AN: Thank you to my best friend Morgan (roseytyler on tumblr), and the ever wonderful writers Lindsey (snapslikethis) and Dee (suzies-q), for beta-ing this and polishing it up! This is (way) longer than the previous two, I guess because this is where our little drabble shoots up from just the breakup scene it started with. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed and favorited this so far, I really appreciate every single one of you and I hope you enjoy this, too :-)

Three: Counting Stars
"What now? Plan B, that's what."

Nine o'clock.

Petunia comes to visit. It's a Monday, it's awkward, and Lily makes her lemonade. The elder Evans merely nods her thanks. There's nothing after that, not for a while, because Petunia isn't speaking and Lily is afraid to ask. She's not even sure what the question is, but there is one. She knows it.

They sit in silence, even Petunia holding her words for once.

There's a throbbing silent pang in Lily's chest; the same tingle of some dozen train rides ago, when Lily went off to Hogwarts for the first time. Petunia is oblivious to it, of course. Or maybe she's quelling down her own little devils, too. It still tastes sour on Lily's tongue—the regret, the irretrievable truth that they're long far gone from each other's lives—but it's no longer something they both can't handle. Not a pleasant thought, but there you go.

They both stare at the back of the couch ahead, sat on counter stools in the kitchen. Lily rests her chin on her hand, Petunia nurses her drink with her straw. It's the latter who ends the silence. "So." Lily tilts her head up to acknowledge her. "You're done?"

"I'm done?"

"With school."

"Oh. Yeah. I suppose I am."

"What now then?"

"I'm..." Lily doesn't know, to be honest. Not entirely. There are cauldrons in the spare bedroom upstairs, some still lit and simmering as they speak. She had just about enough time to clear the fumes when she heard the doorbell. Does she tell Petunia that? How does she even begin to explain?

What now? Plan B, that's what. And Lily had no idea where to start on the first day back, how to fabricate a new future around the absence of certain people she's always imagined are always going to be around. There was nothing when she walked away from Sirius at the station. But it is what it is, and there's nothing to do but move on with her life. Do something. Start somewhere.

Right now there's coming up with an investigatory potions project relevant enough to get her into a Ministry internship, something Slughorn has owled her about a few days ago, and then earning enough accreditation to maybe snag a position in the judiciary department later on. It's a long way, but... it's something. "I'm working on getting into this internship," Lily says. "It doesn't pay, not yet, but it's going to give me a pass. I'm getting a job around here while I do it, though, don't worry. For the bills and everything."

Petunia is quiet. She takes one prim sip of her drink. It's a waste of time trying to scour her expression for any trace of approval, so Lily opts to stare at the hat ever immaculately pinned on her head. "You don't have to live here, you know," says Petunia.

Lily doesn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't that. "I know."

"And now that you're done with—"

"Tuney, it doesn't work like that."

"Come live in Surrey with me," says Petunia, the words rushing out of her like that would make it easier to say.

"Surrey?"

"We're leaving Cokeworth. Come live with us. Not in the same house, but I can make arrangements, and we can get you a job—Vernon says his sister's got this nice shop downtown, and you can—"

"Tuney..."

"Why not?" Her voice takes on a higher note. Shakier. "You're finished now, aren't you? You've wasted seven years of your life now, Lily, and that's enough. It's time to grow out of all that crackpot wand-waving nonsense."

"This is who I am." Lily clenches her fists. It was bad when it became apparent that Petunia doesn't understand, but it's worse trying to explain it to her time and again and getting the same result. "It's not just some phase I get into then over with."

"It is if you want it to be."

Lily doesn't. It's out of the question. And that's the problem. "How's Vernon?"

"What?"

"How's Vernon? That's his name, right?"

Petunia drops her glass, the clink noticeably louder than normal, and Lily is sure that her sister won't ask again. "Yes. Vernon. We're okay."

"That's wonderful, Tuney."

Petunia finishes her drink, mutters some lame excuse to go, then promptly gets out of her seat. She makes for the door in big strides, like she can't stand being here. Like it makes her sick. On the doorway, she turns back around. Lily, who followed her out, shoves her hands into her jean pockets. They're both staring at the same patch of linoleum floor. Petunia deliberates, brushes lint off her front that's not really there.

