Retribution

Chapter 9

Can I Trust You?

A/N: sorry sorry sorry x 10 billion times because there are only so many excuses you can give when posting a chapter ~seven months later lmao But seriously guys, I was going through a writer's block whose intensity could only match the one from 2016, when I'd taken a two-year break. Aren't we all just luckier I got here sooner?

Personal life-wise, there was A LOT I dealt with in the past three months alone, so that was another factor behind the delay. Also, please take note that this chapter is being posted straight from my word doc, lazily edited, not proofread, because I just wanted to get it out there already, so a combination of factors might make this... not the cleanest reading experience.

But I hope you enjoy! I love you all from the deepest depths of my heart. Thanks for staying along for the journey!

I've been here three days.

That's seventy-two hours; a long enough duration of time for me to get a grasp of how things down here—at the Order, they say—seem to work. A long enough duration of time for me to stop staring at the walls of my small room, dry-eyed, terror coating my oesophagus at the thought of unseen presences and unhinged dreams. A long enough time for me to tune out excited whispers and gawking stares, to get accustomed to the constant thrum of indelible anger simmering under my fingertips.

Three days of walking, listening, trying to figure out who I can trust.

Three days of waiting for James to wake up.

All of it fruitless.

The fourth day begins like all the three that have preceded it: with a knock on my door.

I find my eyes are slightly crusty today; perhaps I nodded off somewhere close to dawn, then. It's hard to tell the time around this place, thanks to the perennial dimness of the underground walls we reside in. I'm told the time when I ask for it, but the answer always comes from one source: the large clock hung up in the dining hall. I wonder if I'm the only one who has trouble believing things just because I'm told to believe them.

I recall the easy flowing conversations and laughter that sometimes seep into my ears through these walls and figure that I probably am.

"Lily!" calls Mary now, because she's supposedly been tasked to be my chaperone around here. Better her than anyone else, I suppose. "Wake up. Breakfast in ten."

"I'm up."

My legs no longer shake as I swing them over the edge of the bed, the pain in my limbs something like a distant nightmare now. Exhaustion and demotivation linger in abundance, however; the former a product of sleepless hours spent blinking at blank ceilings, and the latter born of depression that I have no method of countering. And yet, I know from experience that a member's absence in the dining hall isn't overlooked easily at this place. Sirius and Remus had taken the brunt of the backlash that first morning when I'd refused to show up.

Suspicion, it seems, doesn't reside in my heart alone. Everyone here carries it for me, too, with no pretence of hiding it if I dare put a foot out of line.

Not that I can blame them.

I don't know which side I'm on either.

There are mirrors in the shared bathrooms here.

I've already spent a good few hours studying my reflection in them on the first day, so the novelty of getting to see myself has worn off quite a bit, though not by any means dissipated entirely. Despite the newness of the familiarity, when I blink green eyes in front of the cracked sink, it's not difficult for me to spot how flesh covers areas that had been little more than jutting bones to the touch earlier. Fringes of red hair fall longer over my forehead, cheeks no longer flushed red, bags deep and dark and purple around my eyes—or perhaps, it's nothing more than the desperate attempts of my mind to tell me I'm different now.

Because everything is different now.

I splash my face with water, brush my teeth, empty a heaving sigh, and turn away from the stares pinned on me by the other bathroom-goers.

Mary's waiting outside my room by the time I return to it.

"Have you heard—"

"Nothing yet," she says immediately, and my heart sinks, by some miracle, even lower. There's contrition in her gaze. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound so dismissive, it's just—"

"No, that's alright, I get it—"

"No, no, I—" She halts suddenly, looks at me sincerely. "I can't imagine what it must be like, to have your entire life twist and shift around you in the span of a few hours. Potter has been your constant, I get that. I'll try to find out more after breakfast, I promise."

I attempt something of a half-smile, unsure if I succeed. The easier thing would be for them to allow me to visit him myself, but trust is a precious commodity, and I haven't earned it yet. "Thanks, Mary."

She nods, and then we walk on ahead, the topic put behind us as she regales me with more stories of who's who in the Order of the Phoenix. There's little I can focus on, my usual curiosity about people and the world unnaturally muted as she takes names and describes personalities I have little interest in. The only people I am interested in—well, she seems to know even lesser about them than I do.

"I wasn't ever taken to Mungo's," Mary had said on the second day, when I'd finally allowed the question to spill. "No one here was, apart from the four you already know. We had managed to make a run for it from wherever we lived and hide out here. I have a younger brother—" she'd paused, smile tight. "Michael. I couldn't risk his life or my mother's. I knew the Death Eaters would come for me, so I left about a year ago."

