Retribution

Chapter 4

What's Happening to Me?

My limbs are being torn apart. Pulled from all angles and directions, like they're expecting to find artificial stuffing rather than blood or entrails inside once they've succeeded in breaking me open. What feels more surprising than the situation itself, is the fact that I'm not complaining; mouth firmly shut, body unnaturally complacent. Inside, however, panic is a yawning crest under which I'm doomed to perish.

The agony endures for several minutes before the stretching seems to stop, sudden and unprompted. It's possible they've accomplished their objective, because I can no longer feel myself.

My eyes, they refuse to open. I'm blind and paralyzed and terrified.

The panic suffocates me.

"Are you certain this is the one?" A voice that is unfeeling and severe all at once, inquires. Sound waves indicate that the man stands several feet in front of me. "I'll admit she doesn't look like much."

"I'm certain, sir," says another. The slippery timbre of this tone—it provokes some recognition in my head that is aggravatingly just out of reach. I clamber to remember where I've heard it before, but the feeling vanishes like an absent dream. "I've—seen her do it with my own eyes."

"Let us hope your eyes have not been deceived then, Severus. There are…important stakes riding on this experiment, as I'm sure you're well aware."

The poorly-veiled threat is little more than nonsense to my subconscious musings. I push it away, fixate instead on that name: Severus.

It's new to my ears, to my mind, as most things are. A strange name, to be certain. Stranger still, is the man who claims to have seen me do something important with his own eyes. I draw this assumption not by relying on any triggered memory or recalled history, but on the vulnerability of the voice, the unsettling inflexion which tries to convey that this person—Severus—knows me, cares for me. The feeling seems to seep out despite the fear that heavily laces his every word.

I cannot unravel the mystery of how such a thing is possible when I've been evidently bound, silenced and emptied right before him. I try again, in vain, to acquire control over my motor functions, because I want to see this man, and I want to spit at him. You don't fucking care about me, I want to shriek. Don't lie to yourself. Don't pretend!

But the darkness behind my eyelids is all I see.

"Of course, sir," Severus beseeches. "I have always understood the importance of these experiments. Which is why I thought it pertinent to inform you about her despite—"

"Despite your...fondness for her?" the other man says, dark amusement unshackled in his voice. Rather than experiencing any sort of validation at having my own thoughts echoed back, I'm suffused with nauseating unease. They speak of me as one would of a possession. "Is that a hint of hubris I detect in your tone? Surely you do not expect me to laud your efforts when it was nothing more than your duty to do so for the welfare of the human race."

If I had the ability to feel my own body at this precise moment, I'm certain my heart would have plummeted endlessly, dread and incredulity burrowing it under. It has to be some sick form of arrogance on their part to claim that anything to do with me and their underhanded experiments could have an impact as monumental as affecting the human race. It has to be because if it isn't...then—

I find myself unable to even imagine the consequences.

"Certainly not, sir!" Severus is quick to respond. "I am fully committed to our cause and willing to go to any lengths necessary to aid you in this mission. My own emotions do not hold the slightest sway in my duties. I was simply assuring you of where my loyalties lie."

There is something inherently cruel about the huff of laughter that follows his statement. "Fret not, Severus. You are one of my most trusted allies. Your attachment to this girl merely piques my curiosity; nothing more. I have no doubt that you will kill for our cause if the need so arises."

The unspoken implication in the phrase is impossible to discount. And yet, the resulting pause trails for a second too long. "Of course, you can rest assured that I will."

It's almost laughable how swiftly they have been able to jump from discussing me as some sort of saviour of humanity to tacitly plotting my murder if the need so arises. I'm fleetingly wondering whether my glaring lack of frenzy in the face of such deliberations stems from my current state of paralysis or my body's inability to register shock over words that, in all honesty, feel rather lacklustre. So what if my captors could potentially kill me any second? I've heard worse.

Something jars against the walls of my mind at this thought. Worse—I know I have heard much worse, but somehow, the particular details of any such information elude me. The more I press to remember, the hazier my certainty turns.

"Is everything ready?" the unknown voice demands.

"Yes, sir."

"Good," the smile in that intonation feels downright manic. "Let us begin, then."

My worry turns to ghastly trepidation as soon as the sound of whirring machines reaches my ears. Fear, cold and gripping, swallows me whole. It takes barely half a second for me to draw the realization that the noise is gradually getting louder, breaching my personal space. Some part of me seems to expect what follows, a deep-seated, visceral instinct that sends warning flowing through veins. And yet, when it finally happens, I still feel tremors of shock pulsate in my mind.

Almost in tandem, several sharp objects jam themselves into the skin covering my hands and legs, sending agony rippling through me instantly. I am suffering, violently searching for an outlet for my misery, loathing the fact that I'm allowed to experience torture but not scream it.

And then, something even worse: pain. More blinding than anything preceding it, shooting right into my skull when another sharp something pierces the back of my neck.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to feel this.

I'd rather be gone.

Completely gone.

There is nothing I wouldn't do in this moment for the simple luxury of being able to move or cry or shout. As surely as my body undergoes anguish and my desperation rises, I'm just as sure that outwardly, I remain hauntingly peaceful, little more than an acquiescing marionette. I don't understand this cruelty; how have I not passed out yet? How do I not feel anything but pain?

"Incredible," that voice says again, and I'm confident that I'll never hate a sound more. "Her heart rate remains steady despite the suspension. You might have been right about her, Severus—the initial results certainly seem more promising than our previous procedures." A momentary pause fills the air, and I detest it for giving me the time to absorb his words. How many failed procedures have preceded mine, I wonder. How many are still alive? "I was beginning to think that the suppression serum had failed us, and it would have been a real pity after the lengths I had to go to in order to obtain it."

This mock-rue goes unresponded by Severus, at least verbally.

It's a struggle to make sense of the man's statement because I find no comprehension grace me at the words 'suppression serum'. By the sounds of it, it must induce effects of drowsiness or compliance. I would have pegged it to be a tranquiliser of some sort, if it didn't bring on the unmistakable complications of my brain staying completely aware, despite my body's non-movements.

