Retribution
Chapter 8
Where Am I?
A/N - Bit of smut towards the end. Starts right after the divider. Skip until the part "Emotion bursts behind my ribcage…" if you want to avoid it.
My eyes blink open to a blinding white room, the comfort of a soft mattress beneath my back, the slip of my fingertips on a cool sheet. The smell of antiseptics stings my nose, settling heavily in my lungs when I pull in a breath. It takes a handful of seconds for me to realize why I might be in such a clinical setting; another half-second to remember the circumstances leading to this moment.
I see blazing gold eyes, tides of thunder, lips forming pained, wretched pleas.
And that's all the time I allow my senses to settle.
I'm shooting upright, mid-gasp, legs swinging over the edge of the bed to land on floors equally as white as the walls, without so much as a pause in between. Panic yawns open in my lungs, carving a hole that grows steadily larger as I take in my surroundings and realize, with a slamming start, that I do not recognize anything.
Where am I where am I where am I
"Calm down."
My neck snaps to the left at the sound of that voice, the lilt soft and soothing—and evidently female. She sits there, the first girl I've seen since waking up, on a threadbare couch pushed up against the wall. Her rosy-cheeked face is framed by curls loose and golden, plump lips pressed together gently, even as her stark blue eyes watch me with a calculated stare. She's wearing a long white coat over simple black clothes, legs crossed at the knees.
She is—quite simply—pretty.
"Who are you?"
"Marlene McKinnon," she answers, unlocking her legs and pushing off the couch in an unhurried movement. There's something graceful about the way she walks towards me, a tranquillity in her gaze that I'd appreciate more if I didn't have impatience and aggression coursing through me so volatilely. "You don't know me, Lily. But I know you. And I'm glad you're here with us now. Safe."
I do not have the time for this.
"Where am I?"
She looks at me, blonde lashes fluttering, and my previous assessment of her stands, strengthens; she's calculating. "How do you feel?" I'm tossed instead of a reply.
Answer me, I want to yell back, or even an unnecessarily tetchy fuck you that I have to rein in quickly. Because while my first reaction is undiluted annoyance at her inopportune question, a second's time is all it takes me to realize that I'm actually… fine. Not mentally, of course, and least of all emotionally, but my body—
I look down, at the legs that hold me steady, at the arms that have healed; no more pain, no more reminders of the horrors I've experienced but don't remember apart from light, fading scars that dot the expanse of my skin. I raise a disbelieving hand to my face, fingertips feeling for the cut that had slashed over my cheek from the shattering ice, and I feel… nothing. Just smooth, unhurt, perfectly comfortable skin.
And terror's fist is a tight clamp around my throat.
What the fuck?
How long has it been? How long have I been lying there, on that pristine infirmary bed while the world around me shifts and changes and transforms again? If I've healed completely—all injuries wiped clean on the slate of my body—then how much time have I lost? It must've been weeks, at the very least. Months, at worst.
Where is Remus? And Peter? And Sirius?
Where's James?
"I have to get out of here." The whisper falls from my lips, desperation coating every syllable, feet stumbling as I turn around, locate the door of the room. "I have to—I can't—how long have I been in here? Where are they?"
"Lily, calm down," Marlene repeats, voice urgent enough that I'm looking back at her, watching as she reaches forward and carefully places her hand on my arm. "Everything's okay. You don't need to worry."
Her words are empty; they hold no answers. And yet, instead of shoving her away or feeling my blood boil at the restraint, a strange sense of peace spreads within me, stretching to overshadow the fear and anger that had been simmering underneath to leave me with a misplaced feeling of gentle calm. I realize, suddenly, that I'm taking her pacification to heart.
I don't need to worry.
"What—" Even the sound of my voice is soft. Calm. "What are you—?"
"Do you feel better?" She smiles tentatively, concern in eyes that I notice are genuinely kind from this close. "I didn't want to alarm you, but you looked very anxious. I can... manipulate emotions a little bit to make you feel what I want. It's nothing too strong, but helps with patients."
Despite the ease that flows through me, I'm prying open her fingers, pushing them away from my arm. "Please, don't. I—I don't want to feel things that aren't real."
Marlene nods, like she understands. "Okay."
"Where am I?" I look to the door again, find the peace sluggishly slipping out of my body once more. "What's happening? How long have I been unconscious for?"
"About five hours."
The response isn't what I expected—it is equal parts too long and too short a duration for what should make sense, for what is acceptable—and I'm making no effort to hide my confusion as I round on her and stumble my way through the question. "Five hours?! Five hours since when? And how am I—how do I feel—? The cuts on my arms and face, they're gone."
"Five hours since the four of you teleported here," she says, the lines on her forehead creasing a little. "And the rest of it… well, I'm not the right person to tell you things."
I open my mouth immediately; restless, with every passing second, to crawl out of here and find them, and see them, and know that they're alright.
Marlene must sense the anguish twisting my insides, however, for she steps forward, past me. "Come. I'll take you to someone who can give you answers."
Relief and anticipation grow so violently within me that I almost run into her back in my haste to follow. "Thank you."
"Put on some shoes, Lily." She nods her head towards the floor, near the bed I'd been lying on. It's only then that I remember my feet are still bare, and rush over to slip on the plain black shoes, only slightly uncomfortable at the lack of socks. Once I turn back around, Marlene nods, pushes open the door. "Let's go."
I step out, and realize, at once, that this is not the kind of world I'm accustomed to.