"I'm so sorry."

She'd shrugged, the action not nearly as casual as she wanted it to look. "Dumbledore suspects there are several more of us out there, trying to find safety. Potter and the others—they've been working for the Order for far longer than I've been here. Without the information they have been supplying to us, we wouldn't have made it alive so far."

Something had pricked in the back of my mind. "How did Dumbledore find them?"

"Don't know," Mary had said. "Maybe they'd found him."

"Good morning, Lily."

My eyes drag sluggishly from the tray of food in my hands to land on Remus, seated on one of the long steel benches to my left. Around us, the dining hall continues to buzz with the chatter of conversations; the swarm of black uniform-clad bodies making it impossible to distinguish one extraordinary person from the next. A sharp elbow nudges my side, and I shift my gaze to find Mary cocking a curious brow at me.

Remus is still awaiting a response.

"Morning," I reply, make myself move towards his bench. The hesitation in me is born from the company he keeps. "Hi, Peter."

Blonde head inclines towards us. He looks paler than he did yesterday, but apart from a small, fading scar on his forearm, he's recovered perfectly from the attack on Godric's Hollow. "Lily. MacDonald."

"Hello, boys." Mary slides onto the bench, chipper as ever, already dipping her spoon into a large dollop of porridge. She looks at me, stilling for a beat. "What's the matter? Not hungry?"

Shit.

I pull my gaze from Peter and sit down next to Mary. "I'm alright."

It's difficult not to look up at Remus, seated across from me now, once I've settled down. All he needs to have done is peeked into my head as I'd stood there a moment ago, gaping at Peter and letting the seeds of mistrust and fear and, perhaps more importantly, fury, grow roots within me. But when his eyes catch mine, all I see in the blue is familiar gentleness and concern. The nerves fall away; he's evidently kept up his promise to not read my mind.

'Everything okay?' his expression asks.

I smile weakly in answer.

"Careful with the porridge," Peter mumbles, his eyes narrowed on Mary's tray. "I could've sworn there was a worm in mine earlier."

"There was not." Remus rolls his eyes to the backdrop of Mary's horrified gagging. His tone leaves no doubt that he's had to make this point several times already. "I keep telling you; that's just how it looks. White, mushy, gross."

I make a face down at my own portion and decide to change the topic of conversation. "Have either of you heard any news about James?"

The atmosphere changes palpably enough that I get my answer even before Remus speaks.

"Not yet." His mouth puckers in upset. "Sirius has gone to check on him. He should be back soon, unless he's harassing Pomfrey again."

Poppy Pomfrey is the head doctor at the Order, and she runs the small clinic I'd woken up earlier in with Marlene and a few other volunteer members. But unlike Marlene, whose abilities are meant, at best, for patient care despite their disconcerting nature, I've come to find that Pomfrey, with her almost magical healing powers, is the one to be truly thanked for our recoveries, for my near-healthy state now. I've decided to do just that if she—no, when she—finally heals James.

Impatience, however, seems to be eating away at my gratitude the longer it takes for him to wake up.

"Come with me after breakfast," Mary suddenly says from next to me, and I blink up in question. "There's someone who wants to meet you."

"Who?"

"Minerva McGonagall."

The name sits unfamiliar inside my head. "Who?"

"She's the second in command here." This from Peter, who I still find difficult to look at without frowning. So I nod my head, divert my eyes to the porridge on my plate. "Scary woman, to be honest."

"Brilliant woman," corrects Remus, and Mary grins in agreement.

I worry on my bottom lip, not knowing if I should voice the discomfort that has begun roiling in my stomach, not for the first time in four days. There's no point keeping it in; I'm certain it plays out evidently enough on my face. "I don't—I'm not ready to give her an answer yet, about the… resistance. I don't know if I can—"

"It's okay, Lily," Mary says, a gentle hand placed on my shoulder. "No one's going to force you into anything."

"Doubt it's about that anyway."

I startle slightly at the sound of the new voice, even more so at the slam of an extra plate on the table across from me. Sirius slides in next to Remus with a loud huff, grey eyes dimmed in a strange mixture of annoyance and helplessness like they have been for a while now. He jams a spoon angrily into his breakfast, and growls his frustration at the food. "He's not awake."

I feel myself deflate again. "Did you at least get to see him?"

"No. Pomfrey said he's better, and then chased me away. Apparently, my hovering is not conducive to his recovery."

Peter leans forward, voice lowered as his gaze flies over all of us in quick succession. "Do you think everything's really alright with James though? I mean, bit suspicious, isn't it? Why do you think she doesn't want visitors for him?"

"What?" Mary blurts, brows furrowing.