I'm harshly dragged out of my thoughts at the sounds of more contraptions shifting around. With the burning in my limbs persisting, if not intensifying, fear is quick to jump back in place. To my surprise, however, the noises stop without incident this time, causing no further violations to my person. It's evidently too early to feel relief, though.

"Are her vitals normal?"

"They are," Severus informs, any earlier emotion wiped clean.

"Very well," comes the reply, satisfied. "Inject the enhancement serum."

No, no, not again, my insides recoil, I don't want to—

Sunshine bursts before my eyes as I lurch into a sitting position, panting, gasping, trying to remember my own self. Bile stings the back of my throat and I'm swallowing it down, trying to gain control over the alarming beats against my chest. I feel sweat sprinkled against my hairline, skin uncomfortably hot when I swipe at the moisture with my hand. The motion brings my attention to the wounds on my arms again, and the nightmare flashes, dark and clear, in my mind, possessing none of the murkiness that dreams are supposed to. I'm startlingly bitter about this, because I find that I truly do not wish to recall those sensations ever again.

Almost subconsciously, I wrap a hand around my throat and try to ground myself to this reality, tell myself that I got out, that I'm free, that I can feel. It helps marginally, at least until something dismal jerks my memory, and then my fingers are curling, sliding behind, passing over the nape of my neck, reaching higher—

"Oh, you're awake!"

I drop my hand instantly, jolted for reasons I cannot fathom.

James stands in the doorway, his hands supporting a tray filled with a glass of water and a large bowl. The contents remain hidden from my current vantage point. I wait for him to step forward, to pass me the tray, but he stays standing, brows stitching together in the middle. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I figure I must be terrible at masking my emotions, if he reads me so plainly.

"I'm not sure. I—I had a nightmare."

"Okay," he says cautiously, slowly, stretching the word unnecessarily. And then he steps forward. But instead of offering the tray to me, he pushes it to the side, takes his place across from me on the bed. His eyes are carefully neutral. "What was it about?"

I don't know how to answer him. A thick vine of discomfort has wrapped around me at the very idea of having to voice those terrifying moments, of bringing them to life in the now. I think of the agonizing pain, of the two voices, of that one name, of that serum, and find myself incapable.

"I don't remember much," I lie, and his face doesn't shift. "It was just...painful."

His teeth sink into his lower lip. "Painful, how?"

"James—" I let his name hang in the air between us in lieu of replying, unsure where I want to go with this. I suppose it would have been more prudent to figure that out before starting. Thankfully, I get there soon enough. "These wounds on my arms—they're not just random injuries, are they? In the gray room, I saw—I'd seen wires. And one was still attached to my leg when I woke up. Do you know anything about it?"

He's shaking his head, even as surprise clearly makes an appearance. "Evans, I—"

"Please," I'm not beyond begging. "Please, just this."

He looks like he's prepared to argue with me, and I steel myself to combat his stubbornness right back, but somehow, it doesn't come to that. The frown smooths over on his face visibly, until a resigned sigh rushes out from between parted lips.

"They were tubes, not wires," he says, running a hand over his face. I realize that's his tell; he's frustrated beyond measure. "And from what we know, they were using them to supply your body with just enough nutrients to keep you alive." He stops here, swallows, lets his eyes flit over my face to search for any signs of distress. There's a concerted effort on my part to maintain a blank expression.

But he doesn't add anything.

"Is that all?" I prompt.

His inquisitive gaze turns a little watchful, and my pulse skitters. "No, but—what's going on, Evans? Why this question suddenly?"

"Nothing, I'm just—"

And then it happens.

The world tilts on its axis.

I'm not sure how such a detail has managed to escape my notice thus far, but when my eyes settle on my lap, I'm abruptly, indescribably, aware of the fact that I'm wearing something that has never belonged to me. And I know this with undeniable clarity because I've only owned one bleak dress as far as memory serves. But this fabric—it's an old t-shirt, too large on my thin frame, the deep blue colour having faded with time due to evident overuse. It sits long enough to almost touch my knees under the covers, and under it, I feel completely bare; no undergarments to speak of. There are images that flash across my mind of this particular cloth; tucked against James's elbow, laid down on the bed, strung up on a hook. It's his, I know, if not from his words telling me, then from the faint smell that still lingers on the material.

And yet, despite such knowledge, I find that I have no recollection—absolutely none—of actually putting it on.

In frightening speed, my eyes seek out that which I do not know until I spot it: there, on the chair against the window, lies a small heap of clothes. The dark hues of a blood-soaked gray dress and bits of white scraps—my bra and knickers—lie strewn, a familiar scissor placed on top of the stack.

I stare and stare and stare.

The fear I feel then, it's almost physical.

I don't remember.

I don't remember anything.

What happened? How did I—

"Evans?"

I look up, instantly, eyes desperate. But in this moment, even James feels different, his newness suddenly attacking me with unsettling starkness. I find it almost impossible to believe that I haven't noticed it before: the bags under his eyes have reduced, he wears different clothes, jaw freshly shaved, and perhaps, most importantly, he's painted brilliantly in the light of day.

"It was night," the words escape my mouth on a whisper. Sweat has broken over my back, behind my knees. "It was night. How is it morning?"

I don't think he understands me, but it must be truly something frightening he finds on my face, because his own lines with pronounced wariness. "What?" he asks gently, trying to move forward, but my body is jumping back in alarm. James freezes, pulls in a steadying breath. "Evans, please. What's wrong? What do you mean?"

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

Am I still dreaming? Is any of this real?

The very foundation of my being feels shaken; my own existence, wholly devoured by uncertainty and madness.

"I'm scared," I say, and the hammering of my heart is unforgiving. I've tumbled into a depthless chasm, and nothing around is solid enough to gain purchase. "I'm scared. I'm scared I'm going insane."

"Lily!" His voice is sharper than I've ever heard it. It's only when my eyes fly back to his that I realize they'd been wandering around the room to begin with. The wariness I had identified earlier in him has been replaced by conviction so fierce that it almost makes my panic pause. "I don't know what the fuck is going on but you are not going insane, alright? I promise you. There is nothing wrong with you."

