Retribution

Chapter 5

What Haunts Your Mind?

Notes - Immeasurably thankful to tumbledfreckles on Tumblr for all her amazing beta reading and general awesomeness!

TW: Memory Loss, PTSD

CW: Injury

For a while, it aggravates me to not know exactly what about the generosity I found on my bed nags at my senses. It cannot be any latent feelings of modesty or shyness, because I do require those clothes, those toiletries. So I'm quick to dismiss the thought just as soon as it materializes. Nor, I figure, is it because I'm uncomfortable with James being the one to get them for me; we've already traversed that path, burnt that bridge. The man has seen me at my worst. There is no returning from that.

An hour of introspection and scrutiny reveals that it's incidentally my conversation with Remus and Peter in the kitchen that has a hand in this particular discomfiture. They'd confessed to the atrocious state of the world outside, to how difficult it has gotten to live, to find the basic necessities for survival.

And yet, James—with Sirius's help, no doubt—managed to bring me those things, without visible struggle. I cannot help but feel undeserving of such luxury, when my mind cannot even appreciate the trials that people outside these walls have borne.

Guilt is a strong emotion, and it makes my decision for me.

I need to confide in James.

Two days.

In the end, it takes two whole days for my cowardly heart to amass enough courage to talk to him about the clothes. For his part, James has seemed entirely content to simply pretend he's had no hand in the new attires that have suddenly found their way into my wardrobe. My wardrobe, because it's quickly become evident that that's how the men see the room I sleep in as: mine. They do not enter without permission. They do not complain about my hoarding of space.

I am grateful beyond words.

In this time, these two whole days, I learn of many things.

I learn that Godric's Hollow sits in an abandoned clearing, surrounded on either side by lush, green, thickset forests. Remus informs me, his voice quiet, that it helps to block the view from the main street, keeps out anyone who doesn't know the exact location. The information manages to reassure me and drains my semblance of peace alike. I cannot help but ruminate on how long we're meant to hide out for. Is this all that reality encompasses? This constant tide of fear? An insurmountable dread of being found?

Remus notices my glumness, looks away, contrite.

I learn that Sirius's family is indeed as fucked up as he'd insinuated. He tells me, over dinner on my third night with them—third conscious night—that his parents had forced him and his younger brother to volunteer for the experiments once Voldemort had made his intentions known publicly. Rather than become justifiably aghast over such inhumane sentiments, they'd embraced the ideals with worrisome veneration, and pushed their own children into the maws of unflinching greed.

"Don't they care that Voldemort wants to see people without abilities suppressed?" my voice trembles. "Do they possess powers, too?"

"No." Sirius shakes his head. "But they've received full assurance that all volunteering families will receive a pardon—beyond a pardon even. They'll receive the alliance of a powerful man."

"And your brother?" I misstep, apparently. The words prompt a tight squeeze of fingers around my own, James's tension travelling down his arm and skin into my being through the touch. The pull of confusion pinching my lips lifts as soon as Sirius speaks again, his voice as frosty as it is bleak.

"He decided to stay."

There's no further explanation, and for the first time since I've opened my eyes, I feel the full weight and consequence of my demands to know more. It surpasses me, surpasses my curiosity, and affects those who've grown close to my heart, become a large part of my small world. Swallowing down dinner becomes a strenuous task after the conversation, and no one bats an eye when I push away my plate after just a few nibbles of the mashed potatoes.

This does nothing but elevate my sense of guilt over wasted food.

The following morning greets me with the strength to finally find my own feet, limbs no longer groaning like worn wood on the precipice of decay. The relief has me all but buckling anew, eyes stinging under the pressure of unspilled tears. My fingers curl, knuckles pressed to mouth, breath a slow gasp of deliverance swallowed by the quiet, sweetened air.

Newfound liberation has me wrenching open the door to my room, feet relaxed as I pad onwards, towards a destination I've not determined until I realize I'm searching for it. Hand wrapped around a doorknob further down the hallway, I knock, hear no response, and then twist, the metal cool under my fingertips. But disappointment clunks distantly as I'm greeted with what looks like a storeroom of sorts, the lights dim, and unused furniture sitting draped in white cloth. I shut the door, walk away.

The excitement simmering through my veins morphs into a strange thrill, stomach bubbling, a pull both delightful and torturous, amplifying the longer it takes me to find him.

I accomplish the task eventually, slowing in front of a room at the end of the hall. Closest to the window, closest to brightness. Heart hammering like it already senses victory, tastes it, I rap my knuckles over the wood again.

"I'm decent!"

Teeth sink into my bottom lip as I hold back the amusement at such bizarre permission, and let myself into the room without any further prompting.