Peter's eyes jump to her, the light in them turning obviously hesistent. But then, figuring he's said enough already, he continues, "I mean… we don't really know anyone's intentions, do we? Not for certain. There could be things at play here that we don't have a clue about..."

Oh, God.

I suck in a quiet breath, fear unfolding around my heart, squeezing tight. It's a possibility I haven't let myself consider. Not before, not until now. They wouldn't do that. They couldn't. Not when James has been working for them—

A loud clang, and my eyes dart up to see Sirius's spoon on the table, his hands fisted in white-knuckled fury against the wood. He cuts a sideways glance, mouth curled derisively. "Why, Pete, you almost sound like you want something to happen to him."

Next to him, Remus's eyelids flutter shut, worry pinching his brows.

"Sirius…"

A second passes.

"You're a fucking arse, you know that?" Peter bites out, dark flush on his cheeks, and then he's roughly pushing away from the table, taking his half-eaten breakfast plate with him. He leaves a blanket of uncomfortable silence in his wake, one only punctuated by the bits and pieces of conversation that still float in from the other benches in the hall.

"Wow," whistles Mary.

"Honestly, mate, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Remus sighs, turning halfway to glare at Sirius. "Can't let him alone once in a while, can you? That was really fucked up, just now."

"Sorry," comes the insincere reply. "I guess I've been on edge, and he just got on my nerves."

For a brief flash of time, Remus simply continues to stare at him, frown unrelenting. Eventually, when it becomes apparent that Sirius is clearly done talking about it, he shakes his head and turns away. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me, you know. Just don't act like I'm an idiot."

Sirius doesn't respond to this; he simply glances at me, once, and then silently goes back to his food.

And I… all I do is sit and wonder how he's managed to hide his hatred from Remus.

Three Days Ago

"Peter," the name leaves my lips on a reluctant breath, everything recoiling as if I have betrayed the meek-faced boy just by voicing my suspicion. "You—you think it's him, don't you?"

A crease forms between Sirius's brows, jaw clenching, and for a quick second, I'm terrified that that's not it, that I've read him wrong, but then—a nod. Sharp, unwilling. The relief that courses through me feels even worse than the guilt of a moment ago, but the alternative would have certainly carved me up.

Minutes pass, silent. "I had… a feeling about him," I say, just to eliminate the stifling quiet.

Sirius's eyes land on me then, but his gaze is caught somewhere far-off, and I have to wonder if he's even heard me.

"I met him at Mungo's," he whispers suddenly, and I'm holding the air in my lungs, afraid he'll stop if he realizes what he's divulging—or rather, who he's divulging it to. "All three of us did. He was just a mousy little boy then, brought in quite a few months after I was. He was an easy target—constantly picked on by the Death Eaters, never standing up for himself, often overlooked in a crowd. At least, that's how it felt to me. Of course…" here, a wry, sardonic smile, "That only meant James was overeager to befriend him. Couldn't help himself. Somehow managed to convince me and Remus, and the Order, too, that letting in another person on the undercover plan would be a grand idea, if you can believe it."

I can, and only too easily. It doesn't take much more effort than recalling James's brightness, of how optimism and hope are quick to overflow from his every pore.

I don't voice any of this, of course, and I know I'm not expected to.

"It helped that invisibility was a valuable enough ability for Dumbledore that the Order agreed. But when we approached Peter… he was scared out of his mind, would've almost shit his fucking pants." The shadows in the room seem to dance over Sirius's narrowed brows, the pinch of his lips. "But he agreed to help, of course. It's difficult to just say no to James."

This, too, I understand.

"Did something happen? Between the four of you?"

I'm surprised by the sound of my own voice, almost cursing myself for nudging into his narration, but other than a silent blink, Sirius shows no open signs that he'd forgotten my presence next to him. My shoulders relax a little at that; it means he's not about to stop talking on my account.

"No," he sighs, shoots me a sideways glance that suddenly clues me in on the exhaustion lining his features, reminds me that he's just returned from the clinic himself. "Nothing like that, anyway. It had chafed a little at me, given how suspicious I'd been of the bloke before he'd joined us, but Peter was… enthusiastic about his role. Made James unbearably smug to be right, and maybe that's why I was careless too. I forgot to look closely enough."

"That's not—" I bite my lip, wonder if I should voice this in spite of my own feelings on the matter. "I mean, you don't know for sure… that he's the one who..."

I can't bring myself to say it, the thought horrible enough to block the back of my throat.

