Retribution

Chapter 6

Won't You Look at Me?

A/N - Bucketloads of thanks to writtenbyfreckles for being such a phenomenal beta! Also, for the first time, I think the chapter has more answers than questions!

He's avoiding me.

A fact so simple and small. One I'd already expected to encounter as I'd laid in bed for hours after, still hits me with a slam that knocks the wind out of my lungs. With the early rays of morning light breaking through my window, I'd pushed off the covers and taken a determined path to James's room, only to find the space empty, bed untouched. After pathetically awaiting his return for several minutes—to no avail—all I'd accomplished in doing was procuring an unhealthy bout of bitter insecurity.

That first plunge of disappointment had transpired over four hours ago.

Now, as I sit around the table in the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand, thoughts of lips and warm fingers and low groans in mind, I'm presented the second.

Sirius strolls in, eyes bleary as he grunts an acknowledgement in my direction, the dark waterfall of his hair uncombed for once. It's something of a relief to know that his jarring beauty is not as effortless as he makes it seem. A hum caught between his lips, he picks up an apple from the fruit bowl, and all but falls into the chair across from me, his yawn loud and untempered.

"So." He takes a noisy bite, feet kicked up on an empty chair, voice deceptively flat considering what follows. "You and James, huh?"

My fingers jolt on the cup so forcefully that tea sloshes over the rim, scalding the skin on my knuckles. "Fuck," I hiss through clenched teeth, shake it off rapidly. Heart pounding, I look up at Sirius, find his face pulled into a strange mixture of amused regret. "What the fuck?! How do you already know?"

He's immensley pleased at the reaction, gray eyes wide with delight, and I know, immediately, that I've played right into his hands.

"How do I already know what?"

"Shit." My thighs slide down the wood of the chair, my head tossed back as a tormented noise of frustration breaks forth. The beginnings of an unrelenting thud on the walls of my skull have me reaching up to rub the pain away with tensed fingers. "Please, just—let it go. I'd rather talk to James first."

A sigh, heavy and slow, graces my ears, and I feel a hand cover mine where they rest atop the table. "Evans, you have to know—" says Sirius, voice solemn. "I'm a very nosy bloke."

I instantly jerk my hand away with a loud groan, and he sniggers without remorse. "I'm not telling you."

"Not even if I can give you answers that he won't?"

The alarming pace at which curiosity zaps through my spine feels pathetic, predictable, but my starvation knows no bounds. When my eyes narrow into a glare, mouth twisted, an unsavoury taste coating my tongue, Sirius grins, basks in the victory I don't need to openly give him.

"That's not fair." I dig my nails into the table. "And how can I even trust you? What if you don't tell me? You're mad, all of you, in your insistence that I shouldn't know things for my own good."

"Not me, darling." Sirius smiles, his expression something wolfish. His hands gently push forward the teacup getting cold; a silent prompt for me to drink. It's not until I've taken a belligerent sip that he continues. "Honestly, I'm all for you knowing things. Here, I'll prove it to you: you ask me three questions, any three questions, and I'll give you the answers, if I have them. In exchange, you tell me what's happened to put you in such a mood. Deal?"

My nerves are nothing but thrums of anticipation, greed like I've never known twisting my insides to the point of agony. The offer he's extended has made insanity crawl up my skin, heart and blood, until I can't think at all, mind suddenly blank. It's as if all the questions that had been buzzing beneath the surface have been freed from their cage, and the inevitable collision has turned my thoughts indecipherable. It doesn't matter though.

It doesn't matter.

I am hunger, and I will gorge.

"You're serious?" My voice comes out unsteady, terrified that a decibel louder will give him the sense to reconsider; to change his mind.

But he smirks, right arm folding until he's got his elbow resting on the back of the chair. "The one and only."

"Alright." I'm rubbing my lips together, nodding my head, no idea what I'm agreeing to, but that's the point. "Alright, you have a deal."

Sirius winks, genuinely pleased, and takes a bite of his apple. "That's the spirit. Go on then, make your first wish."

Without warning, my thoughts stutter, clumsy and stumbling as they take his words and draw a connection from some place I don't recall. My mouth opens to a rush of inhale, brows pulling as I understand the reference, appreciate it, like it. And yet, the fact that I remember a story ingrained during my childhood, but neither the circumstance nor the source of such narration, leaves me feeling strangely bereft. Of what, I do not know.

I'm just...hollow; missing from my own self.

"Evans?" A tinkle of a sound emanates when Sirius gently taps against my teacup, and I look up to find concern lining the gray of his eyes. "Are you… having one of your memory loss episodes again?"