I scrunch my eyes shut, fill up my insides with his words, try to borrow that confidence. Still, when I place them over my mouth, my fingers feel unsteady.

How can I not be insane?

How can this possibly be normal?

"I don't remember," I finally gasp into my hand, unwilling to look at him, unwilling to see my fears reflected and confirmed on his face. "I don't remember how I got here."

James doesn't say anything immediately, and I almost resent him for compelling me to look at him again. Mouth pressed into a grim line, his struggle to appear collected for my sake does not go unnoticed. "Okay," I watch his cheeks hollow as he mulls over the confession. "Okay. Well, my friends and I had to bring you from—"

"No," I stop him restlessly. "No, I remember all of that. I remember…"

"What?"

I'm almost wincing under the strain to recall as much as I'm able to. But no matter how many minutes tick by, how despicably my temples pound, the images will not move beyond an overflowing bathtub, water cold on my skin, tears salty on my tongue. I know I had submerged under, but perhaps I'm still drowning. The despair brought on by more lost time plays over my skin, stretches my mouth open.

"The bathroom. I remember you leaving me in the tub."

He soaks up my answer. "And after that?"

"Nothing," I say, pulling my fingers away. "Nothing until now. How long ago was that?"

Impatience is an ugly beast that makes itself known when instead of answering, James reaches out to wrap his hand around the glass of water and offers it to me. "Just last night," he informs me when I won't accept the drink. "It's alright."

Hysteria has won. "No, it's not fucking alright! I'm—I thought that was done! I thought I could at least keep the memories of now with me, but my mind is just—I can't begin to explain what goes on in here, James. It's terrifying. And now, I can't even sustain the present anymore? That's not fair, that's not alright!"

"I know. I know. I'm sorry," he says. I hate his calm voice. I want his rage. But he won't acquiesce; warm hands guide my fingers around the glass of water, push it into my palms. In a moment of disconcerting frustration, I'm tempted to hurl it across the room just to spite him. But his firm grip, enveloping my own, stops me. "I'm not saying this is easy, Evans. I'm just telling you what you're going through is...well, justified, if not normal."

It's strange, how easily he has doused my lethal fire. "Have you gone through this, too?"

He shakes his head, no.

And I'm abhorred by the part of me that is disappointed at this response. The guilt churns so violently that I raise the glass to my lips, hide half my face so that I don't search for salvation in hazel eyes. James's hands fall away, but I still sense his contentment when the water slides down my throat from the way he sits up straighter, wondrous even in visual periphery.

I feel petulantly stubborn when his slightly smug expression greets me in the aftermath, like he knows how good the cool water tasted. I'm almost surprised by the spark of competitiveness it ignites; I do not give him the satisfaction of even an acknowledging grunt.

"How am I supposed to deal with this?" my hands place the empty glass back onto the tray. "How do I get past this?"

His features have rearranged into something somber when I look up again. "You just do," he says. "You don't give an inch. You keep fighting. You don't let them win."

He's vague, filling my arms with empty words. But I'm the fool still grasping onto them. My forefinger runs along the edge of my outer thigh, anger set aside as my eyes follow its path. My heart has refused to settle. "How did I...you know, get into this?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and I'm struck with the realization that he's doing this on purpose, that he won't reply until I've looked at him again. My gaze shoots up with the shock of epiphany, and he smiles, once more, like a boy, like he knows. "What do you think?"

I think it's maddening how mercurial he's turned me. I think it's insane that I'm flushing under such an obvious display of teasing.

"Did you…?"

"Did I…what?"

My pulse is a skittering stone, flung across the river. "Help me into this t-shirt?"

James had said that this had transpired just last night, thereby only a few hours ago, and yet, at this moment, I cannot help but reassess the truth behind his words. Because for such a short span of time, the man in front of me seems to have grown exponentially bolder. His smile tilts higher on one side to morph into a grin, body folding slightly, leaning closer to me. "Is this your roundabout way of asking me if I saw you naked, Evans?"

His question has struck a match, and I feel alight from inside. "Yes."

He continues staring at me, appearing unbearably pleased, and breath extinguishes in my chest when he leans closer still. At this proximity, I smell some lingering scent of soap or shampoo on him; it triggers a kind of addiction.

If I were stripped to the core, they'd find me to be nothing but a thudding heart.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he breathes finally, eyes running over my face. "But no."

Something uncoils in me when he settles back down, a respectable distance away. I'm clearing my throat. "Then how—?"

"Eat and I'll tell you," he orders pleasantly, unfazed, hands dragging forward the tray of food I'd forgotten about. Before I can stoke the obstinacy erupting within me again, however, he frowns, annoyance clucking at his tongue, knuckles pressing against a bowl of clear broth—or perhaps soup. "It's gone cold. Sit tight, I'll warm it up and be right back."

I blink as he pulls himself to his feet, all easy grace and brimming energy. I can't be imagining it; he's transformed overnight, come alive in a way that has rightfully earned my mesmerisation.

"James, wait," my voice speaks, suddenly unwilling to be bereft of his presence in the room. He stops, looks over, dark brows arched, and smiles something softer. I'm strangely bashful. "Can I come with you?"

Surprise perches on his shoulders, makes him straighten rather than buckle, and he turns fully towards me. "You mean, downstairs?"

I am nodding, masking my expression into something resembling confidence. I don't know how successful I am because he continues to consider me, eyes aggravatingly stoic, quiet.

"Can you stand?" he sighs after an age, and I learn that yes comes in many forms.

"Let's find out," I smile dryly, pushing away the covers and dropping my feet to the floor in a movement that is eerily reminiscent of the night prior. I'm profoundly pleased to find out that the actions do not feel nearly as abrasive as they had the first time, and courage blooms, tentative, when I push myself up with shaky arms. "Don't," I grit immediately, holding out a palm to stop James when my knees knock together unsteadily. His outstretched fingers curl around the empty air surrounding my shoulders, jaw clenched tensely as he watches my excruciating attempt at staying upright.

Feelings of mingled surprise and joy burst in my sternum when I manage to keep standing without his help. A few steps forward reveal that pain—once blinding and iron-hot—now burns dully through my limbs, enough to incite discomfort but not enough to send me gasping.