"You can change who you are, Lily," says Petunia. "That's what people are always going to be capable of. Change."

Lily doesn't answer. Petunia takes a deep breath, resigned, and adjusts her hat with nimble fingers. "We're here until next Tuesday."

"It's in my blood," says Lily, loud and clear, if it's the last damn time she'll ever get to say it to Petunia. And it is, isn't it? It's in her blood. The magic. An entire hidden world. And even when, right now, it feels like being a part of it means she's either constantly walking away or that she's being constantly left behind, then so be it. But this is who she is. She's not the problem. And she's going to fight for that. She's not going to slink back into her 'fetid, rightful place', whether it be Demetria Greengrass or her own bloody sister dragging her to it.

There's a dreadful pause before Petunia turns her back, and then, coldly, she says, "Perhaps we don't share the same blood then."

The Potter manor stands on top of a low hill, old and proud and summer-graced. A stone path trails down from a short flight of wide stone-paved steps leading up to the tall double-doors, lilies and daffodils like welcoming sentinels on either side. The path branches off just before the hill slope ends; one leads to the High Street, the other circles half the hill, disappears into a grove of trees, dead-ended by a two-storey shack peeking curiously from the tangled branches.

There's one glorious undisturbed moment here, do you see, when the wind sweeps across the silver-tipped grass in one long warm sigh from the south. Light and shadow waltz under applauding leaves, and the nearby lake glitters under a ring of pines and willows, like stirred moonlit sky.

It's afternoon, on the same Monday, a little after three o'clock.

A low, distant rumble starts resounding from the north, growing louder and louder by the minute, and the grounds vibrate as if to prepare itself.

Inside, in the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Potter look up, recognizing the all-too familiar noise. Mr. Potter—Charlus—chuckles to himself, and then turns a page of his book as if it's nothing. Mrs. Potter, however—Evangeline, her friends call her—shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Fourth time this week!" After a quick wave of her wand to clear the sink, she makes her way downstairs. Mr. Potter sighs, but otherwise remains in his seat.

Up in the air, on a flying motorbike—for what else could it have been?—Remus is swearing. But no one can hear that from the ground. What's there, if enough attention is paid, is Sirius's bark-like laugh, James's long high-pitched whoop disintegrating into nonstop chortle, and Peter's scream as James dives down fast, his broom almost vertical—

They crash on the shack just as Mrs. Potter throws open the double doors not far away. She marches down the stairs and around the hill, wand in hand, curly wisps of white hair escaping her updo. When she reaches the grove, the four boys are already in a line, looking sorry—well, Remus is—and behind them the shack has been charmed back to normal.

"It really was an accident this time, I swear," her son tells her the moment she's within earshot, but he's laughing. "Peter flew with me, and we were too heavy for—"

"You're all on kitchen duty tonight," announces Mrs. Potter, after inspecting the shack as thoroughly as she can from where she's standing. It seems fine. It always seems fine. Even on full moon nights, even on that one time when it exploded for whatever it was that they were doing in there. "No elves, no wands. Are we clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," says Sirius.

"We're really sorry," says Remus.

"Yeah, sorry," adds Peter.

"Mum, can we at least have Zirk, I mean—"

"Shut your mouth, James." She's already heading back the house.

"We totally won," Remus says in the ensuing silence, and Sirius starts laughing again. "We totally did."

"Oh, shut up," says Peter. "We won."

"Get over it, Wormy," says Sirius, putting an arm around Peter and rumpling his hair, much to Peter's displeasure. "Next time you ride with me."

James rolls his eyes and summons his broom up from the twig-carpeted ground. "You did not win, we hit the window two seconds before—"

The sound of something large and heavy crashing against the floor, followed by loads of other somethings continuously toppling down, interrupts him. All four of them let out their respective choice swear words, darting towards the shack to put the charm back in place.

Once inside, Sirius perches himself on the window ledge while the others start levitating pieces of splintered wood and glass back to their right places, the littlest insignificant ones ending up on a tall crumbling divider shoved awkwardly to the side. The place is dusty and mouldy and smells like old wood and burnt leaves, but none of them seem to mind. "So," says Sirius, "do we punch Prongs now?"

James, wand up, cranes his neck to frown at him in question. "What?"

"Of course he doesn't know," says Remus, focused on levitating a piece of bent metal out of the way. "Tell him, Pete."

