinks she's meant for.

"Lily, my girl," Slughorn says to her, "there's someone else I want you to meet. A good friend of mine, great Ministry connections…"

Lily looks over at… Eugene, maybe, and smiles. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, sir."

"And you as well, Miss Evans. If you ever change your mind about pursuing a career with dragons, send me an owl."

"Thank you," she replies, before being whisked off to yet another one of Slughorn's guests.

The night continues in much the same fashion, until Lily's game is no longer fun anymore, and her feet hurt, and she wants nothing more than to collapse in her four-poster for a long night's sleep.

And so she says her goodbyes, slipping out of the party and into the cool air of the Hogwarts castle.

She should probably go straight up to Gryffindor Tower - after all, her whole reason for leaving was to go to sleep - but she finds herself taking the long way up. There's something about the castle that's incredibly peaceful late at night, and she's well aware that her days left here are dwindling.

And so she wanders for a bit, content in her loneliness, until…

She stops in her tracks when she realises that Dumbledore is in the hallway as well.

"Miss Evans, what has you wandering the halls at this hour?" the headmaster asks, his tone betraying nothing but innocent curiosity.

But there has to be more to it, she's sure of that. He knows exactly why she's out and where she was - hell, he was there himself not too long ago. She made eye contact with the man in the middle of the party.

"Slughorn's party, sir."

"Ah, yes," he replies. "Horace so often tells me how much his guests are positively enamoured with you - you certainly know how to leave a lasting impression on those who see themselves as the upper echelon in wizarding society."

"Thank you?" she answers tentatively. She can't tell whether he means that as a compliment or what. Knowing the headmaster, he's almost certainly leading into something else.

"Walk with me, won't you?" he asks her. "I do love wandering the castle late at night - it's oh-so-peaceful, and a wonderful way to have a conversation without being… overheard."

She doesn't miss the way he scans the area around them as he talks, as if double-checking that they are, in fact, alone. He doesn't wait for her to answer him properly, just begins walking down the corridor with the expectation that she'll join him.

And she does.

"As I'm sure you've noticed," he begins, as soon as she catches up to him, "the faction of wizarding society that's fanatically obsessed with blood purity has grown increasingly restless over the past few years."

"I assume you're talking about the attacks on muggleborns, sir."

"I am indeed," he answers. "Although truth be told, their actions have been far more than just that. Under a more unified leadership than what they've got now, I imagine that the damage they could inflict would be… catastrophic."

"Like what happened with Grindelwald, you mean?" Lily asks, thinking of Dumbledore's past experience taking down the same sort of fanaticism.

The headmaster hums. "Yes, a bit like that, I imagine."

There's a brief lull in the conversation, wherein Lily doesn't really know what to say next, and Dumbledore doesn't seem to be making any moves to elaborate on anything.

Finally, Lily takes the bait, if only to avoid making the silence any more awkward. "So what does that have to do with me? Why are you telling me about it, sir?"

Dumbledore looks over at her with a twinkle in his eyes, and it tells her that Lily's said exactly what he wanted her to, set him up perfectly for where he's trying to lead the conversation.

"For the past few years, I've been developing… an underground army of sorts," he explains as they turn a corner. "A group of people - each with a very specific set of skills - who can keep an eye on things, stop whatever they can, and minimise the damage these supremacists are attempting to inflict."

"Would I know any of them?" she asks.

He hums. "When I say that the entire organization is underground, Miss Evans, I mean that it's underground even to its members. Even those on the inside of it don't know who else is involved. It's a… precaution of sorts - that way one set of loose lips can't take the entire group down."

"Oh."

"But to go back to your initial question, I'm telling you about this because I'd like you to join us - if you're willing to, that is."

Lily furrows her brow at that. "You said every person in the group is in there because they've got a specific set of skills."

"Indeed."

"Then what are you recruiting me for?"

Dumbledore laughs quietly. "I would've thought it rather obvious, Miss Evans, based on my earlier comments about your behaviour at Professor Slughorn's parties."

If possible, she's even more confused by that. "That his guests seem to like me?"

"You have a rather uniquely powerful ability to charm even the most disinterested person," he tells her, "even if you yourself have no interest either - that dragon handler tonight, for example, even though you never even took Care of Magical Creatures in the first place. I actually believe it was at the very bottom of your third year course sign-up list, if I'm not mistaken."

How the fuck does he remember that? Hell, she'd nearly forgotten she'd ranked it that low. "That's correct, sir."

"That sort of charm is exactly how you get secrets out of even the most tight-lipped of wizards. It's an impressive skill, being able to work your way into people's good graces so effortlessly, especially when it is… perhaps undeserved."

That should maybe sting a bit, but the thing is… she's inclined to agree with him. She doesn't really deserve the praise she gets from most of those people - she's just good at saying the right things to earn it.

"So how does that tie into your… group? What are you asking me to do?"

"I'm asking you to be a set of eyes on the inside," he replies simply, like it's the most natural sort of equivalence.

Lily, on the other hand, gives him a disbelieving look, not thinking it equal at all. "Sir, I'm a muggleborn. I hardly think I can work my way into a group of pureblood supremacists to spy on them when I'm the very type of person they're trying to kill off."

He just smiles at that, a bit of mischief in his eyes. "Who ever said you'd be going in as yourself?"

She just stares at him. "How?"

"That, Miss Evans, is a set of details I cannot share with you until I know you're committed to the task. I'm asking a lot of you - this isn't a decision you should take lightly, so I won't ask for an answer tonight. Take some time to think about it, and let me know when you've arrived at your decision."

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks the opposite direction, leaving her alone in the halls again, with a lot more on her mind than was there just a few minutes ago.

The next week, Mulciber puts Mary in the Hospital Wing and there's an attack on the Muggle village ten minutes from Lily's hometown, and she marches to the Headmaster's Office with her answer.