I pinch my lips together, surprised, as always, at the amusement he's able to draw from me even in such moments. "Episodes?" I huff a laugh, watch as he looks on uncertainly, as if unsure still as to whether the danger has truly passed. "No, I'm not having an episode right now, Sirius. I'm sitting here, awake, talking to you. It only happens when I'm asleep. Or, well, after I've woken up, I suppose."

"Hey, now. Don't go judging a bloke for not knowing the creepy fucking details."

I suppose he's got a point.

"Okay, so…" The tea has cooled considerably against my lips on my next sip. I set down the cup. "Do you or Remus or Peter know me from before?"

Sirius tilts his head, expression blank. "No."

"Then how do you know—"

"Let me stop you there. Is that your second question?"

Annoyance flares, quick and strong, and I'm unable to keep the expression off my face. His lips pull in, amused. "That's not—you didn't even give me anything worthwhile. It's just clarification for the first question!"

"You're such an amateur, Evans." He shakes his head, looks at me like I've disappointed him with my foolishness. "Fine, I'll let it go this time. You can have an extra question. But you better phrase your remaining two properly. You ask me something that can be answered with a single word, then that's what you'll get."

Fuck you, sits on my tongue, burns in my eyes. But I smile stiffly, and say, "okay."

Sirius swipes fingers over his mouth, as if trying to wipe the laughter that shines on his face like a beacon. "We don't know you from before," he starts, and my irritation is quick to disappear into the morning air. "But we knew of you, from James, and... from St. Mungo's. You were a bit of a celebrity back there, what with having been under observation for the longest time without turning to dust and everything. Anyway, I'm sure you don't care for information on how all of us other volunteers and captives were hoping you'd die because then that would bring an end to the progress—however little—that Voldemort was making."

I've lost the ability to express disgust with words; lips parted open, eyes wide.

"Oh, don't look like that. I like you plenty well now."

My lungs compress. "Thanks, I guess."

"Anytime." Sirius nods, done with his apple. The core rolls twice over the table when he tosses it there. "So, yeah, didn't get much chance to interact with you, given they had us all strung up on wires most of the time, especially you. At least we got breaks and food. That's how the rest of us met; in Mungo's. Except James and I, of course. We've known each other for a while now, for about four years, in fact. Before all this started, our stupidly rich families threw us together a lot. Same crowd and all that crap."

My skin feels abuzz with excitement unfounded. Insignificant though most of his words may be, I lap it all up eagerly, blinking in surprise.

I haven't realized until this moment that Sirius meant what he'd said; he doesn't mind telling me things.

"You've got a bit of a crazy look in your eyes, just by the way."

"Sorry." I try to school my expression. Fail. "So, is that why you saved me from St. Mungo's? So that Voldemort couldn't continue his experiments?"

Sirius opens his mouth to reply, but stops with narrowed eyes. "Is that your second question?"

The pinch of my lips gives away the fact that I'd been expecting him not to remember. When he remains unrelenting, I nod, unsure as to why the answer to this question feels important to me. "Yeah, alright. It's my second."

"I'd say the answer to that is both yes and no," he muses, fingers pale and long combing through the silk of his hair. "We'd been planning that escape for months, and James wouldn't leave without you. We agreed to it, of course we did—would've done even if Voldemort didn't need you, but the added incentive certainly helped."

I blow out a breath, try to control the warmth enflaming my face. "James wouldn't leave without me?"

"Yeah, he's pathetically gone over you. Gonna get us killed one of these days. And let me tell you—I wasn't all too keen on that idea when I didn't even know you." He knots his hair into a bun; ignorant, entirely, of the significance of what he's said, what the effect of those words is on my thin-skinned emotions, my exposed heart. He looks at me after the prolonged silence, finally spots an expression I cannot dare to describe, and bursts out laughing. "Come on. Come on. You had to know, Evans. You can't—fucking hell, you really didn't know? Did you think he goes bleeding his heart dry like that for every bird who faces the mildest discomfort?"

"First, it wasn't a mild discomfort." I glare, try to hide the alarming cadence my heart has assumed. "Second, I just—well, I thought he was simply worried because he knew me when we were kids, and because he's… nice."

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Sure, all of that, yeah. But he's also a bloke."

I'm not sure what he means by that, or more accurately, I don't want to be conceited enough to presume. The very next instant, I'm being submerged under memories of warm lips on mine, of fingers lighting up my skin, and I suppose some presumptions are earned.

But if Sirius's confidence is to be trusted, if my own observations are to be trusted, then… why did he leave?

I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have, I can't—

The teacup rattles as I push it away, elbows planted on the table, fingers dragging through scalp. "Fuck, everything is so confusing!"

A chair scrapes noisily; Sirius's voice tight when he speaks. "Calm down. Don't make me regret this."

"No, no, it's not—" I shake my head, look up. "I'm fine."

He's unconvinced. "Didn't expect you'd go off the fucking deep end at hearing something so obvious."