Sirius doesn't call me out on my cowardice, doesn't do anything at all for several prolonged beats. But then he lets out an anguished breath, head dropping between hunched shoulders. "No, I don't. And I hope, for my own sake, that I never do. Because if he is the one—" he looks at me again, gray eyes dead, "then I'm going to fucking kill him, Evans."

Now

"I'm going to my room," says Sirius, his tray still half full as he pushes away from the table.

I watch him carry it away to empty the food down the large trash bin, and feel my own already-measly appetite crumble into nothingness in my mouth. "I think I'm done, too," I mumble, dragging my spoon around halfheartedly. "Don't feel particularly hungry."

"You could really do with the strength," Remus says gently, mouth downturned. "Promise there are no worms in there."

I hold his gaze across the tabletop, and take a second to sympathize with this man. Caught between the openly raging temperaments around him, bone-tired in a way that's visible to anyone with eyes, shoulders slouched with the world's weight resting on them, and stupidly kind despite it all. Warmth and sadness cloud my insides, but I make myself smile. "I'll make up for it at lunch."

He returns a half-smile in response.

"Ready to go?" Mary asks quietly from my left. "McGonagall?"

I'm about to nod, about to voice my agreement, but my eyes catch on a head of dark hair exiting the hall. That gives me pause. "Sure, just give me a minute. I'll meet you back here."

And before any questions can follow my request, I've stood from the bench, all but rushing to empty my tray and sprinting down the length of the room, not entirely oblivious to the unsubtle stares that follow me still, four days into my stay with this crowd.

"Sirius, wait!" He doesn't stop, though I see the awareness of my call rolling through his shoulders, settling into them in the form of stiff tension. The fact of him ignoring me surprisingly bristles; he's not the only one with anger lying dormant under his skin, ready to erupt at the smallest nudge. So I grit my teeth, allow him to stalk on until we're in an empty hallway. "Sirius Black, you better fucking talk to me now, or—"

"Or what?" he snarls, gray eyes glaring as he whips around. "What are you going to do, Evans?"

I hold his stare. "I'm not the one you're really mad at."

If my calm response bothers him, there's no outward sign of it, and I'm almost tempted to ask him how he does it—how he holds everything in without so much as a crack in his mask. But then he speaks, and the moment passes just as quickly. "Since when are you an expert on what I do or don't feel? Don't make me a project of yours—I'm not James."

That stings, and I make no attempt to hide the hurt and annoyance from him. "Just because you messed up back there with Peter doesn't give you a right to be a fucking arsehole to me now, alright? We both know this is not the ideal situation, but let's not forget we're on the same side here. You getting prickishly defensive because I decided to come talk to you is not going to help."

"I don't need your help."

Jesus, it's like talking to a petulant child.

"Fine. I need yours, then. Happy?"

Finally, the fight seems to drain out of his limbs, one hand rising to rub at his face roughly. For a fleeting second, the gesture makes me stop, feels so achingly familiar that I'm left grappling, trying to unspool the logic behind my reaction. And then, once the memories resurface, they all but knock the wind out of my lungs, because—because that frustration, that action, has James written all over it. So much so that by the time Sirius's eyes catch mine again, I'm not able to school my expression back in time. I don't know exactly what he sees, if he can glean how my heart wrenches, how longing and misery line my insides like another layer of skin, but the clench of his jaw relaxes just a bit, his glare losing its edge.

"What do you want, Evans?"

I drag in a deep breath, fight the hollowness in my chest, ground myself to the moment. "What really happened? When you went to see James today?"

Something flickers in his eyes. "I told you what—"

But I'm shaking my head. "That's not what I mean. Before, what Peter said…" I pause, take note of the way Sirius's face shutters, and still power on, "You don't think he's actually—that he could be right, do you?"

He considers the question, unspoken words moving down his throat, and I hate, detest, loathe the fact that negation is not his immediate response. "I don't know," he sighs eventually, and sounds at least as wretched as I feel. "I don't think Pomfrey or the others would do something like that, but—"

But.

His uncertainty hangs in the air between us, fills the jagged-walled hallway until my skin feels suffocated, bitter with the sticky film of it. I see the confession in his gray eyes, even when his face remains impassive: Sirius doesn't know who to trust either.

"We can't—" I swallow past the panicked burn in my throat and lower my voice. "We have to do something, they can't—"

"What do you think I'm doing, right now?"

A frown slips into place between my brows, and I blink, confused, before noticing the pointed but solid stare he has pinned on me. And then I take in our surroundings, really recognize the direction in which Sirius had stomped off as he'd walked away from me—not towards the dorms, like he'd initially declared to the table at large, but rather towards the opposite side, possibly past Dumbledore's office and further underground, where the Order has its makeshift hospital installed, amongst other things. It's the one area Mary hasn't offered to give me a tour of.

