Retribution

Chapter 2

Can I Breathe Now?

I know I'm no longer in that room before I've even opened my eyes.

The air here doesn't taste quite as bland and desolate on my tongue as I drag in slow breaths—slow because I'm afraid of seeming too greedy and not because I don't need more. The fact that I don't feel my lungs rupture or disintegrate with the effort has to mean that I've survived.

With this knowledge comes the exciting possibility that perhaps all that I'd seen and experienced had been naught but a nightmare, something for me to look back on with an uncomfortable smile and an uneasy shiver because of the vivid details that had been conjured by an overactive imagination. But when I search inside my own mind, I come up empty.

I still don't remember anything beyond that room, beyond that one face, beyond the terrifying frost and that strange green bubbling liquid.

Something sharp pierces down on my left arm, and I want to blink my eyes open.

Instead, I'm dragged back under.

Someone is screaming.

Someone is screaming really loud, but no one's listening.

It takes me a second to realize that the voice is mine. My throat feels torn apart from the inside, and I'm devastated without knowing why—just knowing that I am, and it's torture like I could never imagine.

My body is slammed onto a tabletop, face-first, and I don't know this place, I don't know how I got here, how I was standing when I've never experienced stability before. My arms are flattened on either side of my head, the wood under my fingertips grainy, rough, used, and smelling faintly of burnt curry. Such a specific, distinct odor, and yet I've no recollection of having smelled it anywhere else in the world but on this dark table, in this moment.

I'm still screaming.

My fingers trace a jagged carving etched onto the wood—TUNEY—and I'm still screaming.

"This bitch won't shut up!"

There's a sudden strike between my shoulder blades, and it hurts, but not nearly as much as I know hurt can hurt.

"Just hold her down. We'll drug her."

That doesn't sound like a comforting idea, so I thrash around some more. It almost feels as if the table gives way under my fingers, the wood dipping inside like sponge does under the slightest probing, and someone clamps a hand around my neck from the back, indeed holding me down.

I feel a coarse brush against my skin and realize I have hair—long, long enough for me to see it if I tried—but the hand around my neck and the legs behind my thighs, pushing against my arse, is horrifyingly intrusive. Dirty enough that I can't focus on anything else.

"Fuck, quick! She's—"

"Hold her!"

There's another person; I watch them move until their body is in front of my eyes and I can see nothing but the man's shirt and belt and a hand that is poised around a syringe, forefinger hooked through the circular grip while the thumb slants over the piston promisingly.

The liquid inside looks innocent, and I almost expect it to be green, but it's just plain old white.

Never has the absence of colors felt more deceptive to me.

"No!" the word is wrenched out from my lips, and I think—oh, so that's what I sound like.

My hair is pushed aside, my skin exposed, my head pressed against the wood so hard that I feel it burning into my face, sizzling like coals hot enough to tear through flesh. Something sharp plunges right into where my spine meets my neck and I—

I'm gasping awake.

It should probably feel intensely mollifying to know that I'd been having a nightmare, but I draw no joy out of the realization as it stutters through my brain, striking my nerves and sending signals at a speed that is slow, too slow. Because I've already determined that it's most likely a memory and not abstract pictures woven by a half-warped mind by then.

There's no time to ponder on this terror of a thought because my dramatic emergence into consciousness has caused a stir.

I hear a loud crash, and turn my head to watch a toppled chair. But before that, before anything, I watch him, because that's what he's like—commanding my eyes with nothing but his existence and his I'm here presence.

He's immediately next to me, looking at me as I look at him. There are deep bags under his eyes, skin sallower than I remember, clothes different—old jeans and long-sleeved maroon shirt—and he feels real now rather than some illusory manifestation of my hopes. I know my head is much clearer because I can actually think and breathe and I'm not being submerged by delirium, but—he's still beautiful.

He doesn't move to touch me like he did before.

"Hey," James says, swallows. His hands almost shake when he moves closer to my side of the bed. "Can you—do you understand me?"

I want to smile. I nod.

An exhale, and then he's kneeling so that we're eye-to-eye. Something warm drapes over my skin, golden and magical and new and old, and I almost want to cry at how good the sunshine pouring in through the window behind him feels. But James is talking again and tears can come later.