"I'm not—"

"Morning!"

Urgent fingers clamp around my knuckles; the grip so tight that an unbidden yelp sits on the tip of my tongue, presses against the walls of my closed lips. The grimace of discomfort takes effort to control as I smile at Remus, his sudden appearance in the kitchen having roused the tension in Sirius's muscles. My expression must not be too unconvincing, for Remus barely spares me a pleasant nod, walking off towards the counter to prepare his breakfast. With his back facing us now, I shift my gaze, no pretence in the glare I throw Sirius.

"Ouch!" my breath hisses as I snatch back my hand from under his.

He's not nearly as contrite as I wish he'd be, and simply bends his head lower, voice so quiet that I'm unhelpfully scrunching my face to catch the words. "Don't think about it."

What?

"What?"

Gray eyes swivel, head jerks back the smallest distance, and I follow the movement to find Remus still turned away. "Don't. Think about it."

Understanding has my head nodding. "Okay."

"What're you two whispering about?"

"Not a thing!" My smile feels unnaturally held on my face as I lock gaze with Remus. It could be because I know it to be unnatural, but even as he takes a sip of the coffee he's concocted, silent scepticism flies over his face. "We're just talking about clothes."

The lie forces me to shift my thoughts in the same direction. I focus; I think of the jeans I wear, the black of my top, the thin material of my cardigan.

I think of the person to thank for all these things.

And then I panic.

It takes about two seconds for Remus's eyes to widen, another for him to slam his mug down onto the counter behind him, the sound loud enough to send every cell inside me wincing in alarm. "What?! You're not supposed to be talking about—"

"I'm sorry!" I groan, look at Sirius morosely. His mouth has curled; displeasure evident. "I tried, okay? I swear I was thinking about clothes, but then—"

"You?" Remus crosses his arms, the sharp inflexion cutting me off mid-explanation. "No, no. It's all on Sirius. I—uh, wouldn't invade your privacy like that, Lily."

"Oh." Gratitude blooms in my chest, and with it, a good dose of guilt.

But Sirius has twisted in his chair, antagonism drawn over every muscle. "Oh, but you don't mind invading mine?"

"Mate, I've told you before. You've got to stop screaming every thought inside your head if you want me to refrain. Besides, how is this any different from you constantly popping around the house any time you please now that you've got the hang of your powers again?" Sirius's jaw shifts, like he's about to reply, but Remus hurries on, following some persisting train of thought now. "No, seriously, where's the propriety in this house? The other day you landed in my bathroom, Sirius. In my bathroom!"

"Hey, that was a mistake! I told you already. I meant to go to my room, but teleported one wall over!"

"I don't care! You need to walk like a normal person! There's you with all your flashing around, Peter with all his sudden disappearances, and James—"

Sirius tilts his head. "James doesn't do anything."

I'm silently grasping onto the information, tucking it inside; greedy.

"No, he only keeps his door wide open while changing." Remus rolls his eyes. "I still wish one of us had the ability to wipe away memories."

From an unexpected corner of my mind, James's voice rings out: "I'm decent!"

Laughter bubbles up my chest, caught in the throat for half a second before rushing out noisily into the kitchen, Remus's annoyance swallowed up by the sound. Both men turn surprised glances to me, as if having forgotten my presence. I can do little more than laugh louder.

"Something you wanna share, Evans?" Sirius's eyes glint.

A hand pressed to stomach, face warm with laughter, I shake my head. "You're the one meant to be sharing."

"No." Remus frowns. "You're not supposed to—"

"Oh, give it a rest. Evans is fine. We made a deal."

"Yes, and I'm still owed one more answer."

"But—"

"Remus, please." I mean for the request to sound light, something exaggerated, evidently made to convince him. But what comes out is a sincere plea, voice more solemn than anticipated, and it does the task a little too effectively. His brows stitch, hesitation crumpling like sand, only to be replaced by sympathy.

"Oh, alright!" A pull of the chair and then he's joined us around the table. "But I'm sitting right here to make sure nothing too jarring comes out. I don't trust Sirius to keep his mouth shut at the best of times."

"Fair." Shrugs the accused.

"Okay." Feeling a strange pressure around my throat, I unload some of the tension through a prolonged exhale. A glance up; Remus and Sirius look on, patient. "Okay. Do either of you know what a Tuney is?"

Sirius's brows furrow, handsome face contorted in confusion; the first time I've seen the expression on him. "A what?"

"A Tuney," I repeat, hoping the haunted memories of the carving I'd felt against the pads of my fingertips haven't disfigured over time. As bizarre as it is for me to hold onto details from dreams—nightmares—so firmly, I've found that time doesn't dull any images that play out behind my eyelids. "It—it might even be a name, I don't know."