So wrapped up in my own success I have become that I quickly find myself facing the wall of James's chest. I wonder, then, why he hasn't taken those steps backward in tandem with my own advances. Isn't that the general principle of proxemics?

I look up, find the answer in the brightness of his gaze.

"You're too stubborn for your own good, Evans," he smiles, unwillingly fond. "Did you know that?"

"I'm learning," I breathe, shifting my eyes away to close the chasm of vulnerability he has pried open.

"Well, I've always thought you to be a quick study," he quips, apparently unbothered by the tension between us. My mind goes to a place that has me question whether I'm the only one who's reading into this too much, but the memory resurfaces—scissors, a shredded dress, a brush of skin—and it's easy enough to dismiss the idea. Maybe he's just better at dealing with this. He has to be, I suppose, since he grapples with knowledge far vaster than I do.

Mindless thoughts distract me enough that I almost don't notice James wrapping a sturdy arm around my waist until it rests fittingly against me already.

My eyes seek his again. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you downstairs, like you asked," he grins. What a flimsy shirt, I distantly muse, that it allows his skin to seep warmth into my stomach so effortlessly. Does the awareness of my lack of undergarments acutely penetrate his mind like it does mine?

"What about the food?" I ask instead, as he steers us towards the door. I'm glad to have an excuse to look away again, turning around to stare at the tray that sits on the bed, lonely.

"I'll come back and get it."

"James, I'm fine, I can walk." I shake my head, ignoring the quake of my thighs.

"Of course, you're fine," he nods, and taps his forefinger twice against my hip. The parting of my lips in surprise is not unexpected, but the smile that it morphs into is. I duck my head to hide it. "But I enjoy being an overbearing git sometimes. Indulge me."

It's a pitiful attempt to make me accept his help without explicitly pointing out that I need it. I know it. He knows it. And yet, a melancholic appreciation takes root inside me all the same.

We continue on in silence after that; James carrying most of my weight as we traverse through long corridors and past more rooms. My eyes, so starved of the world and its possibilities, drink up every little detail. Every bit of peeling wallpaper. Every tiny cobweb dangling from the corners. I bask in the sensation of cool tiles under bare feet, savour the light ache in my heels, brought on by prolonged movement and pressure. An occasional window welcomes us on our path, warm, golden sunlight streaming into the house, revealing tiny motes of dust floating in the air. I'm bizarrely emotional as I draw in silent breaths and encounter smells I recognize from another lifetime.

Or perhaps, from the same one, just veiled behind horrors I do not wish to investigate.

"Alright, Evans?"

The sigh I expend takes some of the heaviness with it. Good riddance. "Yes." I chance a sideways glance at James, debate for a moment, and decide to be brave. "Will you tell me now? About my t-shirt?"

He smirks, silent, and lets me stew in the warmth of my own face. "Careful, now, there's a staircase."

"Yes, I can see," I snap, annoyed that he won't make this easier on me. The irritation prompts heavier footing than is entirely wise, and I pay for my folly when a twinge laces its way up my ankle and shin, pulling forth a hiss of pain. The hand around my waist tightens instinctively, fingers splaying, wide, to ease me off my feet entirely. I'm tucked right into his side now, heart pumping in my mouth, because his thumb and index finger curl dangerously close to my breast.

"Sorry," he mumbles, lowering his hand immediately. I stay unspeaking. He continues to carry me, and I think it's the silence, grown so palpably between us, that finally extracts the words from his mouth. "I don't know, actually. How you managed to change by yourself, that is."

"What?" I look up again, confused.

His eyes stay focused on getting us—well, me—safely to the bottom of the stairs. "Yeah, you were a little disoriented at first when I came to get you, but you looked better... clearer." He takes a little pause here, and I know what he means. I'd felt it when the water had glided over my skin, washing away more than just dirt and grime. "I could sense it even with the way you were shivering from the cold water. It—I was relieved, Evans, so relieved that it was maddening. You said you wanted to change by yourself and you asked me to leave the clothes and the scissors with you on the bed."

I blink, engulfed by surprise. "And you listened?"

James laughs softly. "Like I said, I was relieved. I would've done anything to keep you feeling better." This close to him, I know I don't imagine the light flush that creeps over his collar once the true weight of those words register on him. I bite my lip, let him place me down on the flat, sturdy floor, and put enough distance between us for it to be less nerve-wracking, but not uncomfortable. He brushes the free hand over the back of his neck. "You know what I meant."

I don't, actually.

How far does anything go?

"Yeah. I know."

He nods, smiling once more, and guides me forward. We pass through a large sitting room, the space interspersed with couches, chairs, a coffee table. A wilted indoor plant. A fireplace, clearly unusable even to the naked eye, sits against one end of the wall, antique and posh-looking. The mantelpiece over the structure has collected a thick coat of dust over time. I'm smacked with the realization that this house, with its yawning rooms, long hallways, old fireplaces and smooth floors, is an obvious relic of wealth.

"This is your home, then?" I ask, voice quiet.

He looks at me, shrugs. "Not home. Just a house. My parents and I used to come here very rarely; only during the summers some years."

I don't voice my immediate thought, which is wonder over how large his actual home must be in comparison. "Your parents?" I prompt, instead.

"Dead."

My heart falls. "Oh."

"Come along," James brushes it off, tone pleasant but clearly dismissive of the topic at hand. I'm then led over a threshold, into a sun-lit kitchen, that houses three other men I'm familiar with.

Remus sits around a small, circular table with a glass top, playing around with a bowl of cereal. He dips his spoon into the milk only to pull it out immediately and watch the liquid drip back into the bowl, as if fascinated by such a mundane display. Peter stands with his back to us near the stove, frying what I'm alarmingly certain is bacon, the oil and fat sizzling around in a black pan wondrously. Turns out my senses of taste and smell haven't failed me like my mind has. I swallow down saliva, suddenly ravenous, and let my eyes travel to Sirius. He sits perched on the granite countertop, legs swinging back and forth casually as he chews around an apple core. His gaze, locked onto mine, turns darkly amused, one eyebrow arching.