"How are you?"

"Okay," I try to say, but it's not the voice I'd dreamed of that leaves my lips. It's a grating scratch of a noise, just the two syllables, and my throat instantly burns.

"It's okay, don't try to speak," he rushes to assure me, hands flexing as if to reach out and touch my skin, but they don't. "You're not used to it."

The meaning behind his words is completely lost to me.

I figure my confusion must shine through on my face because he nods. "You probably have a lot of questions." Perceptive. "But first, do you know who you are?"

I feel like I need to be sitting straight for this conversation because it's an important one, a life-changing one. But when I try to pull myself up, it's a mistake; the lower side of my body sends pain so violent striking through my limbs that I crash back down immediately, gnashing my teeth together against the jolting sensations in my arms and legs and—strangely enough—my neck.

"Fuck! Shit—don't—don't just suddenly do that!" he yelps, on his feet again in a flash.

The beat inside my chest is erratic and unsteady, and I try to gain purchase by clamping my fingers around the covers spread over my body. Perspiration gathers under my breasts as I stare at my arms, the white bandages snaking over skin that I know bears my scars, until only my fingers peak out from the ends.

I feel like an abomination.

"You can't move yet," he tells me, and sounds sorry enough that I look at him again, "you—lost a lot of blood and the wounds weren't easy to close. Didn't help with the way we had to get you out."

The words strike remembrance of those last few moments spent in that room, and the exasperation of not knowing so many things—too many things—but having enough curiosity to choke off my air supply makes me exhale heavily as I turn my head to the other side.

Of course, there's only more to see, more to question.

An intravenous drip hangs from a pole a few feet to my left. For a second, the sight of the apparatus freezes in front of my eyes, a familiar "No!" echoing in my head because machines and I don't seem to get on well. I pull myself together in time, mercifully impeding a panic attack. A pair of lines extends from this drip; one ending on a cannula fixed to my arm and the other disappearing somewhere near my neck. I expect to find another cannula there if I had the liberty or the ability to touch my skin.

But apparently, I can't move yet.

Still, at least that explains the biting twinge I'd felt on my neck.

"None of us here are proper doctors, but you were in a coma, we think," James informs as he pulls up the chair again and sits. The thrumming inside my chest hits a snag. "For a bit over a week."

I don't feel the slightest sense of calm at that information, but I still nod, once, because what else is there to do, given that I can't move, speak, cry? I've lost another week of my life without knowing how many I'd already shed before.

He seems to sense my frustration and expends it for me through an embittered breath born into the world from his lips. His eyes are golden lakes of wistful reflections. "I know you're scared. You have every right to be. But I just need you to know—we won't hurt you, and I—I'm glad you're safe."

The word 'alive' probably sits on his tongue but I suppose 'safe' is safer.

I don't hold back the ephemeral smile that wants to tug my lips upwards this time. There's a shift in his expression, so clear and vibrant, brightness spilling over his features as the sunshine spills onto me. I wish I could see myself right now, to know whether this reaction—like he's witnessing a marvel in this threadbare universe—is justified.

His eyes fall, hand lifts, lifts, until his fingers brush the tips of mine. "Lily," he whispers, and neither of us imagines my stuttering inhale. He sees the force of the word on me, and repeats again, "Lily. That's you—that's your name. Lily Evans."

The stretch of my lips widens, the muscles in my face quaking like they're not sure how this works anymore. I feel something wet pool in the corners of my eyes.

If possible, his gaze softens even more.

The fragility of the moment is disrupted when someone enters our little sanctuary with uncontrolled turbulence.

The man in the doorway looks more like an ethereal entity than a human being with flaws; he's decked from head to toe in black; sleek dark hair pulled back to reveal cheekbones sharper than glass. His brows slant inwards, mouth parted slightly in disbelief or wonder or shock, and when I see his eyes, for the first time, gray doesn't terrorize me.

His voice is warm, if a little strangled, when he blurts, "she's awake."

Lying on that bed, partially mobile and entirely confused, I decide I like Sirius.