If the room I'd been in had felt like a startlingly bright, sterile chamber, the endless hallway that stretches out before me, now, looks to be its polar opposite; dark walls bracket the space we stand in, a perpetual chill swirling in the air and sticking to the earlier warmth of my skin, eating away at it. The uneven cut of the stone slabs, the artificial lights placed at fleeting intervals along the hall, and the slight musk floating around leave no doubt in my mind that we're somewhere underground.
I roughly drag down hands over my arms, try to even out the gooseflesh sprinkling over them; more out of disquiet than due to the change in temperature.
Marlene's palm is suddenly splayed out before me. "You okay?" Her brows tilt in concern. "Need help?"
I look away and shake my head. "I'm fine." A heavy drop of breath. "Lead the way."
She does.
We make our way down the path that curves left, away from the infirmary, and though a part of me recognizes that we walk at a pace quicker than what can be considered normal in any sense of the word, a larger part of me remains rife with anxiety at the thought of more wasted seconds. With my body in a condition that is inexplicably better than I ever remember it being in, I'm inclined to ask Marlene to jog to wherever—whomever—it is that she's taking me to.
The thought is wiped straight from my head as soon as we pass by two people walking down the hall from the other end. One is a tall, beautiful, brown-eyed woman with a black nose-ring and dark hair cropped to her chin; the other a man with light blonde hair in a buzz cut and soft blue eyes.
What gets my feet stuttering for a beat as we cross paths isn't their mere presence or the strangeness of their identical black attires. It's the fact that they fully come to a standstill at the sight of me, eyes widening and faces slackening in shocked surprise.
I immediately force my gaze away, feeling a bit like a circus animal or a celebrity being gawked at—
You were a bit of a celebrity back there…
You don't know me, Lily. But I know you.
My fingers bunch against my stomach, twisting the fabric of my top as I brace against the violent thrashing of nerves inside at the words that come floating back to me. Everything Sirius had said—what now feels like a lifetime ago—clangs around in my skull noisily, drawing half-formed connections with events I'm witnessing now. I can't help but wonder if these people… if I'm actually surrounded by…
"We're here."
Marlene's voice pulls me out of distracted musings, and I return to the present to find that we're now standing outside a room carved into the wall, not dissimilar to the infirmary I'd woken up in. I nod, and then she pushes open the wooden door after a quiet knock against it.
My eyes are instantaneously widening at the mess that greets us on the other side. The tiled floors are strewn with books and half-torn sheaves of paper. A small stool sits upturned in one corner, bits of glass and broken pieces of wood littering the space. Quite simply put, a tempest seems to have flown through the room not too long ago.
"Lily!" cries a voice, familiar and warmer than the sun, before I'm being engulfed in a hug that drips with relief. The press of soft fabric against my cheek and the comfort of the known prompts my lids to fall shut, and I can feel something pricking against the back of my eyes at the acceptance that I am not alone. "Oh, thank goodness, we were so worried when you collapsed as soon as we got here."
My heart thuds at the use of we, and I'm instantly pulling back, looking up at Remus's stress-lined face. Apart from his existing scars, he looks relatively unscathed. "Where are they? Sirius and Peter and—" The air cracks in my chest, "—James?"
He looks at me, face unreadable, and as I take in the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump forward, I hope that my mind isn't mistaken in its assumption that if things were truly dire, he'd be a sight more alert and tense instead of just tired. But just as Remus opens his mouth to respond, someone clears their throat from behind him.
At the sound, Remus closes his eyes for a second and sighs heavily. "I'm sorry," he whispers, moving aside and unblocking my view as he pulls the door open even wider.
There, seated behind a large desk that's equally as chaotic as the rest of the trashed room, is a wizened man I have never seen before. At least, not one I can remember from the meagre memories I possess. He's old; the lines on his thin face and around his piercing blue eyes showcasing wisdom so staggering that I suddenly feel like a child with bottled up petulance. His hair falls, long and white, around shoulders and a face already half-hidden under several inches of silvery, flowing beard.
"Miss Evans," he says, voice surprisingly soft and comforting as he looks up at me from over the frames of his spectacles. "We are delighted to finally have you here, safe and sound amongst us."
I look at Remus with a confused gaze, but find that he's resolutely staring at his feet, a frown between his brows. And suddenly, foreboding squeezes my lungs together.
"Who are you?" I make myself ask, turning back to the man. He watches me carefully, so I take a step closer, make sure he understands that I'm not going to be scared easy. "Where am I? Where's James?"
A sudden pull of guilt laces its way through my insides as the latter question slips out unwittingly. I hadn't meant to ask only about him, with no mention of the remaining two boys, despite the fact that concern for James sits heavy as a boulder against the walls of my mind. But I shove the feeling away, willing to look unflinchingly inconsiderate if it means it'll get me answers.
To no one's surprise greater than my own, it seems to carry my desperation the best, and I'm finally given a response.
"Mr Potter was brought in ten minutes after the four of you arrived in my office. Mr Black was gracious enough to bring him back for us. He was hurt, but he's being treated by someone notedly capable this very minute." The man steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, gaze unrelenting on me. "They're both going to be alright. Mr Pettigrew is also fine, he is just resting. I hope that helps assuage some of your worries."
His assessment falls too weak for the tidal wave of relief that crashes and swirls inside me at the news. There's little I can do to express myself in a room that's filled with more strangers than familiar faces, and so I press fingertips against my eyelids; try to gulp in air to keep the emotions from spilling out. "Thank you," I choke out. "Whoever you are."