"What are you thinking?" I ask, now, the question coming out in a whisper. I clear my throat, straighten my spine. "Don't do something stupidly reckless, Sirius…"

His eyes narrow challengingly. "You can't—"

"At least, not alone."

That shuts him up, dark eyebrows arched high. For the first time since I've known him, I seem to have stunned the bloke into silence, into opening and closing his mouth for several long beats. And then, as if to startle me in retaliation, he barks out a laugh, loud and untempered. I'm able to do little more than look on, wait patiently as he gathers himself.

"You're something, Evans," he says at length, shaking his head. "Don't worry, I won't burn down the place without notifying you."

"That's not as reassuring to me as you think it is."

"You'll live with it."

I chew on the inside of my cheek, unable to stop my hands from wringing together restlessly. "Are you sure we shouldn't tell anyone about—" the words halt midway; I don't miss the imperceptible warning in Sirius's eyes, reminding me to be careful of what I say. Instantly, indignation rises in my chest; as if I need him to make me more paranoid; as if I'm not already sceptical of people's intentions well enough on my own. But here, sudden inspiration strikes me, and I continue, "—about Wormtail?"

Sirius looks at me like I've gone mad. "Who?"

"Wormtail," I repeat, widen my eyes in emphasis, as if the vehemence of the word will counter the evident mortification overtaking my entire face in blazing red. Contextually, I suppose it would've helped if he'd been present for the strange conversation at breakfast. "You know, our… theory about him?"

"I have so many questions," Sirius mutters, looking on the verge of laughter again. In the next blink, however, he's wiped all amusement from his expression, and I might as well have dreamt up that moment of lightness. "But no, we can't. No one would believe us."

"Remus—"

A sharp shake of the head. "Remus has enough to deal with—it would only worry him more. I don't want him involved until we have something concrete to show for our suspicions."

I recall the fatigue that had clung to Remus's frame like a trusty shadow back in the hall, and have to begrudgingly concede the point to him. "And… James?"

"James!" He tosses back his head, laughs like I've cracked the worst joke he's ever heard, humourless and cutting. And before I can even voice my affront at this, or do more than purse my lips, he's already turning around so that I'm greeted with the sight of his sleek ponytail again. A half-hearted wave is shot over his shoulder. "You're likelier to convince Voldemort to give up on his experiments and host a tea party for us."

Irritation still swims like sludge through my veins as Mary leads me down a snaking hallway to the left of the girls' dorms, presumably to wherever Minerva McGonagall's office sits. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter along the way that I can't bring myself to pay much attention to, not when Sirius's quick dismissal continues to grate on me even several minutes past our conversation.

His departure had been abrupt enough that I hadn't had the time to grasp how artfully he'd sidestepped my question about what he'd been planning, or to at least demand that he take me along with him. To effectively survive down here, I realize with an inward sigh, I'll have to work on being less transparent and more adept at getting others to listen to me. If I wasn't presently pissed at Sirius, I might've asked him for help, even.

"…absolutely terrifying, of course, but you mustn't let that get to you. That's just the way she is with everyone, okay?"

"Hm?" I tune back in, find brown eyes turned towards me curiously. Fuck. "Yeah, got it."

Mary's lips curl into a wide smirk. "You need to learn how to lie better."

And then, without any sort of warning—or perhaps, I've just gone and missed it—she raps her knuckles on the nondescript door in front of us. It's during the two seconds before we get a response from the occupant inside that I quickly take stock of my surroundings: long corridor, plain walls, poor lighting. Identical to literally every other turn in this facility, it would seem, apart from that one hallway that houses Dumbledore's office.

And then I'm being ushered inside a room that doesn't look much different than the one I've been assigned to live in. Perhaps it's a little bigger, spacious enough to accommodate a desk larger than the one in number 6. And while my senses are usually wont to capture everything I can spot with alarming greed, nothing else commands my attention at this moment quite like the figure that sits behind the desk, watching me carefully.

It's a woman, probably around her mid-forties, with a thin, stern face and sharp, intelligent eyes. She's got gray-streaked dark hair pulled back into a neat bun, dressed from top to bottom in the same black clothes everyone in the Order makes a habit of wearing, but somehow managing to make the uniform look smarter, more respectable on her impeccable posture.

"Good morning, Macdonald. And this must be Miss Evans." She beckons us closer, light glinting off her metal-framed glasses. I watch the tight press of her lips soften a little as she continues to look at me. "It's good to have you here with us."