The bewildered pull of Sirius's mouth doesn't shift, but he exchanges a look with Remus, who shrugs in return. "Never heard of a Tuney," I'm told after several seconds of silence, a time by which I've already figured that they aren't putting on an act for my benefit.

"Oh." I glide my thumb over my bottom lip, worry over a bit of pealing skin. "Alright."

"Why ask—that?"

Tension knots at the base of my spine, but I rub my eyes, try to look unruffled. "Nothing. I just thought I heard the word in passing. Must've been something else. Forget it."

Quite surprisingly, it's Remus who reaches across the table, his hand a comforting squeeze over my arm. "Ask another, Lily."

I smile, grateful for the compassion. The awareness that this is the last question I have knocks incessantly around in my mind, and I'm buckling forward with the pressure of picking one now that the previous one sitting on my tongue has gone unanswered. I look up, find something akin to apprehension floating in Remus's eyes. Sirius, in laughable contrast, looks almost excited.

And from seemingly nowhere, another memory resurfaces. One just as sinister, though considerably more muddled: cold, jagged frost erupting over the walls of a large, bleak room; a shout of desperation; the tightening of someone's grip around me.

"The ice," I whisper, flit my gaze between the two men in front of me. My fingers quake with anticipation. "Does Voldemort have the ability to use ice?"

The way Sirius's face darkens before I've even finished the question sends dread crawling up my insides, hooking onto my lungs, tainting the very air I breathe.

"Not Voldemort," he says, practically spits, and only complete shock keeps me from jolting back at the venom.

Remus seems to notice the way my eyes have widened, for his palm falls onto Sirius's shoulder, the grip tight enough that I know it to be a silent admonishment.

Sirius breathes out a heavy sigh, recollects himself. "Not Voldemort. It's someone named Severus Snape. He's one of Voldemort's right-hand men, ready to do his bidding at the first chance." His jaw clenches, and as if unable to help himself, the addition follows, "He's a fucking bastard."

I don't need to be told this.

At the very first utterance of that name, I was no longer sitting on a chair in a sun-lit kitchen; I was back in a sight-less experience, limbs stretched, pain clouding everything but a conversation between people I didn't know.

But now—now I know.

"Voldemort's power is darkness."

My gaze shoots to Remus, the quietly offered words bringing me out of the nightmare I'd been captured in again. "Darkness?" I lean forward, one hand wrapped around my neck. "What's—what does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," he says, solemn, vitriol spilling from his lips like black ink. "It's worse than any physical pain. It's like it enters inside your body, turns everything numb, until you can't see or hear or feel anything at all." Remus's fist curls against the table, as if holding onto an anchor I can't see. "With extended exposure, it can drive you insane, right before sucking out your life."

My hand has fallen from my throat, arms wrapped against the ache in my stomach. I'm swallowing down bile, fighting the chill coating my veins. "So, he can just—kill with his power?"

Sirius looks at me straight. "He has killed with his power."

And then, I don't understand what forces the words out from my mouth, but they appear, whispered and cracking. "Is that what James fears? That he'll find us?"

The reaction is instantaneous: both of them lurch forward, Sirius's gray eyes practically accusing as they bore into me, reminding me of how he's still firmly protective of James despite any recent easiness he's let creep into our interactions. "Why would you ask that? Specifically about James?"

I'm not quick enough to give them anything but the truth. "He…um, he has nightmares, doesn't he? I saw last night, when he stayed back."

"He slept with you?" Sirius's jaw hangs.

"What did he say, exactly?" Remus asks, face troubled.

I've lost all certainty that telling them about this had been the right thing to do. I wonder, distractedly, how convenient it would be to discover that I can alter time, that I can go back and stay silent.

"Nothing specific," I say, try to sound placating. "I didn't understand most of it, to be honest. He was… upset. Saying something about not wanting them to get hurt." My mouth closes shut at that, unable to add the her he'd also cried out for. I don't know why I don't mention it, but there's a large part of me that seems to cringe away from any possible knowledge of James caring for another woman. Any woman. "It's about Voldemort, isn't it? He's afraid he'll find us and hurt us like—like others have been hurt before?"

But something has altered in the air; a tension befalling that I hadn't anticipated from such a question. All easy interest has been wiped clean from Sirius's face, turned his sharp features stony. Remus, at least, looks more concerned than angry, a comfort that I clutch onto with both hands.

"You've used up all your questions, Evans," Sirius says, leans back again, stare unrelenting. "Now you tell us what happened. Deal's a deal."

I swallow, letting disappointment slide down my throat. It's not really settled, until this moment, what exactly I've offered them in return for honest answers. Despite all that I've learnt over the past several minutes, my chest still rattles in protest, entirely unwilling to divulge what I'd shared with James in the darkness of the night. Especially not when I recall the dramatic cry of disbelief Sirius had let out when I'd revealed that James had slept over in my room.