"My name is Albus Dumbledore."
"Okay." I shake my head, blink against the spots of colour bleeding before my eyes as I look at him again. "Who are you, exactly? What is this place?"
But instead of answering me directly, Dumbledore's glance skews to fall on Remus instead. "Mr Lupin? Would you like to share?"
"No, that's alright." Remus shakes his head. He still won't look at me, discomfort painted vividly over every inch of his being. "You can explain better anyway, Professor."
"Perhaps you ought to sit down, Lily." Dumbledore nods his head towards the empty chair that sits near me; opposite him. I consider refusing for a second, before figuring that it's better if I follow through just in case I'm ill-prepared to deal with whatever information he deigns to share with me now. "I hope it's alright that I call you Lily, by the way."
I lower myself into the chair, dusting away some stray shrapnel. "Sure, I don't mind."
Once I've settled, Dumbledore leans forward, looks at me seriously. "Whatever I'm about to tell you, I need you to listen with an open mind, Lily. I want you to trust that all of us here only want to improve things for the better. And while you are under no obligation to help us in our efforts, I sincerely hope you will consider doing so all the same."
Apprehension stirs inside my chest at the words, and I stop myself from turning around and looking at Remus again. Instead, I nod shakily. "Okay."
"We're an underground resistance organization against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, called the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore begins, tone too gentle for the phrase that slips out of him. My eyes widen in tandem with the beat my heart skitters over. "Our numbers aren't much right now, but I've had the gracious support of several brave people who have been helping us grow stronger and more knowledgeable over time. We house all the survivors of the atrocities committed by Voldemort, as well as anyone who wants to help bring an end to his terrorism. You've already met Marlene, of course, and some of the most instrumental efforts have been put forward by the four boys who have been taking care of you for the past two weeks."
I'm spiralling; tossed out like a spinning top without a tether, feeling the ground shift and tilt and flip under my feet. Everything I've known… every moment spent… everything for an underlying reason. Had any of it been real? Any concern expressed for intentions beyond eventually bringing me here? Would they have left me to bleed out in a gray world on a gray floor in a gray dress otherwise?
Behind me, Remus's presence looms like a weighted shadow, aching.
A gasp tears out my throat. "What?"
"Don't be alarmed," Dumbledore says placatingly, brows threading together. "We mean you no harm. Godric's Hollow was meant to be a safe house for you, a place where you could recover in peace, earn back your memories steadily. I didn't expect them to find you so soon." He sighs heavily, leans back for a moment. "It's a matter that has to be investigated at the earliest. However, I want you to rest assured that this is the safest place you can be in right now. You're very important to us and the cause, Lily."
"The cause," I whisper, nausea swelling within me.
"To overthrow Voldemort."
My fingertips have dug into the wood of the chair, the press so fierce that it burns. "How can I be…? I'm not—I can't—I can't do anything. I don't know anything."
"It's alright," Marlene speaks up, voice gentle as she takes a step forward, hand reaching out to touch my arm. But I'm instantly jerking away, limbs atremble.
"Don't. Please don't." I pull in a calming breath of air; try to think straight again. "I'm alright."
Marlene presses her lips together, but steps back understandingly after a moment. She looks to Dumbledore for something, a voice-less interaction I'm not privy to, and after a small nod from him, she leaves the room. I can hardly find it in myself to care enough to question after it.
My palms feel foreign and rough when I drag them abrasively down my face, a harsh sigh slipping out from between lips. I pull my hands away, find that Dumbledore still watches; silent, unblinking.
"Why me?" I shake my head. "Why me? I don't even know what I can do. And no one else seems to know either. How can I help anyone, be anything useful, when I can't even—" the words freeze on my tongue for a second, and I trace back two steps. "Do you know? What—what my abilities are?"
"I'm afraid I do not," he answers, and looks genuinely disappointed. Something painfully tight inside my chest seems to unspool. "But it is my guess that Voldemort fears you. He fears your potential, what you can do, if you were to stand against him."
If horror hadn't numbed my insides, the incredulity of what he's saying would've sent humourless laughter spilling out of me. Instead, all I'm able to manage for a few seconds is gaping at the man, wondering when he's going to take back the words. "Fears me?" I eventually breathe. "How can you say that? This man—this evil, cruel man, he's done such terrible things to so many people! And you think he fears me? A girl with no memories and powers she has no knowledge of? Is this a joke?"
"Let me ask you something in return, Miss Evans." He folds his hands atop the desk. "If you really believe yourself to be so inconsequential, why do you think Voldemort sent the strongest of his Death Eaters to capture you?"
Frustration builds as I try to wrangle some logic from within. "I don't know! It could be anything, something that you're overlooking." Letting myself consider the alternative is petrifying; a possibility I cannot wrap my head around. "Your assumption could be completely off, it probably is. How do you know that you're right?"
"I don't," he agrees easily, rendering me quiet. "I'm only basing everything off of the information I have."
"Which is?"
"That you were the only subject who was captured by seven fully armed Death Eaters. That Voldemort kept you isolated from everyone else. That your reports and progress were constantly filed as confidential, with access provided to only a handful of people. And yet, it was no secret that you were the strongest subject within St. Mungo's." He stops, looks at me straight, merciless in his honesty as if I'm not crumbling right before him. "And finally, the fact that he risked bringing you, and only you back, despite knowing that you were surrounded by four powerful men. All of this leads me to suspect, quite strongly, that your powers, if harnessed properly, can rival that of Voldemort's."