James stands with his back to me, bent over a desk at the end of the room, eyes trained onto some stack of papers and hand perched within the thickness of his hair. A bed, slightly larger than my own, sits pushed against one wall. It's classic and plain, like most other things in the house. There's not much to gauge from the contents of the room about the person in front of me, but I'm still making the attempt. An attempt that falls rather flat when I notice that the verity behind his earlier proclamation extends itself only in the barest form. James is decent in a pair of jeans and a simple white vest that allows my eyes to rove over his displayed shoulders and taut arms, with a sudden breathlessness.

Tension cinches the muscles together just below his neck, right above his spine. The hand caught in his hair slips down to grab the nape, and when he eases the crick there with a curt nod to the side, the sound loud in the quiet room, I find something shifting in me inexplicably, as if he's altered a part of me.

"Are you just going to stand there like a creep, or—" he sighs, bothering to half-turn his head, distracted. The bubble of giddiness bursts inside my chest abruptly, spilling out in the form of an amused huff of laughter when his eyes jump back to my face in a double-take, his entire body jolting with shock as he spins around, hands gripping the edge of the table behind him.

"Evans?!" he cries, like I could possibly be someone else. "What are you—how are you—" The words get lost in the juncture between his lungs and throat, and he fumbles, glasses slipping down nose. I laugh some more, even through the flush brought on by the outline of his chest, too visible against the soft cotton he wears. "You're...walking."

"Yes." I grin, my hands unable to decide what they should do. A step forward has me closer to him, but James remains unmoving, glued against the desk still, surprise, and something else, keeping his posture stiff like I've never seen. The happiness deflates in me. "I thought I'd come by and let you know. Is this, um, not a good time?"

Regret paints his face as clearly as a striking hue, and I realize I've failed appallingly at holding back the disappointed strain in my tone.

"No, of course, not. I—" he shakes his head, hazel eyes flickering strangely, but before I've had a chance to really read into his behaviour or question the cause, James strides forward, sudden and close. His hands reach out, gently fall over my shoulders, and I feel the heat of his palms permeate right through the layers of cloth and skin and bone, empty into the essence of me. "You have no idea how happy I am."

The whisper of confession, spoken with such potent sense of emotion and honesty, has my breath catching, my gaze rising to find his. A small smile ghosts at his lips, nothing too grand, but I feel the sincerity of him more strongly than should be possible.

"Me too," I say, my hand lifting to touch his elbow. James's chest expands with his draw of breath, thumb grazing my collar absent-mindedly, and I'm conscious, highly conscious, of the non-space between us. "I might've given up, without you."

"No, you wouldn't have," he says with enough conviction that I'm somehow nodding. "You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

"Thank you."

"I didn't do anything." The palm on his elbow climbs, flattens over the muscles of his forearm, everything warm, everything sparking.

"Thank you nevertheless," I say gently, eyes latched onto the bob of his throat as he swallows audibly, travelling higher to find his lips, smooth and soft. I wonder, almost dazedly, if they're just as warm as the rest of him, and what he'd do if I ventured to find out with my mouth.

But the audacious thought has barely crossed my mind before James is pulling back, inhaling quick and sharp, like he's drowning. I stay rooted to the spot, lips slightly parted. Embarrassment floods my cheeks, despite the fact that I've done absolutely nothing but stare.

He grips his hair, tugs at it.

"Lily."

My name drops, and I'm seized with the swift need to stop him there, reluctant to delve into the vulnerability that fleeting moment has unearthed.

"I actually had something else to discuss with you." I'm rushing through the syllables, embracing relief when he nods slowly, his own willingness to move past the awkwardness evident.

"Yeah, of course. Do you wanna sit down?"

A moment's hesitation is all I allow, before moving to plop down on the edge of James's bed, if only to ensure that my legs don't bemoan overuse later. The mattress dips comfortingly beneath my weight, sheets cool and clean to the clammy heat of my still-blushing skin. I look up to find him arranging the papers he'd been studying earlier with quick hands. The documents disappear inside a drawer, and James turns around, smile placating, if a bit forced.

"Alright?"

"Yeah." I shake my head, wipe my palms on the soft joggers clinging loosely to my hips. "I didn't thank you earlier for the clothes and...everything else."

"Oh." His head ducks the slightest distance, gaze turning bashful, tugging painfully at my chest. "It was nothing. I hope I didn't make you—uncomfortable." The last word falls like he's confessing a secret, even though the air separating us remains breezily silent, nothing and no one in between.

"Not exactly," I frown. "I'm grateful, because I needed it, but—" My eyes lock onto the hazel, intent on making him understand. "But I feel like it's too much, like I've not earned it. Remus told me about—about how things are outside. I don't want to add to someone else's misery, James."

"You're not," he blurts instantly, eyes hard and unrelenting. "You're not making anyone miserable, I promise. And it really was nothing." The desk groans quietly when he pushes off from it to stand a few feet in front of me. "Evans, Sirius and I got these from a place long abandoned. I'm positive no one would be looking for the things we brought you. It's not—it's different with food. Anything we steal there directly translates to another family going without a meal. But these clothes? They won't be missed."