I'm suddenly, achingly, aware of James's fingers against my side.

"Hello," my voice cracks awkwardly as I step out of his grip. It's a relief when I encounter no protest at this, even when my legs shake tellingly. At the greeting, two unwitting heads snap to look at me, expressions quickly transforming into shock and pleasant surprise.

"Lily!" Remus says warmly, dropping his spoon into the bowl with a noisy splatter. He grimaces for half a second before rising to his feet and pulling out another chair from around the table. I'm once more hit by warm appreciation for him. "Come. Sit. How do you feel?"

"I'm okay," I answer, with no intent to elaborate. Remus, to his benefit, does not push. He waits patiently as I take an age to reach him, the muscles of my legs pulled taut with tension. I'm fairly collapsing onto the chair when Sirius speaks up.

"It's good to see you on your feet, Evans." His heel lightly taps against the cupboard underneath. "Even without James's help."

I collect my breath, angle my body to face him, understand Sirius a little better. He's heavy-handed, complicated; I see it in the shadows sunk under his eyes, the constant smirk he feels he has to keep in place, the biting comments, always spoiling for a fight or a battle of wits.

He's a bit like me.

"Thank you," I offer, nerves skittering when dumb bewilderment flashes over his face for a beat. "For the clothes."

"They're not mine," he says, almost defensive, but I'm expecting that.

"I know. But it wouldn't have been possible to get them without you." It's a gamble, to say the least, that I've dropped such a weighty confession all but five seconds after sitting down. The urge to twist around and observe James's reaction is too strong, and so I don't fight it. But the space where he'd been standing is now empty. My nerves thrum.

"I see he told you, then," Sirius says, once I've turned back around. Despite the words, some strain in his voice has loosened, and this change in inflexion makes me relax.

"Are you trying to tell me that he did not tell you? I find that hard to believe."

He smiles, something genuine and bright, and his features have been cut to such perfection that I'm almost uncomfortable. But his happiness, it's a glowing thing, strings that pull up the corners of my own mouth, the shift almost tangible. He understands my question for what it is: my awareness of his relationship with James.

It seems he's easily read by me; Sirius is as desperate for something to hold onto as I am.

"You're an observant one."

"Better than being a bitchy one, isn't it?"

His forefinger flicks away the apple core, and the fruit remnant soars through the air, landing inside the trash bin near the door perfectly. "Any day."

"Don't be obnoxious, Sirius," Remus sighs, shaking his head.

I twist back around, the smile on my face persisting, and find his bowl of cereal half-empty. Blue eyes share a look of empathy with me, and the emotion is as strange as it is warm. I'm tempted to laugh. What a wonderful sensation.

Sirius sweeps a hand across the room in my periphery. "I don't know any other way to be."

"Don't we know it," says a voice that my mind has almost erased. I look up, see Peter walking towards us, frying pan in hand, and let my own fingertips press tightly against the underside of the glass tabletop. I'm forcing my expression to not waver, though I probably fail because I've been out of practice for two years. He stops before me, holds out the pan, and I shrink back imperceptibly. "Do you want some bacon, Evans?"

"Jesus, Pete, don't shove it into her face," Sirius scoffs, the balls of his feet silently hitting the floor as he jumps off. "D'you expect her to eat it right off the fucking pan?"

Peter's skin has flushed, redness rising over healthy cheeks. "No, I didn't—"

"It's alright," I offer, feeling guilty even though I'm not the cause behind his embarrassment. "I don't need—"

"Rubbish," Sirius's voice is forceful, and he swiftly slides a clean plate onto the table. Remus's fingers, faster than my own, reach out to halt its trajectory before it can crash to the floor. "No offence, Evans, but you look dead on your feet. Cheers, Remus."

Absolutely unbelievable how his no offense, Evans, has actually worked, because I'm more amused by the cavalier comment, spoken as nothing more than an argument to support his actions, than I am insulted. Remus, however, does not seem to share my sentiments.

His tone: sharp, admonishing. "Sirius, stop."

"It's alright, I'm—"

Sirius is unbothered, already snatching the spatula from Peter to scoop crisp bacon onto my plate. The smell assaults my nose, and I'm swallowing down hunger once more. "Eat the damn food, Evans."

"Fucking hell, no, don't."

I'm snapping to attention, turning around in my chair once more to find James back inside the kitchen, the tray of soup balanced on his hands like he'd promised. He glares, first at Sirius, who's hand hovers over the plate, and then at Remus, whose face is etched with a frown deep and annoyed. "How can you let him do this?" James complains.

"I'm not letting him do anything. No amount of delusion can make me think I have any say over Sirius's actions."

James is stepping forward, right between my chair and Sirius's petulantly frozen form. "Shove off," he says nicely. "You can't be feeding her pig fat when she hasn't eaten for so long. She'll puke all over you."

What a grand image he's painted.

My nose crinkles in distaste, and hazel eyes pin on me, the sunlight bouncing off his glasses unable to obscure their amusement. "No bacon for you," he tells me, as if that's even close to the reason I've grimaced. I hope the roll of my eyes conveys the exasperation I'm too lethargic to voice.

He grins, walking around the table and towards the stove, making good on his intention to reheat the soup. Sirius stares at the back of his head for a few prolonged seconds before shrugging, apparently no longer convinced that I'll wither on the spot without the immediate nutrition of fried bacon. He pinches a slice between thumb and forefinger, lifting it off the spatula and dropping it straight into his open mouth, From beside me, Remus's click of tongue is the perfect sound of annoyance.

"You don't have to be so terrifically disgusting, you know."

Sirius smirks, and I realize, once again, that I'm expecting this. He's done it just to vex the man across the table. "I don't know any other way to be," he repeats, moving to pick another slice.

A bit of a scuffle ensues when Peter reaches forward to slap his hand away, and the bacon lands on the pan with a splash of grease. I reel back instinctively to avoid the glob of oil that falls on the table, though Sirius's t-shirt isn't quite so lucky. "The fuck, Pete?"