The words buzz in my head, echoing within my ears and swirling in my thoughts even as I stare at the table before me; unseeing, disoriented. What he's saying… what he's telling me…
A hand falls on my shoulder, and I almost jerk out of my own skin in my haste to get away from any unwelcome touch. But it's just Remus, his face pale and pulled into an expression more contrite than I've ever seen. "Are you alright?"
I blink up at him.
Am I alright, he asks, as if I could possibly possess enough presence of mind, still, to give him an answer. How could I, when the truth I'd slowly started to build my life around has just collapsed like a sandcastle under the wave of reality?
And so I don't bother. I close my eyes, breathe out the cowardly words: "I cannot think about all of this right now. Can I see James, please? I need to talk to him."
Remus opens his mouth to say something, but Dumbledore is the one who responds. "I'm sorry to say that Madam Pomfrey has requested that Mr Potter not be disturbed right now. She's still working on healing him, and it's going to take some time, since there were… complications."
There's no space in my conscience for the foreign name. The thud of my heart is quick to climb to my throat, and I'm lurching forward, the edge of the desk digging into my ribs. "What? What complications? I thought you said Sirius brought him back alright!"
"He did," sighs Remus, the corners of his mouth downturned. "But the prolonged exertion of holding the Death Eaters at bay for so long… it unsurprisingly took its toll on James's body. When we left, he'd already been stretching himself to the point of burnout. An added ten minutes—" he breaks off, seems to swallow against the bitterness in his throat, "it would've shattered anyone else completely. We're lucky he's still alive."
I'm thrown back hours, or days, or ages; standing in the middle of a field, watching threads of gold weave out of beautiful, familiar hands; breath catching, thinking—foolishly—that he's invincible. But he shatters, and he's human, and I've been submerged under the ice-cold reality that there was always a possibility where he may not have lived.
James.
I—
I cannot think of a world without him.
The thought of this alone sends pain twisting around my chest, sends my spine bending as I lean forward, eyes seeing nothing but the grass-stained fabric of my leggings. What a wondrous night, turned into the darkest of nightmares. "Why did it take so long to get him back?"
Silence befalls the room for two long seconds, before Remus answers quietly. "Sirius. He, uh—he couldn't teleport… afterwards. Not for a while. So he had to wait it out, because there's no one else who could've gone, other than him. He was… more than a little frustrated. We all were."
There's a strange edge to his voice that makes me straighten again, and I look up to see that Remus's gaze has turned apologetically towards Dumbledore. The scene confuses me for only half a beat, before realization quickly follows. The connection isn't difficult to draw, especially knowing what I do about Sirius's penchant for recalcitrance and his ceaseless devotion to James. The ruination of the room I sit in can apparently be credited to only one man's fury.
Good, I think.
I would've trashed the fucking room, too.
"Where is he, now? Sirius?"
"Recovering," Dumbledore informs pleasantly, looking unbothered as he sits surrounded by his assailed belongings. "He was tended to by Madam Pomfrey as well, and she has assured us that he is simply exhausted. Mr Potter, on the other hand, will take some time to get better."
Anger flares inside me at the reminder, but I'm thankfully interrupted from another spiral by a voice that sounds behind me.
"Marlene said you asked for me, Professor?"
I twist around in the chair, only slightly alarmed by the protesting whine the wood underneath emits, and find the girl I'd crossed earlier in the hallway standing at the threshold; hair tucked behind ears, multiple piercings glinting under the light of the room. Her dark eyes land on me for a fraction of a second, brow quirking, before she quickly looks away, back to Dumbledore.
"Ah, yes, Ms MacDonald!" He beckons her inside with a gentle wave of hand. "This is Lily Evans, as you must already know. Lily, this is Mary MacDonald; she is one of the most valuable members of the Order of the Phoenix, and has provided unparalleled support to several of our missions for gathering intelligence, especially on the defensive end." I nod mechanically, wait for him to get to the point. "She's going to show you to your room, and help you get settled in. I hope you will slowly learn to find comfort amongst our ranks."
The weightless words brush past my ears; inconsequential, meant to distract. I let my eyes fly to him, make no attempt to hold back the glare that wants to shine. "What about James? What about Sirius? You expect me to just… go about my day, live and sleep peacefully, pretending like they've not risked their lives to get me to safety?"
His stare remains infuriatingly steady. "There's nothing you can do for them at this moment. Madam Pomfrey is the best we have, and I give you my word, Ms Evans—they will be alright."
I'm desperate, suddenly scrambling to stay seated, unmoving, for reasons I do not realize until a few seconds later: I'm terrified of being separated from familiarity once more. It feels strangely like being born into the world anew; an experience I do not hold the slightest fondness for, especially not when it's a second time too many.
Remus's fingers, still gently placed on my shoulder, squeeze comfortingly, and this reminder of companionship has the ice inside me thawing a little. I pull my gaze up, and find him nodding assuredly. "I'll come see you soon," he promises. "There are things you need to understand. I know I haven't done anything to earn it yet, but… trust me, Lily. Trust us."
Warmth slips over my cheeks, undoubtedly painting them red. To the other occupants in the room, the reaction must look entirely out of place, but to Remus—whose deliberate inflexion and tone leave no doubt in my mind as to whom the 'us' refers to—it is simply an evidence of my comprehension, of the allegiance I still hold to the four of them, and only to the four of them. He nods imperceptibly, eyes a little brighter now.