"It's the girl," Peter tells James with a hint of frustration. He leans against the wall after tackling a particularly heavy block himself, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "From the park?"

"What girl?"

"Red and white striped shirt," says Sirius.

"Pretty hair," says Remus. "Dimples."

"Dimples," stresses Peter, nodding enthusiastically. "The dimples were really cute."

James drops his hand, twirling his wand in his fingers. He slumps down cross-legged on the floor and leans back on his arms. "What are you all talking about?"

"Someone hex him," says Sirius.

"James, come on," says Remus. The floor mostly cleared now, he makes his way to the window as well. "She fancies you. She's there all the time! She's been waiting for you to notice..."

"You three have noticed. Maybe she likes one of you," points out James. He doesn't remember. He tries to—imagines the park in his head, but there's always been just people. No red and white stripes. No dimples. "I don't even—where does she stay? Who the hell is this girl?"

"The girl back in the park! Bench by the duck pond."

"Sometimes under the tree."

"Always somewhere by the duck pond."

James looks from one of his best friends to another, bemused. "I never knew there was a girl."

Remus rolls his eyes. "Now, you do," he admonishes. "Next time, do something, yeah? Make an effort."

"To what?"

"To keep the ridiculous singing down in the shower; you sound like a constipated dragon," Sirius puts in sardonically. He leaps off the ledge and puts his hands on his hips. "What else, Prongs? The girl likes you! Maybe you two can—"

"Oh." James snorts. He looks away and adjusts his glasses. "Oh, no. You can't be serious."

The other three all raise their eyebrows. "What? Why not?" asks Peter.

"You want me to ask her out? Seriously?"

"What's so wrong about it?" asks Remus.

"I can't ask that girl out. I don't care if she's Celestina Warbeck."

"I wouldn't want you to date Miss Warbeck, James Potter," says Sirius, eyes narrowed.

"Not the point, Sirius Black."

"Why?" Sirius's confusion is laced with just the detectable amount of annoyance now. And suspicion.

"You know why."

They are all quiet for a moment, and then Peter says, "Maybe it will help..."

"It won't," insists James. "And it—we could end up hurting someone. 'Sides, I'm fine."

When no one contests that, Peter awkwardly puts in: "Yeah, okay, you are, but you're not..."

"What, over Lily?"

Remus clears his throat. Peter shuffles his feet. Only Sirius seems indifferent, even crossing his arms and daring James to go on.

James laughs. It sounds genuine enough, alright, but he jumps to his feet and walks over to the divider, his back to his friends. Sirius knows he's only pretending to do something with the shards on there. "Seeing other people won't prove anything, okay? That's not going to be our grand backup plan." He turns slowly to face them again, not quite meeting their eyes, but not as distressed as Sirius anticipated either. "I mean, fine, so I still... it's just Evans. She's—she's something. It's going to be a while. I know that. But I'm okay, too. I'm good, really. I don't want anyone. Not now. But that doesn't mean I'm not..."

James trails off, bemused at Sirius, who now looks like he's trying to hold back a smile. Sirius nods, uncrosses his arms to throw them up in the air in mock surrender. "Fine. Got it."

"We do?" asks Peter.

"Yeah, we do," adds Remus, hint of something pleasant—pride?—settling on the quiet bend of his lips.

Peter shrugs. "Alright. I'm asking that girl out then. I like her dimples."

To Lily, the week is a passing blur of solitary errands and distraction in the form of underdeveloped healing potions.

The loop is only broken on Friday, when she receives a letter. It comes through regular post, so she initially assumes it's from Mary. When she flips the envelope, however, only her initials and address are scrawled in green ink. No details of who and where it came from.

She goes back inside the house and stares at the letter for a while, suspicious.

There's not much to read when she finally opens it. It's an invitation, she finds, more than it's a letter, and the sender... the penmanship she knows, she recognizes without a doubt. And the way it was sent… A cover, perhaps?

It takes her hours to get to sleep that night.

"It's just a date and an address," muses Peter, sprawled on his stomach on James's bedroom floor come Friday. "Sunday at nine..."

"It's from Dumbledore," says James from the bed, hunched over the letter addressed to his name. He wasn't the only one who made out their former Headmaster's handwriting. They all agreed it was Dumbledore's. Number Seven, Napoleon East, Cobalt Creek. "I have a feeling we're not supposed to tell."