Relief splinters every cell in my body, even as I search for more. "How do you know?"

He sighs heavily, and I'm debating pulling back the question when I notice his reluctance to reply. "Sirius's family used to run that chain of stores, amongst other things. A façade for their real business, if you will. The Blacks have never been a very lawful bunch, to begin with. Sirius is the only half-decent one I know. But now, with their openly siding with the Death Eaters, they hardly care to keep up such pretences."

A rope has knotted around my lungs, squeezing, squeezing, until I don't have the breath to get any response out. James seems to understand, head tilted to one side, lashes fluttering on a blink. "You okay?"

I hum my affirmation. "I suppose that does make it easier to wear these clothes."

"That's good." He smiles wryly. "Because they suit you."

"Seems like you have good taste," the observation leaves my lips before I can reign it in or really consider its appropriateness. Face burning under James's unwavering stare, I jump to elaborate, unsure if I even should, but unable to stop myself. "I mean, I'm guessing you're the one who chose, since you got the size right and because of that note, and you've, well, seen me—um—"

I'm certain now. I shouldn't elaborate.

"Actually," he breathes, steps a little closer, voice lowered to a timbre that I feel, irrationally, within me, tingling through my spine. Holding his gaze has my neck craning, heart an erratic beat of muscles. "I'm glad you brought it up. I'd meant to ask you if they fit alright."

"They do," I reply, even though we've already established that. "Of course, they do. You've been seeing me in them for the past two days."

Some light in his eyes darkens, a look so new and intense levelled at me that thrill kisses its path down my arms, hands, fingers, until I feel it buzzing at the very tips of my being. I've surrendered to the need to keep him looking, staring, stripping me bare.

"I haven't," he says, an eternity past, "not in all of it."

And then.

And then.

"You could if you want," I whisper.

A prolonged second of aching silence passes us by. I'm terrified that a boundary has been breached, one I'm meant to regret, should already be regretting, but can't seem to locate the right emotion for. But then James shuts his eyes, air slipping out of him so profoundly that I wonder if he's breathed right before this moment.

"If I want? Fuck," he curses with an unmeditated step forward, hands dragging down his face, gripping his neck. When they open, the hazel of his eyes are little more than slim rings of colour peering into my soul. He burns me, and I should be terrified, but perhaps I'm starved for some kindling. "You're driving me mad."

I don't know what to say.

I don't know what to say.

I don't know what to say.

"James—"

The fabric of space beside his head suddenly compresses, scrunching up like a sheet of wrinkled paper and effectively slaughtering any direction my utterance of his name could have taken. A surprised shriek, wrangled from the depths of my throat, brought on by the split-second confidence that I've lost my sanity, has me falling back against my arms, elbows scrambling to help me stay anchored. But before my body has even had the time to carry out any such movement, Sirius stands in the room before me, the air around him no longer warped.

"Oh God," my voice chokes, hand lifting to press against my chest in an attempt to regulate the madness underneath. "Oh God, what the hell—"

"Fancy seeing you here, Evans."

That he'd all but single-handedly sent me to an early grave with such a dramatic entrance does not seem to faze the man at all, and Sirius saunters forward, gray eyes sharp and amused as he extends a hand to help me sit up properly again. Breath settling down to some semblance of normalcy, I return my gaze to James, who looks altogether unrattled by Sirius's display, leading me to believe that he's accustomed to these unannounced appearances. If anything, I spot a strange mixture of relief and disappointment playing over his features, tensing his jaw. But the moment from earlier has been lost, and I'm unable to decide whether it's for the best or not.

"Do you really just pop around like that all the time?" I grumble, more out of a need to break James's stare than anything else.

Sirius smirks, the sight fitting. "Don't worry, I'd never infringe on your privacy. I'm not interested, and James would likely murder me besides."

"Shut up," James snaps, and he sounds almost angry, a reaction that not only surprises me, but Sirius as well, whose eyebrows fly up instantly at the tone. I can't help but worry that the lash has been brought on, at least in part, by my earlier statement. Perhaps I did push too far. An apology is quick to slip from James's tongue the very next second, his face pulled in obvious regret. "Sorry, just, just some stuff on my mind."

"Right," Sirius mumbles, eyes jumping to me, back to James. I'm struck with the awareness that had anyone else dared take such a tone with him, concern would not be the foremost expression playing on Sirius's face. Certainly not if it had been Peter, who'd undoubtedly dredge up annoyance and anger, but perhaps not even Remus. "Sorry to add to the burden, but I had something to discuss with you."

I quell my curiosity, lift myself from the bed at the unspoken strain in Sirius's voice. "I need to take a shower. I'll see you both later."

"Evans!" I halt at the call of my name, turn around with a crooked brow. Sirius beams, a genuine grin splitting over his face, demanding a reflection of it on my own lips. "It's good to see you on your feet. For real."