"Shall we?" Mary sweeps out an arm when I rise from the chair and turn to her.
A smirk curls over her lips, a permanent amusement glittering over her entire being; I'm instantly envious and aggravated by it. I wonder, for a second, what reason she has to be happy when everything around us feels so achingly bleak and heavy, but guilt is quick to course through me at the snide thought. The fact that the entirety of my world has turned upside-down does not give me the right to begrudge those for whom their circumstances, however ugly, have persisted.
With a quick squeeze of Remus's fingers, I nod, follow Mary out of the room and back into the mouth of the endless tunnel of underground walls. The hall ahead looks mercifully empty, no more gawking stares I need to contend with, and I've resigned myself to stewing in the helplessness and anger that boils beneath my skin the entire time, but Mary's eyes suddenly flash to mine, lips lifting into a razor sharp grin that reminds me a little bit of Sirius.
"So, I hear you have no memories." She walks with a strange gait; graceful, but not quite. "That's gotta be tough."
I frown slightly, look down. "I remember some things now. My name and family and such. It's not that bad."
There's no reason for me to lie to her—and I don't know why I've done it either—but the words are out there, empty in their placation. She nods good-humoredly, and I know I've fooled no one but myself. "I suppose not. Plus, you got the neat opportunity to build your very first memories around four fit blokes—well, three, if I'm being brutally honest—who are also relatively decent, so that couldn't have hurt either." My lips part a little in surprise, gaze jumping back as she continues on with a wink. "Am I wrong?"
Images of warm hazel eyes, reckless hair, crooked glasses, and strong arms are quick to jump to mind. A stupid smile tugs at the corner of my mouth; I temper the impulse immediately. "I'm not going to answer that."
We've already passed by the infirmary a few feet back, and seem to be making our way past a large room that yawns open into an expanse of space clearly meant for some type of training. My brows climb high, unexplained anticipation swirling beneath my ribcage. Before I can turn to Mary and ask her about the room, she effectively distracts me with the question that drops from her lips.
"Well, alright. Answer this instead: is it true what they say about James Potter?"
"Depends." My breath catches a little on the word, heart banging relentlessly on the walls of my chest with the familiar greed for knowledge; a greed that's even more alarming in its intensity given whom the knowledge pertains to. "What do they say about him?"
Her grin turns distinctly more wolfish, brown eyes gleaming as she looks at me askance. "That he's more than a little obsessed with you."
Heat clambers viciously over my skin, under it, every nerve-ending buzzing as if suddenly brought to life. And yet, despite the undeniable pleasure seeping through my limbs like bright sunlight at hearing such a thing—clearly a well-deliberated thing, even amongst those who remain practical strangers to me—my voice seems to be constricted in the back of my throat.
"What—no, I—I don't think he… he's not obsessed with me. It's just—we're mates—" Are we mates? "—and he cares about me. That's all. And I—I do, too. Care about him, that is."
She looks at me, eyes shining with barely-held laughter. "You and I really need to talk more, Evans. This is the most exciting thing to happen here in months. Can't have you holding out on the juicy details."
I purse my lips. "There are none."
But my annoyance is easily ignored. She scrambles around for a second, tugs something out of the pocket of her dark jeans; a sleek white card that she swipes over a sensor before her, and it's only then that I notice we've halted in front of a sturdy slab of see-through door that slides open with a soft beep. Mary strides on ahead, leaving me no choice but to follow, and we're a few paces down the corridor when she deigns to look at me again.
"So, you're really saying that Potter didn't make a move on you, all these days? None of the boys did?"
At the mere utterance of the question, ghosts of sensations resurface on my skin, inside my head: warm brush of lips, desperate clutch of hands, languid glide of tongues, heat bubbling low. And a burning, an eruption of sparks everywhere—and now I know why. Now I know.
Fuck.
I ache from the memory of him alone.
I miss him beyond what logic permits.
I'm awash in my own hopelessness.
"No," the lie drops around a heavy breath. "Nothing happened."
Mary hums, perhaps a little disbelievingly, but doesn't pry anymore. I suppose it's reassuring to know she can't see within the confines of my half-broken mind too. We continue on in silence for a few more feet, though the space between us remains companionable, unlike the strange awkwardness that had clung to me in the beginning. She doesn't look at me like I'm an aberration anymore; simply someone she's intrigued, even amused by. I find that I don't mind such a stare. It feels almost… friendly. Fun.
"Here we are!" she sings, stopping in front of a door that looks entirely identical to the handful we've passed by since entering through those safety doors earlier, except for the number carved into it: 6. There's no lock, for which I'm grateful, and Mary simply turns the doorknob to let me in. "Home sweet home."
It's a clean, modest room: one bed, pushed to the right, against the wall, a desk to the left, a simple cupboard standing at the far end. I take in the entire thing in one sweeping glance, and despite the perfectly functional state of the room before me, a futile twinge pinches my heart at the remembrance of the one I've left behind in Godric's Hollow. The pain digs a little deeper at the knowledge that all of it is gone now; all of it shattered into a downpour of glass.