I can't do it. Not until I've spoken to him.

But it's unfair of me to only demand and never provide, so I decide on a half-truth.

"We were sleeping, and then he was suddenly having a nightmare, which woke me up." My eyes slide to the table, unable to keep looking at them. "I tried to shake him out of it, but he was—he was in deep, and he looked tormented. I can't—I can't describe it, it just felt like he was in a lot of pain. But I kept at it until he woke up. And then—"

"And then?" Sirius's voice prompts.

"He saw me, and he—I don't know, God, he was just really upset. When he looked at me, there was this desperation on his face that I didn't understand. That I still don't understand. He left before I could find out."

"Left?" Remus's quiet tone has me looking up, finding two sets of dubious brows cocked at me. "What do you mean by left?"

"I don't know! He just got up, apologized, and bolted from there before I could say a word. I tried to talk to him earlier in the morning, but he wasn't in his room."

"Fuck." Sirius combs a hand through his hair, the movement rougher than I've ever seen. "Fuck, this sounds bad. I need to talk to him." Before I've even had the chance to blink my eyes, he's already up from his chair, ready to leave. And I know with certainty that he's about to teleport away when he stops to stare at me for a second, the gray of his eyes a little softer now. "I know you're confused, Evans, but I think it's best if you give him some space for a while. And remember what I said before—don't pry into everything so relentlessly."

"…you're better off not knowing some answers," I parrot into the silent air after he disappears.

"He's right, you know," Remus says, eyes as kind as ever, as knowing as ever. It's perhaps more than a little naïve to believe that he doesn't breach the boundaries of my mind to take a look inside simply because he's told me so. From my limited experience of this world, I know that humans are seldom as respectful as he seems to be.

And yet, I believe him.

A sigh heavy and exhausted filters out my mouth, and I drop my head onto my palms. "I know. I just—"

"It's difficult, I understand." A pained pause follows. "Just give it some time."

"Yeah." I nod, push away from the table. "Yeah, I'll just go lie down for a while. I need to think."

"Of course."

Feeling a strange uneasiness bubbling in the pit of my stomach, I make my way out of the kitchen. But it's only as I'm crossing the threshold that Peter walks down the staircase, heading towards a room further down the hall. I watch quietly, some inexplicable awareness tingling at the back of my mind, but unable to put a finger on it. The very next second, light blue eyes catch mine across the living room, and he freezes for a beat before smiling tightly, throwing me a short wave.

"Morning, Lily." I smile back; wave back. He hooks a thumb behind his shoulder. "Just went upstairs to find James. But looks like he isn't in his room."

"Yeah, I don't think he's home."

The word home has left my lips before I've had the chance to think through its usage. Peter nods easily, walks away, but I'm still left standing, wondering how this large house with four strangers, in an otherwise terrible world, has turned into a place I can call home; one that, by definition, should mean that I share with my family.

A family, as it turns out, that I still know nothing about.

I twist on my feet, find Remus, the mug of coffee back in his hands, already staring at me. I suppose that's to be expected, given my sudden halt near the door. "Earlier—you said something about Peter."

He tilts his head, miraculously not thrown off by the question. "What?"

"You said that he keeps disappearing all the time." I press my lips; don't miss the way his eyes widen infinitesimally. My heart is a strange quiver of anticipation and... something else. "What did you mean by that? He can't—he can't just disappear at will." A swallow. "Can he?"

He's clutching the mug, mouth parted slightly, eyes stuck on me like we're frozen in time. Then, after several long silence-abundant seconds, he breaks, a mixture between a sigh and groan filling up the kitchen as he looks up at the ceiling. "God, how does this always happen? We're too careless and you—you're too observant."

I bite my lip, curl my toes against the cool floor. "I'm taking that as a yes."

Remus waves a hand. "Yeah, he can become invisible."

My fingertips buzz as I'm transported back several days, sat on my bed in a blood-coated dress, body frail and raw under the dim light of the moon filtering into the room; into the empty room. Until it suddenly isn't; filled, instead, by Peter's cautious words and uncomfortable presence.

He'd been there then. Watching me. Observing me. Seeing me lose my mind.

And I realize, now, that the buzzing of my skin doesn't resemble the excitement that I'd felt, despite any overwhelming fear or daunting, when James had told me about Sirius's ability all those days ago. Learning that Peter is capable of being in any place, at any time, without alerting those around him, nonsensically makes my insides coil.

"Oh, that's—" my fingers brush down the denim of my jeans. "Cool."

Remus frowns, not fooled, and I wonder—despite myself—if he sees the apprehension on my face or inside my mind. "You okay?"