For it is undeniably him and his voice that had slithered in through the clouded haze of looming death while I'd been bleeding out on a faraway floor. I had hardly been able to make sense of anything then, and even now—as the seconds tick by on an unseen clock—I keep losing my grip on what I'd seen and what I think I'd seen.

Because if I'm right, and it's mental to even consider this, but—

No. Not now. Later.

"You're awake," he says again, this time looking right at me. The way his features arrange themselves, I know he thinks I might not be aware of the fact.

"Yes," sighs James, and there's such familiarity in that one rush of air, a fondness that my previously withering state hadn't allowed me to notice. "It's been a few minutes. I reckon she's having trouble speaking still. Mind fetching Remus?"

A petulant raise of the brow. "Why don't you?"

There's a terse shifting of body next to me, and I have to wonder if I'm missing something—if I'm supposed to be more intimately acquainted with James than he's let on, than I've let myself consider. If I've shared some relationship with him that I no longer remember.

The possibility burns through every cell inside me and sets off exhilaration that I pray doesn't show on my face.

"I've—"

"Okay, fine. Didn't expect you would anyway," Sirius clicks his tongue, halfway turned away when his eyes gravitate to me again, "glad you're not dead, Evans. I hope you're not a bitch."

"Sirius—"

But he's already left before James can utter even half the appellation. My eyebrows raise, the words tumbling around in my head. He hopes I'm not a bitch. Does that mean I've been known to act like one around him or that we've never met before this?

I struggle to reconcile any noble act I could have performed that would prompt complete strangers to get me out of a situation worse than death.

Like everything else inside my head, my answers are lacking.

There's a light brush of skin against my fingertips and electricity zooms rapidly up my arm at James's touch. My fingers coil instinctively and he stills.

"I'm sorry, I didn't—" the unoccupied hand goes to his hair, sifting through the strands cruelly so that they stand up even more. "I just don't know how to—I've been worried for you."

I know. It's all over his face, all over his existence.

Warmth spreads like melted butter inside my chest, and there's no hesitation when I hook two of my fingers against all of his. James looks at me, his eyelashes hypnotic as they flutter on a blink.

"Thank…you."

It feels like speaking through a throat full of ash and burning carbon, and sounds the same. I'm almost embarrassed at the broken timbre, but with the way his face breaks, I find inhibition dropping away like a dried petal.

"You don't—please, you don't need to thank me."

That's completely absurd to my ears. I convey as much with a pronounced frown, and it almost makes him smile. I'm suddenly staggered by my own unshackled need to watch it happen; I ache for it.

I try something I hope will work.

My fingers slant slightly on his hand until they reach his wrist, belly humming at the broadness of his arm, the shade darker than my own, the skittering pulse of his nerves. I tap twice like I've done before. "James."

A silent something whooshes out of him at my indelicate croak; I watch it happen as his chest first expands, like he wants to consume this moment into himself, everything he's made of, and then contracts again like it might be too much for him to hold inside.

Silence falls, and I realize he's not going to break it. So, I continue, pulling my hand back until it rests on my stomach, muscles impossibly tired already. I point to myself. "Lily…Evans."

The burn in my throat is much too potent to ignore now. James notices the grimace that has slid into the corners of my mouth and understands.

He scrambles forward, hanging off the edge of the chair as I hang onto the edge of my sanity. Eyes blazing, burning me to my core, he holds my hand, shakes my palm, light, very light, and says, "James Potter. It's nice to meet you."

I don't understand the strange sensation that bubbles up inside me until it overflows in the form of quiet, silent laughter. The hilarity is unforeseen because objectively nothing about what's happening is funny. But I play his nice to meet you in my head again—as if we're barely more than friendly strangers who've run into each other on the street—and close my eyes in bizarre glee.

When they open to the world once more, I see that I've gone and done it.

James is smiling.

Grinning so bright that it's painful to watch, like his face has been made for that emotion and for it alone. I know without knowing that he must laugh a lot.

Must have laughed a lot. Before.

Before whatever.

Before me?

I don't know.

This unsavory drop into reality is accompanied by a scuffle of shoes and voices as two men enter the room: one I recognize, one I don't.