"Bathrooms are a little further down the hall. It's shared, I'm afraid." Mary's voice behind me breaks me out of my forlorn thoughts, and I'm turning around to face her again. "I'll get the clothes and card for you in a while. There are only black attires available here, but with your complexion, they'd make your hair and eyes pop, so you have nothing to worry about. Oh, and keep your card around with you wherever you go; it's the only way you can enter the dorms. Those doors we came through earlier won't open any other way—impervious to abilities too, so no point trying to break them." She pauses, tilts her head contemplatively. "Don't know why you would, since it's there for our safety, but just in case you're a raging maniac, don't bother."
"I can't—" I bite my lip, wondering if it's okay to tell her, but figure there's no point trying to keep up pretences when I have nothing to show for it. "I can't use my ability anyway. I don't know even know what it is yet."
"Oh." Her brows climb high, before a surprised huff of laughter clambers out. "What are the rumours on about, you saving the bloody world, then? Fucking dramatic, the lot of them. Don't let any of this nonsense bother you. I, for one, think it's pure shite that you don't even have your memories, nor a handle on your power, and yet they've already painted you as some sort of saviour. You just focus on getting some food into that ridiculously flat stomach and snogging your bloke, alright?"
"I don't have a bloke," I say instantly, but I'm grinning now.
Mary smirks in return, leans against the doorframe, like she thinks this is pure shite, too.
I'm alright with that. I quite like her.
"Of course, not. But just for your directional knowledge, the boys' dorms are further down the hall and to the right." She winks, stepping back and giving me a short wave. "See you in a bit, Evans."
"Hey, Mary!" I call softly before she can leave, a sudden thought slipping into my mind. She pulls her head back into view with an inquisitive brow, waiting for the question. "Is everyone around here… different? I mean, does everyone have an ability?"
"Not everyone." She shrugs a shoulder, then grins cheekily. "But enough."
"What about you?"
"Look at you, being all curious," she snickers, and I almost join in, because she's barely scratched the surface with that assessment. Curiosity is too tame a word for the inferno that constantly swirls inside me. With one step backtracked, she stands sideways over the threshold again. "Let's see how quick you figure this one out."
I'm holding a sharp breath between my lungs, effectively goaded into a sense of competition with myself. But, I soon realize, there's hardly a need for her challenging tone; the gust of cool breeze that floats through my short strands, kisses past my face, sends my lashes fluttering, when she splays out a hand is an excessively easy hint. The teasing shine in Mary's eyes informs me that she knows it too. None of this is enough to abate my awe, however.
"Wind," I whisper.
"Wind," she confirms with a smirk, fingers wiggling. "Not as flashy as, say, lightning, but it has its uses."
For some reason, out of every insinuation that she has tossed out so far, this one seems to settle like thick gunk in the pit of my stomach. I can feel the muscles of my face pull in the middle with tension as I ask, "When can I see him? Please, I—I'm just worried."
The amusement slips from her expression visibly, and with it, the hope in my heart flickers. "I'm really not sure. It's not information I have access to." Sympathy pinches her lips together as she keeps looking at me. "But… I'll see what I can find out, alright? Don't worry, Lily. Potter's a tough bloke."
A jerky nod of head. "Yeah, okay. Thank you."
"Try and get some rest. You've had quite the twenty-four hours." And then she leaves me to the mercy of my own mind.
The tickle of a finger down the length of my spine; skin bare, warm, remarkably sensitive. A smile lifting at the corner of my mouth, body melting into the familiar touch despite eyes that remain closed.
"Lily," his breath is a sigh against my ear, lips sliding, sensuous, over heated neck and shoulder. An arm folds around my midriff, drags me lazily against the mattress, until my back is pressed against a solid, scorching, decidedly naked front. Fingers of his free hand; brushing away hair that curls down to my breastbone, giving him more access. "Lily. I have to leave soon."
"Why?" I sigh. "Stay here."
"You know I want to." He licks against my pulse, pulls a soft moan from me. "You're really fucking tempting, you know that? And beautiful. So fucking beautiful."
"Mm, why the sudden flattery, Potter?" I feel boneless, head tilting back to rest against his shoulder, left hand slowly tracing the hills and valleys of his knuckles as his palm stays planted against my stomach, chest aching for contact just above. "You've already gotten me. Multiple times, might I add."
"And I'll never have enough," he says. A kiss against my brow, a slide of his nose over the side of my face, and then—as if he's read the desire misting around me—the other arm slips beneath my waist, folding around the front to cup my breast. Breath whines in my throat, everything about his torturous pace prompting me to shift so that his thumb can flick over a nipple. "Glad to see that you agree."
"God, you're so—so… bloody insufferable—" I break off on a choked syllable when his hand moves from my stomach to curl around my inner thigh, tugging lightly until he's got my leg lifted, then slung over the sturdy muscles of his knee and shin. My pulse thuds madly between my legs, already agonized for some relief, light shivers sprinkling over skin at the cool air that brushes against the heat building in my center. "James."
"Yes, love?" His mouth curves into a smirk against my cheek, fingers still circling around and tugging at my nipple, the other hand now tracing infuriatingly light patterns right along the crease of my thigh. "Was there something you wanted?"
"Touch me," I whimper immediately, finding no patience or pride within to stand tall against his teasing. My eyes blink open to a darkened room, moonlight streaming in from a window nearby. Without knowing how, I know this to be my house, my room, the same way that I know the smell and feel and sound of the person behind me, without needing to turn around and confirm. "Touch me, James. Please. I—I need you."
"Touch you where?"
Frustration coats my mouth. He will make me say it. "I hate you."
"I know." A smug glitter of laughter; his caress still too far. "Touch you where, Evans?"