"No, yeah, I'm—I'm alright." A calming pull of breath, and then I've turned around, crossed the threshold, finally. "See you later, Remus."

Endlessly swirling thoughts push me to take my second shower of the morning, for no reason other than to have something to do, to have an outlet for the frustration that burns through me, mixes with the intense confusion brought on by last night, until my very skin heats with discomfort. I step out of the bathroom, hair still wet, a few drops trickling down the back of my neck as I move to rearrange the sheets on my bed, still rumpled from when I'd left the mattress at the crack of dawn.

It's while I'm struggling with tucking in the ends properly, fingers still displeased with the effort such movement takes, that my eyes fall on the pillow; white, soft, bare.

This wouldn't generally be anything noteworthy at all, if not for the fact that I distinctly recall James's glasses resting on the pillow, completely abandoned when he'd rushed out of the room last night and forgotten to snatch them up in his panic. I try and remember if they'd been sitting there still when I'd entered the room after breakfast, but it feels impossible to try and focus when a wave of nerves seems to be crashing against my sternum, choking off my air supply.

I straighten, take a second to bask in the awareness: James is back; he's been to this room, my room; he's taken his glasses.

And then I'm shooting out the door, the warmth of the noon air blanketing around my still cool skin like sticky-sweet honey. There's not enough time to calm the race of my heart or modulate the sudden breathlessness that has my chest burning with each rise and fall, because there, at the end of the hallway, before I've prepared myself for him or what he does to me, I see James stepping out of his room, hand still caught on the knob.

I'm locked into place almost immediately, air flung out of my lungs at the sight of him, his raven-dark hair, the tall built, those glasses—the glasses—sitting on his nose, the conflict in his stance evident even from a fair distance away. I make the mistake of breathing, because his gaze shoots up and straight at the sound, falls directly on me, and I'm awash in feeling once more.

I know then, in that moment, with blazing surety, that I will forever remember the feel of his lips and the taste of his mouth whenever I look at him.

"Hi," he says, soft and diffident, but somehow intense enough that his voice carries right to me, into me, until I feel like I've ballooned from inside with hope and yearning. He's dressed in the same clothes from last night, which makes about a million questions burst inside the walls of my mind. "How are you?"

"Alright," I reply, my own voice nothing more than a croak in the space between us. "You?"

James looks at me, far and silent, and I think he hasn't heard my question, or has just decided to never speak to me again. The latter theory is instantly proven wrong when he pushes open the door to his room instead of shutting it like I was expecting.

"Will you come in? I have something to show you."

I blink for a beat, strangely aware of the wetness of my hair, of the hastily put-together outfit that drapes loosely over my thin frame, of what a fool I've been to think I'm brave enough for this; for him.

"Of course," my mouth answers, and I'm left with no choice but to move forward.

The torment he puts me through is made worse when the door remains open and he remains standing, making each fall of my feet feel unbearably self-conscious. By the time I've reached him, the warmth of my cheeks rivals even that of the sunlight we're bathed under, stood right next to the large window. James gestures me inside, hazel eyes fixed to a point on my shoulder, and I walk past him as directed, reliving, perhaps for the tenth time that day, the feel of his solid body against my fingers.

His hand brushes the small of my back the barest amount as he shuffles in after me, and the touch almost makes me arch in response.

I've never been more grateful for the sense that controls such a reaction in time.

The middle of the room seems like a safe place to stand in, so I move there, wring my hands together uselessly. "You took your glasses back," I note, pointless, stupid. "I, uh, came to return them to you earlier in the morning."

He's got a half-smile on his face, as if he knows I'm lying. "Yeah, I was outside for a bit. Needed to clear my head."

"And did it?" I whisper, look at him rubbing his neck. "Clear your head?"

James laughs, the sound laced in obvious satire. "Not even a little."

"James—" He shifts his head at my call of his name, and just as soon as his eyes meet mine, they flit away again, a redness clawing up the skin of his neck. The phrase stutters in my mouth, changes direction. "Oh, so you can't even look at me now?"

"No, it's not like that!" He frowns at the floor, jaw tense enough to shatter. The hazels drag up to me again, much slower this time, deliberate. I wonder if I've done the smart thing by goading him, because the air seems to swelter around me now, held under his quiet gaze. "It's not like that."

My mouth; parched as sandpaper, cracking just the same. "Okay."

He stares at me for a second longer, as if looking for signs of disbelief, before moving towards the bed behind me. I'm stood still, unable to do anything but watch him, feel the nerves twining up my stomach and windpipe like some snaring vine. But on his way past me, James's fingers brush mine—no, they tangle in mine—and tug me with him, making breathing impossible altogether. My feet feel awkward, more than a little disbalanced as the rest of my body focuses on the places he touches me.

My heart pumps so furiously I fear it may never work again after this moment.