Pleased warmth melts over my insides like sweetened honey at the happiness lacing his words; the lilt somehow different from the first time he'd spoken them. Brightness spills across the room, occupies my lungs. I catch James's quiet smile over Sirius's shoulder, and make no effort to hold back my answering grin anymore. "Thanks. It feels good."

And it's not until after I've left the room that the question from earlier distresses me again. If Sirius hadn't appeared as he did, would James have kissed me? Would I have let him?

The answer, it turns out, takes very little prompting to pound resoundingly against the walls of my mind.

It happens again.

I don't understand why.

I don't, I don't—

I don't realize I'm screaming in agony until the door flies open with a loud slam, and the air around me is suddenly being shared by four other pairs of lungs. James barrels forward, his hair a calamity of disarray and legs unsteady in their rush to reach my side, and drops to the bed in front of me. His hands: immediately on my face, thumbs brushing away wetness I don't remember allowing to spill.

"Lily, Lily, Lily," he chants. Fingers comb through my hair, grip my jaw, force my head up until I'm meeting hazel, blazing and steady and utterly terrified. The fact that drawing in oxygen is proving to be a struggle registers only belatedly, a delayed sense of awareness for which I'm distantly grateful. "It's okay. I'm here. We're here. You're safe, alright?"

His words have me glancing towards the doorway. Remus, Sirius and Peter stand, worry etched on faces so glaringly that I must consider the severity of my unstable condition. My hands shake violently.

"I don't know what's happening," the confession aches horridly on its way out of my system, breath shattering and hitching with dry sobs, sounds half-eaten. "I'm losing time again. I don't remember."

James frowns, the crease so deep that it must surely hurt, before the fingers on my jaw travel quietly to fold behind my head, around my neck, pulling me forward until I'm curled right into him. His chest is a wall of solidity my shattered senses crave. I'm swallowing down open-mouthed gulps of air, face pressed into the soft fabric of his shirt, the pleasant musk grounding me. Hands rub over my overly sensitive arms in soothing strokes. A brush of lips on my hairline. "You're okay, you're okay."

"I'll get some water," Peter stammers from a world away.

"Where did you disappear?" James asks, arm crossed over my back, still holding me close. That's good, I think, because he feels more alive than the entirety of this flimsy world; he's the blood that pounds in the lifeless reality.

"I don't know, I—" a stubborn sting in my chest breaks the phrase. "I remember waiting for dinner, and then—"

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

"Why is this happening to me?" I grieve, fingers twisting against his sides, trying to claw through layers in an effort to burrow inside, disappear. "I want it to stop. Please. Make it stop."

"Lily." He sounds anguished, but not half as tortured as me. "It's not you; it's the serums they used. Just...hang in there. I promise it'll stop. I promise. I'm sorry this is happening to you. If I could help in any way, I would, but I'm—I'm fucking useless—"

"James." Remus's voice, used in gentle admonishment, stops him short. "Lily, listen to me."

Everything resisting, everything screaming at being extracted from James, I follow through, dragging my head and eyes up to find a kind blue stare, Remus's lips pulled down at the corners.

"Listen," he repeats, sitting down gingerly at the edge of the bed. I've refused to relinquish my hold on the hand settled underneath mine. It grounds. Soothes. "I know how you feel. I know you think you're alone in this, but you're not."

"What?"

James's touch on my lower back drums uneven, sudden. "Remus—"

"It's okay, I want to," he brushes off the warning tone, looks back at me. My breath stays caught near the jugular, as if unsure which direction to proceed in. It's rather fitting then, considering the fact that I remain unsure of whether I want to hear this or not, too. "I was brought into St. Mungo's shortly after they discovered that I'd been showing signs of mind-reading since I was a kid. They expected that with the proper methods of experimentation, I'd be able to develop the ability, turn it into telepathy." He pauses here, allows the information to sink in, and continues only after I've nodded wretchedly. Turns out, I'd assumed as much. "It didn't work. The more serum they used on me, the fainter my ability grew, until they decided it was gone for good, that I was useless."

"I don't understand." I'm shaking my head. James stays unmoving, the muscles of his neck terse. "How's that possible? You still have your ability."

Remus presses his lips together, a strange sort of shadow flickering over his face.

When the silence that has blanketed the room shatters, it's not from a source I'm expecting. Sirius, stood near the threshold, his arms folded over chest, replies to my question. "There are two kinds of serums the Death Eaters use, Evans. The suppression and the enhancement. The former is something of a weapon. It allows them to snuff out our powers when it best suits their purpose—"

"To gain control," I supply, almost subconsciously, sensations of a wooden table pressed against my skin, of hands pinning me down, playing unwelcomingly in my head. I also see the syringe, the thick white liquid inside.

"Precisely." He nods. "That's how they brought you in, no doubt. The other one—well, it's meant to do the opposite, right? It helps them study the cells that allegedly hold the mutations, bring them to the surface, enhance our powers momentarily. But since they can't administer it without...repercussions, both the serums are used together. At once."