Sirius seems to be whispering furiously under his breath, engaged in conversation with the man with light brown hair and gentle blue eyes. I try not to be too obvious about my gaze, but he has scars on his face and a tired air that hangs around him like a coveted blanket. I feel a torrential sense of kinship towards him and the underlying exhaustion lining the skin around his eyes. I'm instantly glad and guilty for it.

I do not linger on either emotion.

"Oh, good!" James sighs, and looking at him, one could never guess that he'd been smiling a moment ago; even the ghost of it has been wiped away, slate empty. "She's been up for a while, and—you probably know best, Remus."

He gets up from the chair, finger dragging over my palm with the movement. Something tender and sublime strings me to him; I feel the zap of it falling into place even as he moves away to the foot of the bed.

"Hi, Lily, I'm Remus Lupin, if you haven't guessed."

My eyes tear away from James to blink up at Remus, the softness of his expression. I nod slightly, holding his name close. I feel like an animal starved for information, and I'll take all the scraps thrown at me.

"How are you feeling?"

I raise my brows, eyes gone flat. Sirius chokes out a laugh.

"Fair enough," Remus flashes a grin, and I like it. I think perhaps I'm not too dull. "You must be wondering what's going on. Can't say much but we've had to keep your body supplied with salts, vitamins, and other nutrients through the intravenous lines; you were already severely weakened when we brought you and—we didn't know if you would—"

Live. Survive. Recover.

"Die."

"Yes, thank you, Sirius." A glare thrown over his shoulder before eyes return to me. "And I'm not a doctor, I just have some—let's call it experience, shall we?—with medical stuff. We've had trouble procuring even basic equipment like this, so I haven't been much help, I'm afraid."

"That's rubbish," James's voice is low, eyes admonishing, "we wouldn't be here without you."

Where is here? I wonder.

It's like my head's been cracked open for the thoughts to play out on a screen because Remus is immediately gifting me with an answer. "This is Godric's Hollow. It's James's house." Again, before the question has even crossed my mind fully, "I suppose I should say that it's one of his houses. No one will think to look here. Don't worry."

Grateful though I am—immensely so—for such an influx of answers at once, his insight into my curiosity unnerves me enough to instantly put me on edge. I make a concentrated effort to think of another question.

How did we escape?

My gaze stays tacked onto him, searching for the smallest hint of something on his face or a shift of light in his eyes, but Remus simply stares back pleasantly.

I feel burrowed under my own stupidity. What had I been expecting, exactly?

"Sirius tells me you can't speak yet."

"Actually, James tells Sirius that you can't speak yet." There's no mistaking the teasing air in his voice as Sirius expels the sardonic comment. "God forbid anyone else gets to spend over half a second alone with you. Boy's losing his marbles like no one's business."

I don't know where to look after the words have settled in my brain.

Watching James as he throws an annoyed glance at Sirius—appearing more exasperated than embarrassed—my earlier musings are dragged back to the forefront. I wonder why my mind has fixated on this specific facet, overlooking any and all other questions, which, by their nature, should emphatically feel more important given my plight.

And yet, I'm surprised by my restless need to find out why I've been saved; what I mean to him.

No one else seems to glean this impatience from my expression, however, because Remus steps closer, splaying his right hand out until I notice a tiny glass vial resting atop his palm. The honey-hued liquid inside prompts my insides to twist into themselves, instantly curling away in alarm.

I run my tongue over the back of my teeth and look up.

"It's a medicine for your throat. It'll help."

Trusting him should be easy; I should know he means no harm because they've saved me, kept me alive and breathing when they didn't have to. But I find that despite such reassuring facts, I still feel fear clawing up my veins, blood turning into frost as cold as the one I'd—probably—hallucinated in the throes of anguish.

Remus senses my hesitation, lips puckering in concern, brows dipping as he looks away helplessly.

"Hey, it's okay," James says, eyes sad, "we won't force you to take anything you don't want to. None of us will. But—it will help you get better."

I bite my lip, unclench my fingers. A hesitant nod.

He smiles at me, small and steady.

"Now this will make you feel drowsy again," Remus tells me, uncorking the vial slowly, as if trying not to scare me. I'm grateful for his patience. "But once you've woken up, your throat should be better. I'm hoping you'll be able to speak by then."