"Sorry," winces the man, immediately taking two steps back. "It's just—I made that for myself, and you said you didn't want any when I asked—"

"You fucking offered it to Evans."

"Because she hasn't eaten anything," he grumbles, if a bit meekly still. It's disconcerting to find my wariness of him transforming into pity; ostensibly, his cowering under Sirius's glare doesn't lend much to the cunning persona I'd developed in my mind. "Besides, we've almost run out of food. This will last a few days at best."

A tense silence, astonishingly potent, blankets over the kitchen.

"Why is this an issue?" I make myself ask. My gaze lands on Sirius again. "Aren't you able to jump to wherever you want? Surely finding food from somewhere cannot be that difficult."

"Well, it's not quite as simple as that, is it?" he scowls.

The reply sounds rather silly to me because it is quite as simple as that. Given how far they've gone to escape St. Mungo's and carry me to safety from the gray room, I'm floundering to understand what brings a halt to their efforts to procure some food. Surely it cannot be morality against stealing, not with the current predicament they face. I open my mouth to press further when James turns around, steaming bowl of soup in hand, and places it before me carefully.

"Eat first, questions later." Fingers ghost over my shoulder, excruciatingly light, even as his eyes look away. "Sirius, can I have a word?"

Feeling strangely heavy around the chest, I let my eyes drop to the table again, fingertips wrapping around the bowl experimentally. Warmth seeps through the porcelain and into my skin, comforting rather than scalding. The sensation distracts me for long enough that Sirius and James have exited the room when I raise my gaze again. A sigh, something abstruse and despondent, falls from my lips.

"It's too hot," I complain, thumb dipping into the curve of the soup spoon handle.

"It'll cool soon enough."

Peter's voice across the table confirms what I'd already presumed: he breathes easier without Sirius around. Bacon crunches between teeth as he chews happily, and I find it in myself to offer him a placating smile, however small and tentative. My gesture is returned by one of his own. In the bright, homely kitchen, it's a far challenging task to recall the cynicism he'd ignited in me.

"I presume you're about to ask me questions James won't give you answers to," Remus suddenly spills, not a flicker between his brows as he continues playing with his cereal. The flakes have long since turned soggy with over-soaked milk. "So, I'll just tell you now—I can't do it."

My heart is chaos. "I'm sorry, but this is the third time you've done this and I just have to ask. Can you—"

"Yes."

Oxygen zips out of my lungs, transforms into shock that settles unmistakably over my face. "You—"

"He can," Peter intones, still chewing, and I've lost the ability to even execute a shift of my eyes. "Bloody annoying it is, too."

I'm not certain if their casual response and unbothered tones have been crafted for my benefit or if they actually feel so lackadaisical about what I've insinuated. Insinuated, because they haven't even let me complete my thought. I decide I cannot let it go unspoken.

"You can read my mind?"

"Not just yours, everyone's." Remus looks up finally, patient and smiling like he's been since the beginning. The wisdom I spot in his eyes seems more profound than before, though it's easily attributed to my own reaction to the revelation. "But it's not as bad as you think. I'm not constantly invading your privacy or something."

It's an effort to push down the lie that sits on my tongue—that's not what I thought—because there is truly no way to make him believe me. The fact that my mind has gone there and worried about that is glaringly obvious, and I'm certain the inhibition that reflects on my face would have given me away even if the man beside me could not literally peek into my thoughts. "How does it work?" I ask instead, suppressing the barrage of wariness that threatens to bury me.

Remus sighs, pushing away his bowl, seemingly decided that he won't be eating anymore. "I haven't been able to develop the ability fully. I've tried to, since I was a kid, but it hasn't happened yet. So, I can read thoughts that are at the very forefront of the mind, and it takes concentration, but it's impossible to discern multiple trains of thought at once."

"And if someone were trying to hide information from you…?"

"Unless they're actively thinking about it, I'm pretty much useless."

My lips press together, fingers reaching out to fold around the spoon again. This time, I take a sip, feeling warm liquid sweep down my throat, tasting bits of carrot and chunks of chicken, appreciating hints of salt and pepper. My eyes flutter at the aroma, the flavours, and it's silly because it's just soup, but it feels undeniably, irrevocably good. I dip the spoon again at a pace I hope is normal. "So, yesterday, when I woke up, you heard me inside my mind?"

Blue eyes meet mine, smile sheepish. "Yeah."

"But you didn't respond."

Remus sighs again, watching as I down another spoonful. Then another. Fuck, it's a true show of restraint to not swallow the whole of it in one go. "Like I said: I can't do it."

On the other side of the table, Peter continues to observe silently, eyes darting between us with no pretense of looking away. Strangely enough, frustration does not make an appearance inside me. "Why not?" I frown.

"Because I understand what's going on," he says gently, as if trying not to upset me. "Lily, your mind is in a fragile state right now. It's not wise to push and prod or throw potentially disturbing information at it. I can very well empathize with your need to know more, but not right away. I don't even think James should have shared as much as he did when you—"

"Am I going insane?" I whisper, his words once again gouging out the fear I've been suppressing. James had been quick to distract me earlier and I'd played along if only to have an excuse to discount them myself. But I realize now that it's been a constant thrum of terror under my skin, biding its time to overpower any sense of peace I may wrangle.

"Absolutely not."

My gaze snaps up, surprised. "You don't have to lie to me."

"I know that. And I'm not doing it." He leans forward, face solemn and lined with stress. I wonder if mine looks the same. "They messed with your head and buried your memories, yes. But they haven't turned you insane. Whatever you're feeling is understandable."

I try not to dwell on how his words are an almost perfect replication of James's. Instead, I clamber forward and grasp onto something else he's said. "Buried my memories? You mean—you mean they're not gone?"

Remus is surprised, his brows lifting. "Gone? No, of course not. It's just a matter of time."

A burst of elation has the muscles of my fingers loosening, grip slack, and the spoon clatters as it falls back inside the bowl. "Are you certain?"

His expression softens. "Completely."