"There were no owls," says Sirius, the only one not holding on to his letter. He's on the window ledge again, his feet up and his back against the frame. "They were just here. Could it have been your parents?"

"No, they're not back until later tonight."

"Are we going?" asks Peter, his voice muffled with his cheek squished against his knuckles.

"Of course we are," says James. "It's Dumbledore."

"What do you think is it for?"

"I don't know..."

"I think I do," Remus cuts in, all the while silent on the couch near the hearth. He's still perusing his letter, but his brown eyes aren't seeing. He flashes them a wan smile when he looks up. "This must be for the Order."

On Sunday morning, James comes out of the room first.

He treads the hallway, his trainer-clad soles practiced to perfect quiet against the carpet. He lingers on the second floor landing, few steps short of the grand staircase, hands in the pockets of his maroon jacket. The wide receiving salon is empty below him. A dragon-scale chandelier hangs above, a hundred raindrop mirrors exploding from the center of the high ceiling. He can already hear the murmuring bustle of the house elves from the kitchen. In front of him across the wide space, tall identical windows flank the wooden doors on either side; beyond them the manor grounds stretch from the hill down, ripply and tinted through the glass, the horizon far ahead barely cracking. In the scant lighting, he catches his reflection in more than one dangling piece of crystal scale. He stares at himself, scattered replicated Jameses, mind wandering to the things that could potentially, drastically change during the day.

Number Seven, Napoleon St, Cobalt Creek.

The Order.

If Remus is right, and this is a call to arms (of sorts), then it's possible that a major decision-making is going to happen soon. For all of them. He tries to focus on that. He convinces himself that that's what he's concerned about, the war and everything it entails, and not the fact that… well, if it's a secret organization mainly concerned to cripple the rise of Voldemort… then she ought to have received a letter, too, right? It's mental, he knows. The world is falling apart, for Merlin's sake. And he's nervous of that. Nervous of her.

His thoughts are broken when a movement in his periphery makes him jump, and it isn't until Mr. Potter is already beside him that he realizes how deep in his thoughts he was.

"Up early, are we?" Charlus Potter asks, leaning against the railing with his son.

"Busy day today."

"It's Sunday."

"I—yeah. Yeah, I know that..."

"I suppose you've always been a morning person anyway."

"Mhmm."

"You never stay here, though."

James's brows knit when he looks up at his father. "Stay here?"

"Not usually," says Charlus thoughtfully, a knowing smile on his face. "I can count the only instances with my fingers: Quidditch World Cup, first day in Hogwarts, first day of seventh year—my son the Head Boy… Oh, and on your first day back from your fifth, too. You know, I never did figure that one out. That was a bit different from the others."

"What are you talking about, dad?"

"Something big happening today?" he asks, and James's silence gives him away enough. "When something important is happening, you always come here, first up in the day, looking around the house like a Ministry governor. All… broody. I think your mum's got a picture of when you were eleven…"

"Dad…"

"I'm not going to ask you to tell me what it is, but I have a feeling…"

"Did you get letters as well?" James blurts out. He's been dying to ask since he read his. Besides, his father really seems to already know—

Charlus's expression is one of calculated deliberation. The wrinkles on his face seem more vivid to James somehow, but through all of it, now more than ever, he can see himself in his face—bits and pieces, like the shape of his eyes, the edge of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. There's a resigned sort of calm in his eyes, though, something James has yet to inherit in the coming years. It resides on the softness of his gaze, on the corners of his papery lips. "Dumbledore," Charlus mumbles, dragging the last syllable out. He shakes his head with a sad smile. James can't tell if it's approval, but it doesn't seem like the opposite either.

"You did, didn't you?" presses James.

Charlus sighs. "James, your mum and I… You have to understand that given the present state of affairs, I'm going to have plenty trouble looking for a new occupation, and—"

"No. Dad, no. I don't—I didn't mean it like that. I just honestly wanted to know, that's all."

Charlus nods. "We did get them, yes."

James can still sense the apology in his tone. He puts his hands on Charlus's shoulders—funny how he never really noticed when he's gotten taller than him—and gives him a reassuring smile. "It's okay, I promise you."

Charlus smiles back. More lightly this time.