It's a phrase I've heard not for the first time, thrown my way almost carelessly by any Order member who has bothered to interact with me during these past three days. But somehow, the words seem to carry a different sort of weight coming from her—and I recognize this added heaviness in the tone to be sincerity.

"Thank you," I say on a half-spent breath. "And you can call me Lily."

She nods. "Please, take a seat."

I move to do as she says, but sense hesitation crawling up my insides when I notice that the only seating place in the entire room looks to be the single bed pushed up against the right-side wall. Given the formal tone of conversation McGonagall has set for this meeting, it doesn't feel quite right to cross into her distinctly personal space now.

But when I turn my gaze to Mary, hoping she'll commiserate with my awkwardness, or, at the very least, allow me to follow her lead, it's only to find her dropping into a chair I'm quite certain hadn't existed there up until half a second ago.

It takes my brain more time to catch up to the remembrance of abilities and powers and things that lie beyond the realm of possibility than it takes for surprise—and a healthy amount of awe—to emerge at witnessing McGonagall effortlessly transform a pen into another wooden chair with nothing but the touch of her hand.

"Oh," I say, struck dumb, feeling quite foolish about gaping so openly, but unable to truly help it. "You just… that is—you transformed—"

"Transfigured," McGonagall corrects, voice gentle as she offers me something that could be a pleased smile. "I can transfigure things into something else by touching them, though at the foundation, their properties remain unchanged. Which is why the effect is not permanent, I'm afraid, and wears off automatically within a few hours if left alone."

"Oh," I repeat.

"Sit." She gestures again, and I numbly take my place on the chair, half expecting it to crumble under my weight, but of course, it doesn't. "Now—" McGonagall looks at me steadily over the desk, her eyes clear and focused. "What can you tell us about your abilities, Lily?"

And this—this is what I'd been fearing.

Discomfort is a taut rope pulling at my limbs, locking me into place as I struggle to keep a calm facade. No one's going to force you into anything, Mary had told me during breakfast, so I grip tight to that hope, placate myself with the fact of her presence next to me, looking on with unassuming gentleness. My fingers trace the outline of the table in front, and I close my eyes for two restful beats.

"Nothing," my voice admits, mercifully solid. "I don't—I have never shown any signs of—"

"You have."

It's like a jolt to my stomach, those two, firmly spoken words. I snap to attention, stare at McGonagall, feel a strange buzzing under my skin. "What?"

"You have displayed your powers," she replies calmly. Mary's figure shifts forward in my periphery, anticipation clearly clouding the entire room. "At least, that is my belief. As per our records, you were brought into St. Mungo's at age eighteen, which was approximately two years ago. The Death Eaters were still building their numbers at the time, so their only leads were the volunteers for the experiments themselves, and…"

Here, she pauses, hesitation flickering over that carefully neutral expression for the first time. But the way the walls of my chest compress around my heart leaves no room for understanding or patience. "And what?" I prod, uncaring that the tone comes out harsh.

McGonagall straightens, though her mouth thins into a tight line, regret curling over every feature. "And those who offered up information about others willingly."

The sentence clangs around in my mind for several seconds, not making any sense—what kind of information? About whom?—but then the meaning falls into place, falls into me, empties the breath from my lungs in one fell swoop. My lips part, questions trying to rush out, to confirm that she can't possibly mean what I think she means, right? But one prolonged look at her, at Mary's upset yet unsurprised profile, make me stop.

"Do we know for a fact that I wasn't a volunteer?" I choke out, though I hardly need the answer; the sensation of hands pinning me down against a rough-surfaced table is only too easy to dredge up.

And sure enough: "We do. You were captured months after the failed experiments came to light."

I slump back into the chair, throat clogging painfully, blood running cold. Captured.

Betrayed.

Someone sold me, sold my entire life, to the Death Eaters.

Someone who was close enough to know that I had abilities.

Possibly, someone who knows what those abilities are, either as a witness, or as a confidante I'd once trusted.

Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick.

"Lily? Are you okay?" I turn to Mary, find brown irises trained on me, the concern in them blatant enough that I have to wonder just how much of the horror from within plays out on my face. A deep pull of air, and I attempt at a nod, unable to fully erase my grimace. "You're shaking."

It's as if this information from her suddenly inspires self-awareness; I'm glancing down at my hands, finding them, indeed, trembling against my lap, bunched over my thighs. "Do you know—" I begin, and I'm almost startled to hear the anger coursing through my own voice. But then, I'm just as easily not startled at all, because I am—bloody fucking furious. My eyes fly up, catch McGonagall's stare again. "Do you know who it was? What they saw?"

"We were hoping to have more information in a few weeks, but rescuing you had to be prioritized." Her lips pinch unhappily. "Although…"

Again, she seems to be fighting with herself, so I prod, "Yes?"