I pull my lip between teeth, thumb brushing over jutting collarbones. A sigh, and then I'm resuming my scooping of soup. "Something happened today," my confession comes out in a low voice, and even Peter stops chewing. I'm diffident to look up. "I woke up this morning without remembering how I got to bed. It was like a huge chunk of memory was just missing without rhyme or reason. It was—it is alarming. Wouldn't you agree?"

The soup settles like sludge in my stomach while Remus considers the question. Unbelievably, I discover him to be even more adept at masking emotions than James is. It almost frightens me.

"I'll agree that it's alarming," he says finally, slowly, words weighed with extreme care. "But not the most shocking thing given what's—"

"What's happened to me. Yes, I know." I push the bowl away, no longer possessing the patience to scrape out the dregs. "And you won't tell me about that. So, tell me this instead: what's happening to me? Now?"

His lips have pinched together, but it's Peter that speaks up. "Evans, you really shouldn't—"

"Why can't I be the judge of what I can handle?" some undercurrent of anger laces the quiet of my voice, renders him silent. "I think I'm owed at least that much. I deserve to have the confidence that I'm not going crazy. And before you ask, no, I can't just take your word for it because the truth is that I don't know any of you. I don't know anything about this fucking world. So help me. Please."

Pent up tension untangles from my chest, rushes out of my lungs with the words. As pensive stillness envelops the room, I'm weirdly distracted by a sparrow that lands on the kitchen windowsill. It chirps; once, twice, tilts its head, brown eyes curious as they look directly at me. I stay unmoving, fascinated by the little life, its delicate-looking feathers, sharp beak, the way it hops around on some light wind. I wonder, once again, when my mind will tire of pondering over the same question: why do I remember certain things but not others? How do I recall the name of a species of bird but not the faces of my own parents?

"Alright," Remus sighs at length, and my attention is immediately snapping back to him. Peter doesn't look surprised at this acquiescence, so I have to presume they've engaged in some silent conversation while I've been bird watching. "You're right. You deserve to know this. I'm not sure if this will make much sense to you but—"

I lick my lips. "Just tell me."

"The experiments are very complex, from what we know," he rubs his temples. "A couple of years ago, the Death Eaters—the people who captured you—they, um, they got their hands on these serums that held promise for their goals. They would help them study their subjects better. But it took only a few trials to reveal the glaring side-effects of these serums and experiments."

"Memory loss." The whisper is torn from my throat, while other fragments of a conversation float into mind.

I was beginning to think that the suppression serum had failed us.

Inject the enhancement serum.

"Yes," Remus confirms, eyes pinned on me warily. "But not just that. The memory loss was something that was uncovered much later. For the most part, all those initial subjects—well, their bodies were not compatible with one of the serums. The abilities were either too dormant or not powerful enough to bear the chemicals." He swallows, looks steady despite the words. "A lot of people died."

I'm staring at him, mouth parted in disbelief, when suddenly, in a rather embarrassing moment, bile rushes up the back of my throat. My fingers rush to clap over mouth, hold back the sick, but it's quite a futile effort. Silently, a hollow container slides onto the table, right under my face, and it's all the prompting my body requires to let go, to retch out remnants of soup.

It doesn't last very long; barely two proper bouts. But it's enough to send tears spilling over flaming cheeks.

"That was bound to happen," Remus says kindly, not a single muscle grimacing as he picks up the container and walks away to empty it down the drain. Peter's eyes lock onto me with a slightly concerned light, though he has visibly shrunk into his chair, further away from me. "You're not used to eating yet, so your body is rejecting food. This is why the bacon was a bad idea. Don't worry, you'll get there soon enough."

Derision jumps through my veins, and I'm holding back the unexplained scoff that tries to spill out. Food is unquestionably the least of my concerns at this moment. He's just dropped information that has shifted the very ground my feet rest on, revealed that an experiment my mind has endured for over two years has murdered several before me, so a poorly-behaved digestive system is something I can easily live with.

Remus returns, hand wrapped around a glass of water, which he holds out to me. "Here, drink this."

I do as he says, if only to wipe the taste from my mouth and be done with it. And even though I'm certain he senses it—because the thought is surely at the forefront of my mind—he doesn't refuse to answer outright when I ask, "how do you know about all this?"

He sits down again, exchanges a look with Peter, silent and heavy and one whose understanding has completely eluded me.

"When these experiments started, the Death Eaters were posing as a group of progressive scientists who wanted to strengthen society," he explains eventually. "People with abilities had stayed well-hidden amongst others until then. The only reason it came to light was that Voldemort himself possessed some powers. He propagated the message that these abilities grant us stronger genes, stronger endurance and a stronger capacity to adapt. He—called for volunteers to help him with his noble cause. He said he wanted to build a better world."

"Oh my God," I breathe, fingers pressing into the flesh of my thighs.

Peter picks up, his voice weary. "It was worse than you're imagining. Several people signed up for it, enough that it astounded us to find out so many with abilities existed in the first place. The Death Eaters told families of the volunteers that the procedures would be time-consuming, thus getting permission to have the subjects live at St. Mungo's." His face has turned a bit green, and he swallows once before continuing. "Over fifty of them died. And that was not a kind of number you could hide."

…the initial results certainly seem more promising than our previous procedures.

I'm going to be sick again.

"It was an all-out massacre when everyone found out. Voldemort was quick to shed his pretences, and claimed that only the truly strong deserved to survive. Hordes of people—family members and friends of the subjects—died when they tried to break into the hospital. It was gruesome, and hardly a fair fight, considering the powers the other side held."

My heart stutters. "What about the government? Surely they stepped in?"

"The government?" Remus smiles bitterly. "There's not one left, is there? The Death Eaters killed most of the officials, and kept only those around who supported their cause, doesn't matter if it was willingly or due to some threat on their life."

"External aid?"

He shakes his head. "The state is completely closed off. No one has been able to contact anyone for over two years. Telephone lines, internet connectivity, signals, there's nothing left. And if you do come across something luckily, you can bet on your life it's being intercepted."

I am tumbling, falling, disappearing.