"You don't want me to go, do you?"

"I don't," Charlus flat-out confirms. "I don't think any of your mates' parents would either."

"Well, I mean, Sirius…"

Charlus chuckles. "If it's Dumbledore, then especially Sirius, don't you think?"

James laughs.

"But I also know that that won't stop you."

That, James doesn't quite know how to respond to.

"It wouldn't if it were me, too," Charlus continues. "I don't think it would stop Evangeline either."

James smiles down at the empty foyer. "I'm going to be fine, dad. You know I am."

"I do believe this would put your plans on hold, though."

James heaves a deep sigh. "It's not like things have been going all according to plan recently..."

There's a reluctant pause on his dad's part, and then, "Does Lily still think—"

"Yeah," answers James a little too quickly. "But we, er—it's alright. We probably need the time on our own. What with everything. S'all very chaotic."

"Okay. I'm truly sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Peter mentioned how my—"

"Peter's an idiot. It's really not."

"Alright." The sun has risen now. The gardens are taking shape in the morning light, and James is feeling calmer than when he stood here all alone. "You're a Chaser, though," says Mr. Potter.

"Erm, yes, I am."

"You chase…"

James gets it, but he doesn't think he likes it much. "Dad, honestly, you and Sirius have the most terrible—"

His dad laughs. "I'm just saying—you've found her! She's out there. You know she is." He shifts himself, like his restlessness has ascended with the sun. "You know, it always baffles me—you always do things so fast. Always so fast. Set your eyes on something, work on it, get it. Like you're... rushing. Why are you always rushing?"

James shrugs. "I don't know. Life is short?"

Charlus shakes his head. "You're worse than your mum. Honestly. But it's different with… the game never ends when you're a Chaser. You don't call it. You can't rush it. You keep playing. And in one game you can lose your hold on the Quaffle once to a million times, but you win it back. You get back there, and you win it back."

"What if I'm playing the wrong game? What if it's not mine to win?"

"You've only lost it once. And sure, it seems like two bludgers came with it. But once."

They are both interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Sirius hobbles in from the left corridor, yawning, eyes still half-closed.

"Morning, Sirius," Charlus greets him with a fond, amused smile.

"Morning." Sirius sounds like he's not totally sure if he's awake yet. He yawns another. "Wormy and Moony up yet?"

"Doubt it," says James.

"I'll go wake them," Sirius says, slurs, shuffling past them and on to the other side of the hallway, where Remus and Peter's room is. James knows he'll crash right back on the bed there the moment he gets near them.

Before Mr. Potter goes down the stairs to the smell of breakfast now wafting up to them from the ground floor, he rumples James's hair—something he hasn't done in ages, and James is too stunned to protest—and says, "You make me proud, James, you know that?"

James rolls his eyes, recovering too quickly. "Shut it, Dad."

Charlus laughs, warmest and biggest yet, and something inside of James warms and tugs and breaks when he realizes he doesn't remember the last time he heard his father laugh like that.

"You lot take care of each other, okay?" says Charlus.

James grins and gives him a salute.

Neptune Hollow, where she should be Sunday morning as was ordered in the letter, is actually not new to Lily, and she's hit with an unexpected wave of nostalgia when she gets off the bus. It's not far from Cokeworth; just a fifteen minute ride from the nearest station.

There's this carnival fair that stops here every year. Before Hogwarts, she and her dad used to come every summer.

The bus goes off and Lily takes a deep breath, checks the place. The cathedral is a familiar sight a couple of blocks ahead, a lone tower among low abodes. She makes her way down the street with random memories of her dad and her stomach in a knot.

The number of buildings has doubled since last she visited. The street, with blocks of closely built bungalows, feels longer than she remembers. Passersby are scarce.

Lily soon discovers that the house numbers are hard to find. They're not on the doors, the way house numbers are in Cokeworth, but are either nailed on the columns supporting the gates or welded onto the iron gates themselves. Every single one is fashioned differently. There seems to be no discernible pattern on the order of houses either.

After an hour or so of aimless walking, she finally finds it—Number 18—but the building she comes upon looks so abandoned that she thinks maybe she's not recalling the address correctly. She didn't bring the letter. Maybe she should have. She looks at her watch—almost nine—and starts to panic. The letter said to be there at nine. Will Dumbledore mind the tardiness?