"I want you—" My eyes fall shut against the embarrassment, make the words easier to articulate. "I want your fingers on my cunt. I want you fuck me with your hand."
He groans a little, amusement extinguished from voice completely. His hand squeezes around my flushed tit, before he lets his fingers finally shift from my thigh to dip inside, lower, right where I want him, and part against the heavy wetness. "Fuck, Lily."
A strangled exhale skitters out of my mouth, brows tensing against the exquisite feel of his motions, tongue gone dry, throat painfully swallowing the crisp night air. I'm moving my hips, almost subconscious, trying to keep the pressure right there, and another pleasured gasp is wrangled from the depths of my chest as I feel his length brush brazenly against my backside. His groan this time; loud and unstoppered. It liquifies my insides even more. The greed to hear it again has my hand slipping off his forearm, snaking down between our bodies, behind me, the angle marginally uncomfortable. But the unease is quick to vanish when I feel the weight of him in my palm, hot and eager.
"Jesus, fuck," James hisses, breath whistling past gritted teeth when I start stroking him clumsily. His own fingers on me become quicker, the circles he draws and the thumb he swirls getting a little frantic. I keen at the change in pace, dying a thousand deaths but still hungry for more.
"Oh God—" My skin has turned sticky with sweat, body thrumming under the spark alighting on his fingertips, a jolt of which sends me slamming back into him, moaning loud. He shushes me softly, teeth sinking, light, over my neck as he reminds me I have parents sleeping downstairs. But I'm shoved beyond the plane of care or concern, rolling my hips against the bed. "Stop fucking electrocuting me, then."
He laughs properly now, a bright sound that effectively transforms into a harsh swear when I tug him forward with my grip around him, shifting enough that he's lined up perfectly at my entrance, slick with my wetness. The quiver of my thighs betrays my anticipation. "Will you—can we—?"
He quiets me with a muffled groan in my ear, the hand that had been on my breast slowly reaching up to trace my lips, forefinger whispering over the seam. "Try not to be loud," he says into my hair, and that tone of his, so fucking cocky, that it'd be unbearable if it wasn't entirely well-earned. Exasperation still flares in my chest, right up until the point he kisses below my earlobe, the gesture achingly sweet for the mind-numbing thrust that follows, lower. I gasp a shattering sound.
"You're perfect, Lil."
Emotion bursts behind my ribcage; pleasure cleaves me in half, and I'm jolting—
Upright. Panting. Burning.
Wholly unhinged.
Every single molecule in my body feels abuzz, skin vibrating with the remnants of the dream, the throb between my legs the most persistent reminder of all. Eyes opened wide, mouth gulping down steadying breaths of air, I look around to see that I'm seated on the bed of my new room at the Order; notably alone, no familiar voice next to me, no heated touch setting me aflame. I don't remember when I'd slipped into slumber, don't have the presence of mind to question whether I've lost those minutes yet again, or if I'm just too shaken to recall them. For once, I don't care. I don't care, because I'm cold and alone and—
Fucking hell, had that been a dream?!
Or a… memory?
A strange swirl in my lower belly emerges at the consideration alone, and I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, ruthless enough that colours black and red bloom behind the lids, help me ground myself to the here and now. I refuse to be swept up in such a possibility, in what it could mean for me and my state of mind, for my relationship with James, if what I'd seen is just a chunk of reality returning to me belatedly.
A sexual dream about us—although mortifying—is not something entirely shocking, given what I've already admitted to myself about the emotions I hold. I can make my peace with my body's evident desire, know ways to allay the pulsing need myself.
A memory of us, however, and one of such nature, no less, is bound to shove me into the insanity I have sidestepped thus far. Without James around, without answers around, I don't dare to let my thoughts, or hope, wander there. With everything unfolding before me right now, I'm barely a nudge away from shattering into a million pieces.
The pounding in my ears and the rush of blood over my face hasn't even fully subsided when a knock sounds on the door half a second later, the knob turning before I can even voice my assent. It slides open to reveal a face that makes a knot of tension unravel in my throat, whooshing out from between lips parted in a relieved exhale.
My eyes feel absurdly wet; the smile I shoot at him stupidly wobbling. "Sirius."
"Hey, Evans." He steps inside, a large bag in his hand that he deposits near the foot of the bed. His own expression is pinched into a stiff smile, misery lining the grays of his eyes as he looks at me. At least he seems otherwise unhurt. "Good to see you're okay. MacDonald sent over some stuff for you. Card's inside the bag."
A frown creases my forehead at his tone, even as I nod distractedly. He doesn't sound belligerent, exactly, but simply… lifeless. Dread curling like mist in my gut, I push off from the bed, take the three steps it requires to bring me right in front of him. From this close, it's easier to spot the agony he's trying to mask with that cold exterior. I press my lips together, heart wrenching at the sight, and slip both my arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug.
"Thank you," I sigh into his rigid frame. "Thank you for bringing him back."
He doesn't move for several beats, but I recognize the exact moment when the tension seems to melt from the muscles of his back, and then his arms loop around my shoulders and waist lightly. "Evans," he says, and the crack in his voice splinters something within me. He sounds choked, tone heavy with unshed tears. "I don't—I don't deserve your gratitude."