I know this. I know this already because I know it was done to me. I've been there. And yet, the question drops: "Won't the effects just...cancel each other out?"

"No," James intervenes, and I jump slightly at the frostiness of the tone, at the unexpectedness. My eyes shift, find his jaw tense enough to crack at the slightest prompting. He looks down, at our hands, at nothing at all. "The suppression is stronger, which is why the experiments have gone on at the pace that they have. Which is why Voldemort is getting so impatient. And it's also why so many have died; when the abilities are degenerated to such an extent, those with weaker powers, weaker cells just...deteriorate from the inside. If used along with the enhancement serum, the conscious use of power still remains impossible, but it becomes easier for them to study the subjects."

An ache that initiated in the upper of my belly climbs, higher and higher until it's spread over my chest and throat, twisting my mouth; sharp, disgusted. I'm grateful then, more than I could've expected, at the sight of Peter re-entering the room, his face a little ruddy as he clutches a glass of water, the liquid sloshing against its confines.

"I got the water," he announces to the stiffened air, a smile pinched in my direction.

Gratitude tossed quietly, I reach out and take the proffered glass, finding myself thankful more for the excuse to take a break from my whirring thoughts, than out of any actual satiation of thirst. James pulls the empty glass out of my hand once I'm done, passing it back to Peter before his fingers return, tracing silent circles over my knuckles.

The warmth of his skin distracts me until I look at Remus, and then the pillars in my chest are compressing once more.

"How did you survive? I thought you said you couldn't read minds properly, that...that the ability has been weak forever."

A flicker of panic pulls at the edges of his eyes, but then he's drawing in breath, mouth stretching open to reply, and I know—with absolute clarity—that he's been expecting this question, been preparing for what he has to tell me. "I was—am—an anomaly." A blank stare urges him to continue. "Lily, I'm not…I don't just mind-read. My real ability, the stronger one, is something else."

The tension in the room, so palpable that it sits on my tongue. "How's that—is that even possible?"

Remus's smile is humourless. "Isn't supposed to be. But…here I am."

"Okay." Brewing turmoil has me lifting up my free hand, hooking it around the back of my neck. I'm bizarrely surprised to find smooth skin at the touch, as if I'd forgotten the length of my own hair. "Will you tell me what it is?"

The question, though nothing artlessly intrusive, pauses the circles being drawn on my hand. I turn my head, see that James hasn't looked up.

"It's not something…I'm proud of," Remus admits, pulling my gaze back to him. He looks as miserable as he sounds, and a fissure splinters in my heart. "And it's strange—I'm not sure I can explain it right. When they ran the experiments on me, they never found out that I held this second ability. The suppression serum did nothing but wipe out my mind-reading powers, so much so that they had to stop using it on me. Once the serum drained from my body, the powers returned, but by that time, they'd already discarded me as a failed experiment."

I'm licking my lips, mouth gone dry. "Discarded?"

"Just locked me up in a room, permanently."

"Why—" pain bursts over my brows. "Why would they not send you home? That's—"

"Cruel?" His smile is vitriol-laced. "Yeah. It is. They'd already killed my mum by then. So, I had nowhere to return to anyway."

Nothing about his tone has warranted the need for pity—he's narrated the phrase as little more than a fact—and yet, sympathy stirs within me as surely as the blood pumping through veins. "I'm sorry, Remus." I'm exhaling, focusing on that rush of air instead of the stinging in my eyes. "I'm just…I'm really sorry. And you don't need to tell me anything you don't want to. I—I understand. I trust you."

He looks at me, shoulders slumped, but gratitude plain on his face. Behind him, I spot Sirius's softened smile, Peter's rueful gaze. James's touch; feather-light on my hand, as if tracing the very sentiment on skin.

Thank you.

"You're kinder than I expected," Remus says, voice faint. That his eyes flick to James when the assessment leaves his lips sends my pulse fluttering instantly. I wonder, then, what they've discussed about me, what James tells them, how much he deigns to share. And the very next second, I'm burrowed under my own ridicule. Why does my mind refuse to wander from the man next to me? "But I started off telling you this with a point in mind, you know?"

"What?" Curiosity blinks its eyes open again.

"My other ability—I, uh, I can't control that either. I can't use it, can't call it forth at will, and, to put it simply, I rather hate it."

"Oh," I whisper, forcing my eyes to not rove over the scars on his face.

Remus nods, though at what, I fail to understand. "Before I was taken by the Death Eaters, this ability would…take over me during a very specific time each month, and all I had to do was prepare for it. But once they started experimenting on me—" he suddenly stops, a flush creeping visibly over neck and cheeks. The reaction, so unexpected, has my fingers pressing into James's thigh with anticipation. "I realized that the suppression serum was keeping this other ability away too. So, I—I—"

"You let them continue," I answer, certain that shame is what leeches the life from his eyes.