The house looks like an old convent. Two storeys, one of the few with more than one floor, made of rough grey stone that looks dull even under the late morning sun. The gate is so rusty she knows the flakes would get on her hands should she decide to push it open. A thick long chain is wrapped around the middle like a guarding snake. It smells like blood. The front yard is unkempt, the windows barred, the doors closed shut.

She decides to just go inside. It's a secret meeting after all. The façade could be a ruse, another cover...

Her fingers are barely an inch from the gate when she senses movement from the house next to Number 18. She's alert in a second—and spots an old woman peeking out the window, through the thin slit of her floral curtains. She's looking straight at Lily. The young witch smiles and waves, unsure of what to do. To her surprise, the woman holds her hand in front of her, gesturing on her bare wrist. Baffled by the intent but understanding what she meant, Lily checks the time. Eight fifty-eight.

When she looks up at the woman again, she's surveying the street from left to right. Seeing that it's clear, she mouths something at Lily—the gate? Did she say the gate?—and motions for her to check her watch again. Lily wraps her fingers around the padlock at the end of the chain, feeling a bit foolish—and immediately knows that something's... wrong. She can't take her hand off the gate anymore. She tries not to be overly alarmed when she finds the woman smiling, almost encouragingly, and then disappears not long after back into her house.

Now she's alone. There's one minute left.

She tries to extricate her fingers again, but the small slab of metal and her hand have somehow turned to magnets. She looks around the street. Should she use her wand?

Thirty seconds. There's no time to worry about being sighted, she fishes out her wand with her free hand, but then faces the problem of which spell she ought to use.

Bloody hell.

When her watch ticks nine, something pulls her forcefully forward, knocking the breath out of her. She suffers from a violent mini heart attack when she thinks she's going to hit the rusty metal face-first, but then it disappears, all of it; the gate and the ground beneath her feet, the surge of adrenaline prompting her to remove her fingers from the gate plummeting instead into a chaotic whirlpool of confusion and surprise and panic—and all through everything the unseen force unfailingly pulls her, her fingers keeping contact with the padlock. She realizes what it is in the following hurricane of smudged out colours, a dull ringing in her ears.
That woman must have been a lookout.

She could have done with a little warning, really.

Oh, Merlin, she needs to close her eyes—

She tries to get a hold of her feet before they slam on solid ground, but she still stumbles when the trip ends. She gets up, supporting herself with a hand on the wall, nauseous.

When she gets her wits back, she checks her surroundings. She's in a hallway. Narrow, musty, dim. Old carpets. A door ahead is halfway open, light and mild chatter spilling from the hatch.

"Never got used to it either, did you?" Someone says from behind her, and she jumps. Mary is leaning against the wall, her hands on her temples, out of breath. "Dratted Portkeys."

Lily practically runs to her and gives her a hug. "Oh my god, hello."

"Missed you too, Lil," says Mary. "Now come on. It's a minute past nine."

"So when you said you and Dumbledore talked about employment that night," says Peter, struggling to keep up with the pace of his three friends, "you meant you talked about this."

"Not exactly," says Remus. "He offered me a post in this opposition group, but no details. Just that if I ever have difficulty... er, looking for work. I can work for him instead. I can help them."

"Hang on," says James, frowning. "You three have talked about this? Where was I?"

"Dreaming," supplies Sirius simply, his full attention on Remus. "What did Dumbledore say, exactly? You can tell us now, right? We're all invited now. Sort of."

"I suppose, yeah." Remus walks ahead and whirls around, hands held out to halt them. They all have serious expressions, for once tense. Peter keeps biting at his nails. "What he said was that there's this secret organization," says Remus, "which he just called the Order. But I might even have gotten that wrong. But this Order—they're working against Voldemort. There are spies in the Ministry departments and everything. Some other recruitments going on. I don't know. Like I said, not much specs. But now, I've been thinking, if they're going so far as to invite us in..."

"Just out of Hogwarts. They must be desperate," says James, thoughtful. "You think the war's gotten worse?"

"Or we just must be good, my chipper, positive friends," says Sirius, rolling his eyes. "Why didn't Dumbledore tell us about this then? Why only you?"