"Sit," he says, voice enviously calm, low, and then pulls me down next to him so that I don't have a choice.

"Why are we on the bed?" I don't mean to sound breathy, but that's how the words leave my lips anyway. His gaze flashes to me, quick and burning, before he shakes his head, a ghost of a smirk on his mouth.

"I told you, I wanted to show you something."

"On the bed?"

He smiles openly now, laughter glittering in eyes, and I'm biting my own cheek to hold back a grin. This is easy; this is good. This is the glowing light I'd been terrified of losing.

In lieu of a reply to my insinuation-dripped question, James reaches inside the pocket of his trousers, the length of his arm a brush of corded muscle against my thigh, and pulls out—

"Oh." The gasp tears from my throat, my eyes caught, unrelentingly, on the object in his hand. "Oh my God."

"Couldn't find anything bigger than this, I'm afraid." He takes my hand in his, the warmth of his palm, for the first time, a distant sensation in my mind as he gently wraps my fingers around the jagged piece of glass; a broken fragment of mirror. My touch is tremulous over the cool surface, but he doesn't say anything, seems to understand, like always, what I need. "Go on, take a look."

For a fleeting second, I allow the walls to crumble, and look up at him, emotion pushing painfully against the lining of my throat. James smiles something soft, and I wonder if he knows how I ache to close the distance between us, more than a little suffused with gratitude. Instead, I look down at the mirror in my hands, the haphazard cut of edges, the glint of light it reflects, and feel, for just one second, terrified to angle it up, to peer into the face I know I'll find.

Anticipation flows through my veins, gives me the courage I require, and then I'm tilting the glass, looking—

At myself.

Surprised eyes stare back at me; irises green, green, a shade my mind struggles to find comparison for, brightness I can't seem to feel as my lashes flutter on an experimental blink. A slight shift brings to focus full lips on a too-thin face, skin pink and freckled around cheeks but pale as porcelain everywhere else. A neck, slender and strangely pliant, revealed beneath the slope of my chin. The sudden impatience of my fingers becomes evident when they pull the mirror farther from view, desperate to see the whole picture, the whole of me, on such a stingy surface area. The result isn't perfect, but it's easy to build the entire image in my mind when I can see everything north of my upper lip; up, up, until I get to the red.

Even knowing what I already do about their length, seeing the strands cropped so close to my head, only the ones nearer to the crown long enough to brush over my forehead, feels like something not quite right; a mismatch I shouldn't be aware of. It's only when my hand appears in the reflection that I realize I've raised it in the first place; touch tentative against the still damp hair.

I can almost imagine, then, the bright red colour that probably appears when it isn't wet.

I can almost imagine, then, the same bright red tumbling down my neck, past shoulder and over chest.

"Hey." James's voice is a brush of warm breath near me, and I startle a little, having forgotten he sat so close, observing my reactions. "What are you thinking?"

I turn to him, open my mouth to say something or the other, but find all thought pausing at the look on his face, which crumbles, in a beat, from curious to concerned. Before I can make sense of it, he reaches out, thumb sloping over my cheek, wiping away some wetness I hadn't felt before this moment.

"Oh—" I swipe at my other cheek, encounter more tears. "I didn't realize—"

"It's okay," he whispers, hand still on my face. "I knew this would be… emotional for you."

There's no proper response I can formulate to that, so I shift my gaze, catch a glimpse, again, of sharp cheekbones and slightly parted mouth. The sight of James's fingers on my face suddenly feels too intimate a sight to stare at, so I pull down the mirror, place it against my lap, mortifyingly sensing the warmth of a flush crawling up my chest. I don't know if he feels the changing temperature against his palm, but his hand eventually drags away with a languid, feather-light stroke.

"So?"

"It was—" My lips rub together. "You were right, before, in the—in the bathroom."

He stays quiet, and I know he's doing it again; waiting for me to look at him before he speaks. And though I want to pretend otherwise, I like looking at him, so it's relatively easy to set aside my pride, slide my eyes to him again, and find—with a soft fluttering of pulse—a smile, small and secretive, directed at me.

"So, you're admitting that you're beautiful?"

"I'm saying, objectively, that your descriptions weren't too off the mark." The warmth has transformed into heat, climbed up my face until I can feel it blazing a roar in my ears, against my hairline.

James laughs, pleased. "You're beautiful, Evans, admit it."

I do no such thing.

A sigh filled with exasperation I don't feel drops from my mouth, but he continues snickering, hazel eyes aglow, and this happiness—it's so palpable, stretching beyond him like an elastic bubble, drawing me in, cocooning until it becomes impossible to abate the smile that tugs on my own lips. He looks at me, shines a little brighter, and sparks splinter through every inch of my being.

A second flies by; another three.