"Worse," Remus confesses, breathes through his mouth. "I started injecting myself with them when they stopped."

Perhaps he expects some damnation at my hands, a sort of retribution that will bring him peace if I scorn him for his weakness. But perhaps I'm weaker than him, for I can dredge up no other emotion but sadness at his words. It must be something truly terrible that he lives with, something I'm not certain I can bear to know. "What happened when they locked you away?"

"Nothing. Not at first, at least. My memories had turned hazy by then, so I almost didn't even remember why I wanted the serum, only that I did." He cards a hand through his scalp, hair a deep brown in the dark blanket of night. "But as it wore off with time, my memories started returning—"

"How much time?" I'm blurting before I can stop myself.

Weak.

Weak.

Remus sighs, apology in his eyes. "I'm not sure, but—several weeks, at least, before I could remember everything. And, Lily, you've been…I mean, you've been under much longer than I have, with absolutely no breaks in observation."

"Right." A stone has lodged in my throat. "Yeah."

"You have us," says James, voice quiet but firm next to me. A tilt of my head reveals that he's staring at me, so deep, just so much. I can barely get my lungs to work. "You'll get past this. We'll help you."

"James is right," Remus smiles, the first real one tonight. "I want you to understand that whatever is happening to you is normal. It's happened to me too, just—at a scale much lower. But that doesn't make you insane, Lily. As soon as the serum wears off a considerable amount, you'll stop losing time."

The confidence he exudes is a beacon of hope. I cling onto it, desperate, manage nothing more than a jerky nod.

Words, foregone for the silence stretching across the room, seem inadequate to express what I feel in this moment.

A hand in my hair, ruffling up the short strands, has me glancing up again, finding Sirius grinning at me, gray eyes kind, even when tinged with the ever-present glint of tease. "Best get to sleep now, Evans. Or soon you'll be wobbling and falling into us again. You're mighty heavy, I'll have you know."

Despite all attempts to hold it, a huff of watery laughter breezes through my open mouth, prompts a shake of the head. "You're right. I should—" I stop, frown, gaze revolving around the room. "Hey, where did Peter go?"

James and Remus look up and around at the question, but it's Sirius who answers, shrug stiff and unbothered. "Hell if I know," he says, and sounds entirely honest. "Crying women make him uncomfortable."

"I wasn't crying!"

"You were about to; we could all sense it! And then you'd have us sitting in a circle and talking about our feelings and everything."

"Shut up," I laugh, vindicated when Remus shoves Sirius away from the bed with a chuckle. "Get out, get out."

The three of them mutter their goodnights, making to leave the room. The fingers that had been splayed over my own drag away with the lightest touch. And suddenly, strange fear clamps around my chest, unbidden. Before I've had a chance to debate the action, I'm reaching out, hand curling over James's sleeve, around his elbow.

"Hey." My voice comes out in a whisper when he turns, heartbeats stuttering behind my rib-cage. "Will you stay?"

"Yeah, sure," he agrees, sitting back down, eyes never travelling to the doorway, never leaving my face. In his stead, I watch as Sirius and Remus pause for a second, a look silent and knowing passing between them before they leave the room, door closing shut. "What is it? You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just—" It's a tremendous effort to keep looking at him as the words crack in the space between us. "Will you stay here with me?"

"What?" His chest expands, breathing in, in, in. A hand jumps to his hair, like I've learnt it's wont to do. "Here? You mean, stay with you in your room?"

"Just for tonight." The heat on my face burns so high that I know I'm aflame from the inside. And within the abashment, a niggling sense of doubt: am I crossing a line? Is he uncomfortable? "Only if you're okay with it. I'm just not sure if I can be alone—"

"Okay."

"What?" My body bows forward, even though I'm certain I caught the word as it left his lips.

"Okay," James sighs, smiles. "I'll stay with you. You didn't honestly expect me to refuse, anyway."

No, I—

He's right. I didn't.

"Thank you."

My arms bear the brunt of my weight as I drag myself back on the bed, against the headboard, legs stretched out straight over the covers. James gets up, and I'm scrambling to shift aside for him, but he simply moves over to the window, hand falling upon the chair that sits nearby.

"What are you doing?"

"What?" He turns to look at me, brows stitched in genuine confusion. Hazel eyes flick back and forth between the bed and the chair. "I'm…sitting down?"

The sheets twist under me as I turn on my side, amused. "Why?"

"Because…you asked me to?"

"No." My teeth sink over lip, try to bite away the grin that spills. "I asked you to stay with me. Not sit beside my bed like a sentinel and watch me sleep."

He stares. "I don't mind."

"Well, I do! I'm not going to make you sit on a chair the whole night and stare at me like a creep, James. Will you just—" The sentence dissolves in my mouth as I blow out a frustrated breath, fingers clumsy as they tug on the covers under my hip, struggle to pull them out and over me instead. Once I've succeeded, I pat the space next to me, vacated consciously. "You can sleep here."