"Is that why you said—" I inhale something, shaken and disturbed, look at Peter. "About the food—"

"Yeah," his face twists mournfully. "With no foreign trade, food rations have been abysmal. Families are barely scraping by, and many more have died out of lack of proper medical facilities. We got our hands on what we could, but it's mostly from—"

"Peter," Remus stops him suddenly, voice sharp, and my spine straightens. They engage in another one of their wordless conversations while I try to grapple with everything I've learnt.

My head spins. Such a terrible fate bestowed upon the world, and I don't remember any of it. A dark sort of chill runs through my insides at the thought of that man, of Voldemort, and his fanatic followers, who have managed to convince themselves of their own superiority. More than that, they have either proceeded to shove the same conviction down the throats of others or found a simpler solution in their deaths.

I wonder, then, for the first time, if this was even a reality worth waking up to.

"What's going on?"

My eyes are sluggish as they travel around to find James and Sirius back inside the kitchen. Their expressions hold identical senses of alarm, which I'm certain is not helped by my own undoubtedly ashen complexion. With their loud presences returned, the frigid blanket of tension that had befallen the room becomes startlingly apparent.

No one replies to James's question.

He redirects his gaze. "Remus?"

"I—uh, we were just talking."

"About what?"

Guilt has taken over Remus's face. "The experiments."

Sirius laughs, shattering the quiet, the sound almost disdainful. "Care to explain how that happened? Weren't you just telling James yesterday that Evans is in no state to hear about these things yet?"

The guilt deepens. "I know. I'm sorry, it just—"

"Will all of you fuck off with this already?" I say in a low voice, twisting around in my chair to glare at them. Sirius appears utterly unfazed, amused even, while James's eyes have hardened to match mine. I will not back down. "I can make my own decisions. I asked him to tell me and so he did."

"Yeah?" James challenges. "And how do you feel right now?"

Horrible.

Absolutely, mind-numbingly terrified.

Some snark or retort freezes at the tip of my tongue, because try as I might, I cannot possibly convince a single soul that everything I've learnt has not collapsed my hopes, has not crumbled it to resemble the world around us. Even as I sit there, I wonder how they're dealing with it, how they continue to stand and shoulder such knowledge without breaking apart.

James's voice has turned softer when he speaks again. "Evans, look, we're not trying to keep you in the dark. It's just that with everything—"

I cannot listen to this again.

"I know." My breath rushes out, my eyes lift to him. "Can I go back upstairs? I want to freshen up."

"I'll help." To surprise that is evidently not just my own, Sirius steps forward, a pleasant enough smile on his face as he helps me up from the chair. His arm, draped over my shoulder, feels sturdy and comforting as he leads me towards the door. "For fuck's sake, James, try not to burst a vessel."

I turn around, heart thrumming at the words, to find James fondly rolling his eyes as he takes my recently vacated spot around the table. It feels quite strangely as if they wait for us to be entirely out of earshot before they start speaking. I try not to let it bother me.

"Do you fancy teleporting to the room?" Sirius asks casually. At the words, my feet knock into each other, almost sending me tumbling to the floor. His grip around my shoulder tightens along with the laugh that spills out. "I'm taking that as a no then. Pity. Walking around normally can get terribly dull sometimes."

I look down again, let a smile tug my lips upwards. Happiness has bubbled in my chest at the knowledge that he's comfortable enough to joke around with me about his ability. I've decided to reciprocate his efforts. "Right, because a sensation that feels like your flesh has been turned inside out is nothing less than the quintessential form of excitement."

He laughs again, rich sound reverberating through his whole being, becoming his entire personality. In a second, with his head thrown back, he has transformed from an uncannily good-looking man with emotional imbalance to a charming companion. "Oh, I can see why James is hopeless."

One phrase, and my smile drops, skin flushes. "Stop that."

"Why?" he is smirking now, lifting me easily onto the steps, one at a time. Not a drop of sweat breaks over his forehead, not a sign of strain on his face, and I realize I probably weigh next to nothing. His teasing does not relent. "Do you not like hearing it? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

My teeth are gnashing. "Yes."

"Brilliant," he cheers, chuckling as he sets me down on the first floor. "There's nothing that makes me happier than causing discomfort with brutal honesty. And on this, and only this, do my family and I concur."

The offhand mention of his family has successfully drawn my attention. I'm only too willing to be distracted, no longer disposed to engage Sirius's badinage. "What do you mean?" I prompt. "Your family doesn't actually support what's happening, do they?"

He clicks his tongue, a casual gesture, but it feels forced. Something dark has twisted over his face again; the bright, laughing man from earlier non-existent. Unease squeezes my lungs tightly as he stays silent, focused instead on bringing me to the room I'm occupying. I've almost made my peace with being ignored when he speaks again. "Don't pry into everything so relentlessly, Evans. You're better off not knowing some answers. Trust me."

I realize I much prefer being ignored.

"Think you can manage the rest of the way?" he nods his head to the closed door of the room. "Or will you topple to the floor and break your tiny bones?"

Amusement pulls my lips into a grin despite the nature of his words. It's quite the task to take offence at what Sirius says when his eyes won't cease brimming with that teasing gleam. "Think I'll manage," I humour him, keenly alert of the need to empty my bladder all of a sudden. It's as if all the liquid I've consumed has finally travelled its way through my system instead of getting soaked up by dehydrated organs.

"Very well then," he raises two fingers, waves once. "I'm certain James will be back to invade your privacy soon enough anyway."

"Goodbye, Sirius." I shake my head, turning around to face the door. Faint chuckles echo through the corridor behind me before he disappears. The smile hasn't even properly faded from my face when I wrench open the handle, slowly step inside the room, and experience my heart rattle within my chest unstably.

I walk as fast as trembling legs allow, and my eyes drink up the sight before me: on the unmade bed lies a stack of clothes, brand new, along with toiletries and a nondescript ivory-tinted box. Quivering fingers reach out to lift the long lid and set it aside. What I find inside sends my pulse skittering under the flimsy cover of skin, breath hitched halfway through lungs.

Lingerie sets, about seven of them, lie packed within the box.

Next to the garments, one note:

I know you wouldn't have asked for them.

Pls don't refuse. Least I could do.

- J

A/N - Please come chat with me on Tumblr at maraudersftw. I promise I'm nice :)