Then I brave the words. "Will you tell me what happened now?"

Guilt courses through me at the dimming of his brightness, but the breath he emits sounds more resigned than upset. I'm grateful for that; it means he's expected this question, has been prepared for it.

"I spoke to Sirius," he says after a pause, voice quiet. "I was just walking through the edges of the forest when he found me. We stopped by his old house, found the mirror for you. I knew he was just biding his time, trying to keep me occupied. We got there eventually. He said—he said you told them about last night."

And though his words are more question than the answer I was expecting, I'm rushing to clarify: "Not all of it. I didn't—I didn't say anything about… us."

"I know. It didn't look like he knew." He looks at me sideways. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Truthfully?" I bite my lip. "Because I don't understand what happened myself."

"I wasn't thinking straight," he says, gaze caught on the piece of glass in my hands, tension and uncertainty playing out like shadows on his face, the angle of his jaw. "I had a nightmare, and I just wanted to forget it, and you were—you were there."

For the first time since I've woken up on that cold floor, James has twisted my heart, left the bloodied remains dripping in the aftermath.

"I see." The tenor of my voice doesn't fool him, makes him look up. My fingers, gripping the mirror so tight, the edges pierce against skin. "So I was just there. Are you saying you would've snogged anyone who'd been there beside you, then? It didn't mean anything at all?"

"Evans." His lids flutter shut, expression pulled in pain. "Please don't do this."

"Don't do what? Ask questions?" The pinkness I had spied on my cheeks before: I picture it burning red, covering my whole face, flushed, for once, in righteous anger. "I'm not a complete idiot, you know? I suppose you think you can lie your way through any situation, and I'll be none the wiser because I don't know anything or don't understand how things work."

James's eyes snap open, frustration evident, frown deep. "That's fucking ridiculous. Of course, I don't think that."

The hurt lacing his tone, the proximity of his body, the stare he levels on me; all of it unbearable, turning my thoughts muddy. I shoot up from the bed, whirl around to face him, distance finding me the space to think. "I know, alright? I know you felt the wound behind my head."

He freezes, eyes wide. "What?"

I wrap my arms around my middle; a feeble attempt to lessen the crack splintering through me. "I thought—you wouldn't—" A deep breath, and then I push the words out, feeling wholly pathetic. "You were disturbed by it. I get that. I just wish—"

"Disturbed?"

I shrug, swallow something sour. "Repulsed."

Before I've even finished forming the word, tongue still caught on the roof of my mouth, James scoffs, loud, annoyed, expending some stress I can't make sense of. "Wow," he says, disbelief rolled into the exhale, "this is just like you to jump to mad assumptions and go off like it's the truth. Are you daft, Evans? You really—you really think I'd be repulsed by you because of a wound?"

There's a boulder lodged in my throat. "I—"

"I could never be repulsed by you, Lily." He runs a hand over his face, mouth pinched in upset, in displeasure. "I could never… But I still shouldn't have kissed you, because—because you deserve better. After everything you've been through, I can't believe I did that. It's the last thing you needed, the last thing I should've done, but fuck, I just—" he breaks off, thoughts scattered, the grit of teeth loud. "I couldn't think."

The boulder melts, turns into viscous sludge sliding down, settling in my stomach as remorse. "What if I don't want better?"

Hazel eyes fly up, tormented. "Stop. Please."

"But why?" Frustration courses bitterly through veins, makes me want to scream out my lungs. "I don't care, James. I'm capable enough of making my own decisions; you can't keep treating me like I'll shatter into pieces at the slightest push. I'm not something fragile that you need to protect, always, and especially not from yourself."

"You're wrong." He's stubborn like I've never seen, palms clenching onto the edge of the bed, jaw stiff as stone. "I do. I'm not—good enough, and definitely not for you. You think I'm some great person, doing everything out of the kindness of my heart? Well, I'm not."

My skin bubbles, heat risen all the way to my eyes. "I don't understand you."

"I'm sorry," he says, and sounds it; sounds it so much that I ache. "I'm sorry for doing this to you."

"So, that's it then?" I'm shaking my head, unable to fathom how we've tumbled down this hole. "All I get are some cryptic non-answers and an apology? Is that what I deserve?" He stays silent, same pained expression; same dimmed eyes. I take a second to inhale this reality. "Fine. Thank you for the mirror."

And then I walk out.

And he doesn't stop me.

It's only hours later, when the sun has painted the world blood-orange, when the colour spills over the floor of my room, when I've been sitting in bed replaying the conversation and confusion to complete numbness and despair, that James's words from earlier return to haunt my mind.

This is just like you to jump to mad assumptions…

How could it be just like me if he hasn't met me since we were kids?

A/N = Thanks for reading! Leave me some comments or come find me on Tumblr at maraudersftw