She frowns, evidently unwilling to part with this knowledge. "Mr Potter seems to believe, and rather adamantly, too, that the one to offer your name to Voldemort is a Death Eater by the name of Severus Snape. He maintains that Snape has a certain history with you, but beyond this theory of his, we have no concrete proof, nothing that can let us know for sure. And given Potter's especially strong dislike against the man, it wouldn't be wise for us to draw any conclusions just yet—"

I've stopped listening.

All I see, all I hear, now, is this: the flash of a dream, the childish shriek of voices, slippers slapping against asphalt, the distant call of my name from a scowling, pale boy. And then, another, more painful recollection: Voldemort and Snape, charting out my role in the fate of mankind while stringing me up on machines, pumping lethal drugs down my veins and spine.

James knows, I decide. He must know about my powers, if he knows about Snape.

"He is right," I whisper, and McGonagall's continued rationalization halts. "I think it's Snape too."

"Why do you say that?" Mary asks.

I consider her question, consider the benefits to being honest. There's no knowing how much James has already shared with the Order—do they know he knew me? Do they know he knew Snape?—and there's no comfort at the thought of describing my nightmare-disguised-memories to them either, not if I want them to have me inspected for possible lunacy, or worse, studied for more clues about the Death Eaters.

In this room, with these two women, sitting patient and kind, it's hard to imagine being fed to the wolves by them.

But the truth stands: I don't know them; I can't trust them.

"I don't know," I say, stomach churning. "Just a feeling."

Mary's right eyebrow arches faintly, but a beat passes, and all she does is shrug. "I guess that's that, then."

The flood of guilt is strong; I try not to drown.

"Very well." McGonagall leans back in her chair, gaze directed at Mary now. "You may return to your rooms or duties, as required, for now. But I will be talking to Dumbledore, and I want you to bring Evans to the training den tomorrow, Macdonald. We'll see if we can get Moody to come in, but even otherwise, she could—"

"Sorry? Training?"

McGonagall glances at me plainly. "To help you discover your abilities, of course."

"You can…" my throat runs dry, so I swallow futilely, "You can do that?"

I only realize I'm expecting a throwaway answer when she takes a long pause, as if actually weighing her response. "It's never been done before, but we can certainly try."

An anxious mix of dread and anticipation curls through my mind, but I manage a shaky nod.

With not much left to be said between the three of us, Mary and I soon make our way out of the room-turned-office and into the maze of hallways again. My thoughts, as they are helpless to do, scatter haphazardly in the few moments of silence that follow, and I'm caught somewhere between the strings of knowing I need to take a shower and wondering if I should go see if Sirius has returned when Mary speaks up.

"You head on to the dorms, I'll see you later."

My eyes drop to the white card between her fingers. "Where are you going?"

"Have you forgotten?" She smirks, winking as she passes me by. "Promised you I'd check in on him, didn't I?"

"So that's it, then?"

He opens his eyes, looks at me like I've gouged out his chest with my bare hands. "Lily…"

"Don't!" The lump at the base of my throat feels like a thousand knife slices. "Don't look like that when you're the one hurting me. You don't get to do that."

His chest expands with a trembling breath, the lines of his face half-doused in the tangy glow of sunset. Everything about this moment, about him—so familiar. So unfamiliar. "I wish I could tell you."

A simple enough ask.

"Then tell me."

But we're caught in a loop, a cycle that can't be escaped from, not unless we jump at the same time. I see it in the hopelessness clinging to those hazel eyes, and feel mine running down my cheeks, wet and angry.

He looks like regret and beautiful dreams.

"Okay," I say, let my voice waver, let the knife impale fully. "Go, James. And I'll forget we ever even knew each other."

"LILY!"

I'm all but toppling out of bed at the shout, heart slamming in my ears, throat compressed tight from the ghost of anguish, mind adamant to pick apart the details and the pain and the what why when. But I'm shoving it all aside, eyes jumping to land on Mary in my doorway, visibly winded, black hair askew. My stomach bottoms out at the sight.

"What?! What the fuck happened?"

She takes half a second, perhaps, to gulp in air, to give me an answer. But I'm already rushing to put on shoes, pulse gone wild when she grins.

"He's awake."

I'm mercifully not left to find my own way to the hospital here; Mary rushes down the corridor in front of me, her pace just fast enough to stop me from crashing right into her back out of impatience. I focus on the thrum of blood and hope under my skin rather than the hundred other fears tumbling through my head, not the least of which is the fact that I seem to have lost a chunk of time again since parting from Mary and going to sleep. If the dampness of my hair is anything to go by, it looks like I managed to wrangle in a shower during this time in-between as well.