I tuck my chin into my chest, feeling irrationally apprehensive at his words. How long will it be till I come to again? Will I have spent another week in unwilling oblivion before a jarring scene behind my eyes staggers me awake?

There's not much time to dwell on such misery because Remus is already raising the bottle to my lips, tipping the viscous liquid inside.

The medicine leaves a strange mixture of a sweet and burning flavor in its wake as it slides over my tongue. I'm scared I'll choke due to my prone body; the position evidently not conducive for ingesting anything—especially not when I've become unused to the feeling and taste of anything but air.

Fortunately, it passes without further incident. I feel the effects of it immediately; the burning dulls to a comforting warmth, the charred lines of my esophagus humming in gratitude at the pleasant sensation. The relief is so overwhelming that my limbs sag against the mattress some more, and I find Remus's words to be true and genuine.

My eyes already fight to stay open.

"Rest," Remus says, and I acquiesce readily.

Before all my senses can shut off entirely, Sirius's voice floats over on a stubborn wisp of consciousness. "Does she know?"

"No. But she suspects."

Darkness spills over the walls the next time my eyes flutter open. Thankfully, my mind doesn't latch on to any jolting memories-turned-nightmares this time around. I'm not sure if that fact should comfort me as it does, since I could really do with some semblance of my own identity.

I'm alone in the silence, but it's not as suffocating as I remember it to be in the gray room. The effort I make to sit up this time is careful, controlled; my folly from before acting as a chiding reminder to not jostle myself too much. It feels slightly unnecessary, however, when I notice that the cannulas from my arm and neck are missing, allowing me to twist my body if I wanted.

I'd have to be a fool of the highest order to try.

The blanket that had been spread over me falls away a distance when I've settled myself against the headboard, breathing plainly. I see that I'm still wearing that dying dress, the ends and bodice of it now soaked through with dark, dry blood. It's a macabre sight, morbid beyond comprehension; I stare at it with an open mouth and find myself wanting to picture how I must have looked to them, lying there like a hollowed-out body with no purpose. Barely breathing, certainly not living.

Moonlight streams over my lap and I stare at that too.

I wonder if they've left me here now, abandoned in a world I know nothing of with a body that barely functions and questions that burn through every sense, rising around me like tendrils of a well-stoked fire.

My arms are still covered in bandages, and I want to rip them off. What a strange urge.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The scream that wants to erupt from my chest barely holds under the pressure of my lips when I whip my head to the side. My heart is nothing more than a startled animal confined to its smothering cage.

A short, stoutly figure with watered-down blue eyes blinks at me. Wisps of thinning blond hair frame the roundness of his head. I don't know what he sees in my face because his own has rearranged itself into a terrified expression. He occupies the space near the window that had surely been empty but a second ago, and no amount of clamping fingers or deep breaths is able to push away my fear.

"It's okay," he says, hands raised in front of himself as he steps back, "calm down. I'm not here to hurt you."

"Who are you?" I hear myself ask, and this time—this voice, it's mine, full and provoking only the ghost of a burn. It rings pleasantly against my ears, the tone firmer than I'd expected, strangely lilting. Most importantly, it doesn't betray my rising uneasiness, and I'm thankful.

"Peter Pettigrew," he answers, and he and I both seem to know that it means nothing to me. "I helped save you, bring you here."

It sounds bizarrely like he's trying to gain my favor.

"When did you get here? You weren't—I was alone."

Where's James? I want to ask. I refrain.

"No," Peter shakes his head, slow, so slow that I'm tempted to ask him if he's got a crick in his neck. "You weren't. I was right here. You just didn't see me."

I want to laugh at his attempt. Derision courses through me, so sudden and surprising that I have to pause, memories of words slamming against my mind: I hope you're not a bitch. The swallowed retort is bitter on my tongue, but I hope my face conveys what my mouth doesn't; there's no way I wouldn't have seen him—seeing, looking, observing is all I've done since the cold floor.

"Where am I?" I ask, because I have to make sure.