I don't know what about my casually dropped offer bothers him, but James continues to stare, tension pronounced between brows, written plainly over every visible muscle. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

His voice, a low timbre, sends the muscles of my abdomen clenching. Still, I blink, feel the pillow, cool and soft against the flush of my cheek. "Why not? Sounds reasonable to me."

But reason hardly registers in his mind. I watch, breath stolen from lungs, as his eyes take an acutely slow path as they travel over the length of me, so obvious that I have to consider that he's not even trying to hide it. "I really—" indecision coats his tongue, "shouldn't."

"God, Potter," I remark, not nearly as unaffected as I'd like to be. It's simple, very simple: he affects me, completely. "I won't bite. I won't even touch, if that's what you want."

My unnecessary addition at the end doesn't pass by unnoticed, and James looks at my face again, gaze sharp and dark. "If I want?"

It feels quite akin to being devoured wholly, but I find the sense to shrug, as if unaware of what he's recalling, as if caught in no moment but this one. "Whatever you want."

"If you stop saying such things, I'll sleep there," he says, groans, and beneath the covers, my thighs are pressing together, allaying a new sort of ache building between them.

"And if I don't?"

The grip of his fingers on the chair, so insistent that his knuckles have turned white. "I'm not sure I want to find out."

I don't say anything to that, can't say anything to that, so my palm quietly drags over the bed again, patient as it returns to my side, moves to join my other hand beneath the warmth of my face. It's impossible to decipher what answer James makes of that silence, but he walks over nonetheless, slipping under the covers. The bed, ideally meant for one person, whines gently as he settles down, makes himself comfortable.

Being almost twice my size, James takes up over half the space we're granted. But I don't mind. I can smell him, and see him, and cherish the heat that blankets over us.

Then he turns to face me.

And suddenly, he's close. So, so close. A spark pricks my fingertips. I want to reach out and touch him, feel the fabric of his shirt. But I said I wouldn't.

I'm a fool.

"Hi," he whispers.

There's no smile on his lips, so I don't know why there's one on mine. "Hey."

"Thank you." I don't respond, wait for him to elaborate. "For not pushing Remus to reveal everything. Don't think that I didn't notice you not demanding the rest of the information. You could've. I really think he would've told you, too. And I know there are things you still want answers to, about him, but—"

"But it's not fair," my voice is soft enough to match his. There's no need for it—no one else occupies the room—but a volume louder feels inappropriate, somehow. I don't understand it. I don't think I'm supposed to. "I could sense that he didn't want to talk about it. And unless there's a dying need for it, I don't want to be the cause of such misery for anyone."

His frown is immediate. "I told you, you're not—"

"Yeah, yeah, okay." I roll my eyes, lips pulled up as he huffs petulantly, but falls silent again. For a few moments, I do nothing but bathe in his untiring gaze on me, returning it with my own. It feels as if he's here, right next to me, and also not. "James?"

"Mm?"

"I'm scared."

He blinks, expression unchanged even as I feel his fingers ghost over my arm under the covers. "I know."

"I'm scared I'll forget this. That I've already forgotten things I've relearnt. Will you promise to tell me if I no longer remember something important?"

A pain-like emotion flashes over his eyes, quick and there, before it isn't. "I promise," he breathes. "That's what I'm here for."

I'm nodding, chin tucked against blanket. "I feel safer with you." The confession drops, near-silent, too vulnerable. I'm red raw and thrumming. "Is that okay?"

He nods too, eyes like dying sun. "That's okay."

Peace has suffused my insides, allowed me to shut my eyes, a long, pent-up breath escaping. "Goodnight, James."

I'm half-under when the response floats over. "Goodnight, Lily."

When the sound breaks through my senses, stabs at all the things that hold me together, I think I understand suffering, truly recognize it, for the very first time.

It's a cry of agony, a tortured plea for forgiveness, and it rattles me to my bones even in the arms of subconscious awareness.

But then, warm, sticky skin thrashes against me, shakes the bed I lie on, and I realize that this nightmare isn't my own.

A harrowed gulp of air has me sitting up, heart pounding as I grapple with reality. I'm clutching onto the half-second of respite I allow myself before I've turned around, eyes trained on the figure in my bed. James's evident anguish has twisted the sheets around his legs, haphazard, the skin of his forehead and neck glistening with anxious sweat. Lines of unbridled tension pull at his jaw, scrunch around his eyes, distress like I've never seen playing out abhorrently on his face. Discarded glasses lie beside his head, making him look young, too young for whatever haunts his mind behind closed eyelids.

I'm still breathing hard, unable to look away, when he groans again, the sound so tormented that I'm carved up from within.

It feels, in that moment, impossible to imagine the existence of a worse sound in this universe.