"Hey." I hug him tighter. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"
"What's wrong?!" A humourless puff of laughter spreads over the crown of my head, and I purse my mouth at the disdain lacing his tone, cheek still pressed against the cotton of his dirty shirt. "What's wrong, she asks. I couldn't get him out sooner. Godric's Hollow is gone. We couldn't keep you safe. And James is… I don't know when he's going to wake up now. So things are a fair bit wrong, and no, I'm not alright. I'm not—"
"Sirius." I pull back sharply, despite the feeble resistance his arms put up. A crane of my neck, and I notice how he won't look at me, eyes blinking furiously at some point over my shoulder, like I've not already heard the emotion coating his words; like he still finds the need to come across as aloof in front of me. "Stop that. Stop that right now, and sit."
"What?"
"Sit," I repeat, pulling him down on the edge of the bed and taking a spot next to him. The disbelief over his lack of self-worth plays out in my mind for a few seconds, before I angle my body towards him slightly, sigh deeply so that he'll turn his gaze to me. "You do deserve my gratitude. You deserve all of our gratitude. Without you, James wouldn't be here now, safe, he wouldn't—fuck, he probably wouldn't be alive. None of us could have gotten out without you, you realize that, don't you?" He looks at me silently, long enough that annoyance bubbles at his lack of immediate agreement. "Sirius, you fucking saved his life! You kept your promise to me. I know, right now, he's not… but he'll get better. He has to—"
"How do you not hate me?"
"What?" Even I can feel the frustration twisting my features. "Have you not be listening—"
"No, Evans—" Something in the light that his eyes reflect seems to have altered, his voice taking on a pointed edge as he enunciates my name. "How do you not hate us? For lying to you? For not telling you about this, about the Order? How are you sitting here, trying to make me feel better about myself, even though I don't deserve it, instead of shrieking about how we betrayed you?"
Breath strangles in my lungs, the impassioned parting of my lips closing progressively with his words. He seems to have forcibly wrenched open the doors I'd been steadfastly holding closed with both hands to keep the hurt at bay. But now that I've been compelled to feel it, braced against the pain, I'm startled to find that despite my thoughts earlier in Dumbledore's office…
He's not right. Not about all of it.
"You never betrayed me," I whisper, eyes trained on my lap, and I can sense how tense he's gotten beside me again, as if he awaits the impending implosion. "You didn't lie either, not really. I know it's strange, but I—I think I can understand why you didn't tell me. If anything, I'm thankful that the four of you brought me to Godric's Hollow." I pause a little, look up at him now. "I don't think I could've taken being here. Not in the beginning. Not with all these expectations on me. Still don't think I'm ready for it, actually."
What I don't say: Anguish has coiled around my heart at the knowledge that they may not have saved me, to begin with, had I not been allegedly important to the cause.
Exhaustion and instincts of self-preservation keep me from asking for the truth.
"Mental."
I blink, torn away from my thoughts at Sirius's half-amused exhale. "Sorry?"
"You're mental." And now he proper laughs, shaking his head at me. "What are you going to do with all this kindness in such a fucked up world, Evans? None of us deserves it. In the beginning, I thought you were just going to be some stuck-in-the-mud harpy, too drunk on her own power, despite what James insisted. And somehow, it was easier, then, to go along with this." The light in his eyes softens with exasperated fondness, sends my already flaming face turning redder. "Now that I know how quick you are to jump at the first chance to help someone, your own safety be damned—"
"That's not—"
"Well, alright, help James, at the very least. And that's all that I need to know—" he waves off my protests with a wave of hand, "—now I have to deal with the pesky little blighter called conscience. And it makes my fucking skin crawl to think of what they can get you to do because of this kindness of yours. Especially after what happened."
My eyebrows furrow at the undertone of anger that has crept into his voice. "What do you mean?"
"He should have known." He clenches his jaw. "Dumbledore should have fucking known about this. He should have warned us better. Or, fuck, I don't know, had some help ready at hand in case of an emergency! But he's happy to let us play the game for him, just as long as the bigger goal is achieved, regardless of the collateral damage—"
"Dumbledore." I heave a sigh, recall the obliterated office I'd walked into. Perhaps frustration and helplessness hadn't been the only reasons behind Sirius's rampage. "Who is he, anyway? He seemed very passionate about bringing down Voldemort. Why won't he fight him directly? Why use me, when I don't even know what I can do?"
"Because he doesn't have any abilities, does he? At least that's what he says," Sirius scoffs, leaning forward with his arms on his thighs. "I have my doubts. He's smart, that man. Smart enough that people say strategizing is his power, though you'll pull out all your hair before getting Dumbledore to admit it." He exhales something heavy, fingers rubbing down his face. "Which is why he should have known. He should have predicted we'd be sold out."
My heart slams so painfully against my ribs that I struggle to pull in breath for a moment.
"Sold—what do you mean by 'sold out'?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." He looks at me sideways, gray eyes grimmer than I've ever seen them. The shadows in the room feel like they close in around us; pour inside me ruthlessly. "Someone between the five of us revealed our location to the Death Eaters. And I think I have a good idea of who it was."
Bitterness coats the inside of my mouth, tongue parched, and I want to tell Sirius that he's insane—of course, none of us would do that—but then a familiar discomfort resurfaces in my mind, a reminder of the gaping absence of one person during the attack, the undeniable fact of his presence not always being conspicuous. And I think—
I think I have a good idea as well.
A/N - If you're thinking District 13 or the Dauntless Pit, just fancied up a bit, you're thinking right. Also, sorry about the lack of Jily in this one. And also about the highly misleading note in the beginning 😂😂