And yet, beyond that itch of discomfort, still lurking in the forefront of my mind: The Dream.

Or perhaps, it'd be more accurate to say Dreams now, since there's more than one haunting my waking hours, seeping into every breath I pull, slipping between every step I take.

My insides tie up in knots at the thought of confronting James about them. The first one, in particular, is not a tale I'm looking forward to voice, given the fact that my face feels rather inclined to go up in flames at the mere recollection of those moments. There would be no boundary to my mortification if it was, indeed, little more than a sex dream. The second, however—that's the one that eats away at me, the pain still too fresh, the unease of that farewell, of that morbid goodbye, still nibbling at my sanity. How would I even bring up such a thing? How could I express any of what boils underneath without context, without understanding?

"Just through the door."

I jerk back to the present, and blink to realize we're in front of a white, opaque door, positioned in the middle of a short hallway with only two other rooms on either side. The woman who has spoken is the first person I've seen at the Order who is dressed not in black, but completely in white, full with a coat to match the one I'd seen on Marlene in the clinic when I'd woken up.

Poppy Pomfrey shows no signs of visible exhaustion or distress on her face, and I take that to mean a good thing. "He's inside?"

She looks at me, and for a second, I think she won't let me enter despite her earlier direction to do just that. But she nods, and as if having read my mind, explains, "You can thank Sirius Black for your presence here. I certainly can't be thankful for the badgering I've had to put up with."

Mary cackles, grinning encouragingly at me. My muscles won't cooperate to return the gesture. "Go on, Evans."

I nod, mostly to myself.

Now that I'm here, on the other side of this door, fingers reaching out to turn the knob, the panic that clambers up my windpipe feels nonsensical. But it lingers, regardless, in the worry that maybe everything has changed; maybe I'll see a different version of James from the one at Godric's Hollow; maybe the encounter with the Death Eaters has left a visible mark on him, one we'll both struggle to return from.

My eyes adjust to the bright light in the room, squinting, and when my gaze lands on the bed pushed against the far wall on the right side, all I feel… is relief.

Because it's still just him—sitting up lazily, messy dark hair skimming his forehead, hazel eyes tired but bright behind scratched glasses, dressed in the same black cotton tshirt I'd last seen him in. There's a lopsided smile flying over his face when I enter, directed at Remus and Peter, already seated next to him—one on the bed, one on the lone chair in the room—but it's quick to disappear when he notices me standing inside.

My heart stutters, stops, fights against the confines of my chest, and all thoughts of dreams, memories, abilities, betrayals, pasts—all of it disappears, until there is just this moment; just him, alive, breathing, cheeks red-warm with the blood that flows steadily through his veins as his eyes catch mine. He must surely hear the thud of my pulse down the distance separating us.

"Hey," James says, voice hoarse.

"Lily!" Remus greets, but I can't even bring myself to look at him. "Sirius just left to inform you, though I suppose someone else must've beat him to the punch."

I figure just left translates to just teleported because we didn't run into him on our way down here. "Mary."

"Right." Remus nods, and then, clearly having read my inability for conversation, he's quickly getting off the bed, tugging on Peter's arm so that he'll follow suit. "We'll just be outside, then. Give you two a moment to catch up."

I can't bring myself to protest this departure, and thankfully, neither does James.

And then the door is closing shut behind me, and I'm alone with him, with his cautious but hopeful smile, and my head is blank blank blank except for the strange buzzing filling my ears, the unexplained urge to do something that I can't name. My feet move, one step closer, then, encouraged, a few more.

"Hi," he tries again, smile off, because I still haven't said a word in acknowledgement. He clears his throat, attempts to get rid of the scratchiness lacing it. "Look, I—I know you must be mad, Evans. You have every right to be. There's so much that I—that I didn't tell you, that we didn't tell you. There was no easy way about it, and I wanted to explain things, but I really wanted you to remember on your own, too. And then, when we finally got here, I ended up fucking conked out in the hospital wing for days. I can't imagine what that's been like, for you, and I know must you have a thousand questions—I promise I'll do my best to tell you what I can. But—" he sighs, so heavily that his shoulders shudder against the pillows propping him up. I'm close enough now that when he looks up at me, it's easier to spot the quiet fear in his eyes, the crease between his brows. "Just—please just say something."

I stare at him. I reach out, my fingers curling softy, not around air, but the outline of his jaw, the days-old stubble grazing my fingertips.

Under the touch, James has stopped breathing.

"I've missed you," I whisper, and then I press my lips to his.

A/N - Come say hi on Tumblr!