"I'm sorry," he grits through clenched teeth, head pushed to the side, the muscle in his neck an angry throb. "I'm sorry, please, I didn't mean to—"

Desperation blinds me, and I'm reaching forward to hold his arm. The skin under mine feels clammy, stress strung across his every nerve. "James, wake up! You're having a nightmare."

But I'm unable to reach him, instead exposed to another broken cry. "Let them go! Let her—let her go—I'm sorry—"

I cannot take a second more of this.

A stuttering breath rushes out of my lips as I clamber over the distance separating us. My palms are immediately upon James's face, sliding around his head, holding him steady, thumbs dedicated in their task of smoothing over the sorrow creasing his brows. "James! Wake up, please. You're okay, it's just a nightmare!"

Despite the vehemence of my voice, I'm not prepared for the sudden flash of his eyes as they open to the world, nor the way they widen at the sight of me. "Lily," he chokes, chest expanding against the back of my arm as if he attempts to pull in all the air at once. Moisture has gathered in his eyes, clumped his lashes together. I'm drowning, my heart cracked open, emotions spilling. "Lily."

"Yeah, it's me." I nod, everything aching, hollow. His face remains burning under my touch. "Everything's okay. You were just—"

I don't understand what happens.

The room abruptly spins, my body pressed to the mattress so that I'm no longer facing the bed, but rather the ceiling, moonlight climbing over walls. My fingers, tracing James's temples and jaw only a moment ago, now find themselves trapped between our bodies, caught tangled in the front of his shirt. There are hands gripping my face, tilting it up and open, as if searching for the very source of me, and James…he's—

James is kissing me.

He's kissing me like I'm as essential as the air he draws in, like he's been promptly consumed by the need, tossed beyond logic or thought or reason. I've stilled under his touch, shock freezing my limbs, mind slow in its adjustment to the sparks that erupt everywhere, all at once, until I'm alight, alive, separate and gone from this body.

I am just a feeling that burns.

But when James's lips glide over mine for the third time, the press entirely unforgiving and indelicate, I'm crashing back inside, flesh greedy and mouth hungry, eyes closing to savour. I sigh a moan, empty it into him, grant my hands the freedom to slide over his shoulders and around the back of his neck, into his hair. The sweat that clings to his skin is a strange incentive, but it drives me insane; I'm pulling him closer, arching brazenly to feel the solid weight of him, the heat I've craved. He parts my lips open, dips his tongue inside, and I let him, I taste him, I lose myself.

Wonderfully.

The smell of him is everywhere; around, above, inside, and I've forgotten where he ends and where I begin. James brushes his hips over mine, low, and a gasp is torn from my mouth; a groan from his.

"Lily," he says, my name foreign to my own ears, having never sounded better. I'm not sure the actions are conscious, but suddenly, I find that my hand has crawled under his shirt and made a home in the scorching warmth of his back, broad and comforting, and fuck—I ache.

When he returns the favour by splaying fingers under the loose cotton of my t-shirt, over my stomach, I'm shifting, impatient. But he just kisses me, and kisses me, and kisses me. I lick his lip, tug angrily at the hair sifting like liquid between my fingers, and then he's finally moving, brushing his knuckles over my breast. Eyes snapped open, I break away, panting, no longer remembering how breathing works.

James drops his head to my neck, a flick of his tongue over that fluttering pulse, and I'm unraveling.

Unraveled.

"Fuck, fuck—" he curses, even though I'm the one who rightfully should. His thumb presses down over a pebbled nipple, and a rush of heat gathers in my knickers, my head dropping back onto the pillow, eyes squeezed shut once more.

But he's quickly pulling me up again, unhappy with this. His free hand disappears into the short length of my hair, spans the entirety of the back of my head, and his lips have just returned to mine when—

When James jumps back, so violently that the bed rattles in protest.

My eyes are embarrassingly sluggish in their reopening, body still caught up in the cocoon of heat he's wrenched away now. But I eventually manage, look up to find him staring at me, mouth agape and eyes wide with disbelief apparent. I clamber up on my elbows, neck flushed, ears hot, sounds muffled under the pounding of my own heart. I see him, see the length of him in his trousers; so hard that it must be torture, and laboured breaths puff out my mouth.

"James—"

"I'm sorry," he's gasping, and I immediately don't want to hear the rest. A step back, then another. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have, I can't—"

"Wait, I'm—"

But he doesn't wait, doesn't look back at all. In the time that it takes me to blink again, James has wrenched open the door and left the room, left me alone in my bed, wrapped in cold sheets and memories that I don't know what to do with.

I lie there, dread a sludge in my stomach, and wonder if I've dreamt it all. But the ache persisting in my chest, lower still, gives me my answer.

And without thinking, I know where it went wrong.

He'd felt the wound behind my head.

A/N - I'm greedy for reviews, so please, please leave me some. Also, this chapter fought me a LOT, so I'm glad it's finally out here! Thanks for reading! Love you guys xx