"Godric's Hollow," he answers immediately, and I know he's aware I already had that information. The harrowed look in his eyes breaks something in me, and I feel exhausted. "I'm not—I want us to be safe, too, Evans."

I don't miss his use of the plural.

"Where are—the others?"

"Sleeping. It's late. And—well, they've been really tired as of late."

There's no need to ask why that is. "Shouldn't you be asleep too?"

He shrugs. "I'm fine. One of us had to be here in case you woke up."

I incline my head, accepting his answer. Try as I might, the queasiness of being accosted unawares when I'd been certain of my isolation does not sit well on my senses. I feel prickingly aware of each of his movements; the shuffling of feet, the nervous darting of eyes, the twitch of nose, rustling of cloth. Pained, awkward silence hangs in the air between us, and I know now that Peter exudes none of the easiness that I've seen in the other three men.

"How long—"

"Look," he sighs, cutting me off, "I'll go get James, okay? I'm not sure I'm the right person to give you answers."

I'm sure he's not the right person to give me answers. But I don't say that because I hope you're not a bitch and perhaps I'm judging too harshly, colored by the cruelty of my experiences thus far. None of this induces much guilt, however, because I don't owe the world anything at this moment, not with the way I've been treated—chewed and spat back out with no remnants of my own self to speak of.

My instincts and feelings are all I rely on; I'll trust only those I want to.

"Okay."

With a short nod of the head and a stilted smile, Peter leaves the room and I take the moment to release a shaky breath. My eyes decide to grasp onto my surroundings as I wait, details falling into focus under the pale light supplied by the moon outside: the room I'm in is comfortingly simple; ivory walls stretched out spaciously and floor empty but for the bed I sit on and an old, large mahogany chest of drawers in the corner.

The house—or at least this specific room—has clearly not been lived in for a spell. Truthfully speaking, I'm relieved that this image falls in line with what Remus had said about Godric's Hollow being just one of James's houses.

If it's as unfrequented as I deduce from the lack of furniture and belongings, perhaps I can allow the walls around me to thin somewhat, to consider that I might actually be safe here.

Distantly, the sound of crickets rubbing their wings together penetrates the quiet. I wiggle my toes, fascinated by the tingle of blood flowing at the movement. It makes me wonder if I could feel the same sensation in every other limb. Before I've had a chance to question myself too much, my fingers are roughly pushing the covers away, ignoring the dregs of pain as skin brushes harshly against fabric.

When my right leg drops to the floor, a quick hiss forms between teeth and tongue. White gauze—dotted with spots of bright blood—spans the entirety of my leg, starting from just below my knee and twirling all the way around my calf and down to near my heel.

The sight makes me angrier, sadder, and I think I'll finally cry now.

But before I can indulge in this expulsion of emotions, the door to the room is slammed open against the wall. The frightful tremor that runs through my spine is hardly surprising as my eyes swivel around.

James stands in the doorway, barefoot, hair disheveled—sticking up on one side, defying gravity—glasses sliding down nose, mouth parted slightly, clad in a comfortable white cotton tee-shirt and soft black pants. Dark eyes strip me bare, inside-out, barely blinking as he takes me in: one leg dangling off the bed, one twisted in the sheets, gray dress rising precariously up the whiteness of my thigh.

I wonder if I've lost my sense of self-consciousness, feeling nothing but unexplained greed for all he holds. My hands don't rush to pull down the dress, my eyes don't feel the need to shy away; I am afloat in my unexplained need to watch his every move, his every breath.

He takes a step forward, the muscles around his eyes stretching wide. I notice his occupied arms—a bundle of indistinct clothes, a bottle of water. Seeing it suddenly alerts me to the fact that I'm parched. It's not very shocking.

But James doesn't move to place anything on the bed. Doesn't move at all.

A broken breath rattles through his chest. "Evans."

Something inside me has collapsed, my fists bunching against my lap.

"What the fuck is going on?" I ask.

A/N - Hi guys! Hope you liked this chapter. I've changed the rating of this fic to Mature because of some of the themes and content I'm planning over the course of the story. Might have some smut as well.

Also, gracious thanks go out to YouBlitheringIdiot for supplying me with lots of interesting medical information for this chapter!