No one answers. Remus averts his gaze. When he starts walking again, his back strangely goes stiff and his walk's more brisk. James and Sirius exchange a glance, James shrugging and shaking his head. They go after Remus without another word, Sirius frowning.

It's Peter who holds the answers this time. "Moony's different," he says as they walk, the reluctance in speaking his thoughts out evident in his voice. He watches Remus look right and left down the length of Napoleon St, watching out for the elusive Number Seven. "Out of us he's got the least choice about things after Hogwarts, hasn't he? Dumbledore was doing him a favour. Giving him something to do…"

James doesn't answer, but carefully regards Sirius for his reaction. Peter is right. Might be right. Sort of right. James hates the whole thing.

Sirius doesn't say anything at first, too, and then he picks up his pace, muttering venomously, "That's rubbish." But he doesn't elaborate on it. "Hey, Moony! Wait up, will ya?"

Peter seeks James for reassurance, but he doesn't get it. James only checks his watch and walks faster to catch up. "We have to hurry. It's almost nine."

"Shall we start?" A man asks from Alastor Moody's right. Lily only knows Moody's name because he introduced himself first thing when she stepped into the room. Big man with a coarse voice and more scars than she can count. Nearly scared her and Mary half to death, too. He said they might as well begin with names until the meeting formally commences. Lily thinks she heard Moody call the other man Gid earlier, the one who just asked, but she can't be sure. "How do you even start…" mutters Gid, looking around the room with noticeable trepidation.

Lily and Mary are seated near the end of the table—the other end, the one placed by an old-fashioned fireplace. The door is on the other side, still open, although no one's come in after her and Mary yet. The room is only slightly brighter than the hallway outside. There are about twenty others inside with them, just about the number for the place's capacity. Some are sitting around the table, some leaning against the cold uneven walls. No one is saying anything, not besides Gid, and the curious tension is apparent in their occasional fractured movements. Suspicious gazes, twiddling fingers, pursed lips. Lily recognizes some of them, even greeted a few upon entrance. There's Cassandra Dame, Slytherin prefect back in Hogwarts, Head Girl when Lily was a fifth year; and Dorcas Meadowes from a year up, Ravenclaw, prefect as well; Marlene McKinnon, Terrence Hunter, Jeanne Marchbanks…

All from Hogwarts, all barely older than herself.

"Not yet," Moody barks out in answer to the Gid bloke. He, too, seems to be having second thoughts about the handful of people they have collected. Lily wonders if they're going to go any further with this if the higher-ups are clearly still on the fence about them being here... "There's four more. The miscreants, I'm guessing." His eyes then flicker towards Lily and Mary's direction, but Lily pretends not to notice.

She can feel Mary's eyes on her as well. She determinedly carries on with her surveillance of the meeting place.

Four more. Of course they'd be here. And—she almost laughs—of course they'd be late.

They wait some more, Lily's nerves a simmering tangle in the pit of her stomach.

"It's a flower shop," deadpans James, as if the other three need telling. Across the street, finally, is Number Seven, except it's a bright blue stall with rows and rows of flowers, all sorts of them, in bouquets and pots and buckets. "Are you lot sure we're in the right place?"

In answer, Sirius turns to Peter to ask, "Wormtail? Did you bring your letter?"

"No—you said no one would bring their letters!"

"Sorry, it's just usually you don't pay attention. Wrong time to start as it happens."

"No, it was definitely seven," interrupts Remus, before Peter could retort. "It's the right place. Unless there are other Napoleon streets around…"

"Alright," says James, already walking towards the shop. "Let's go check it out then."

When they get there, they all jump back when a plump woman appears out of nowhere—well, more like stands up abruptly from behind the receiving counter, sending a couple of bouquets from the top row to tip over. She recognizes them immediately, and she's not pleased. "You're late." She glares. "Nine has passed."

"We're sorry," Remus says at once, stepping up. James, Sirius, and Peter gladly give him the floor. "We got lost."

"You think I care about your excuses?" the woman snaps. "All this effort for nothing…"

"We still can go, right?" asks James, wary. "We're still—"

"Not here, boy!" the woman whisper-yells, leaning over the counter to check if anyone in the vicinity has heard. "You lot come over here and pick a flower."

"What?" all four of them say. The niche behind the counter is small, and James doesn't think they'd all fit in there.

"Just bloody do it." She's hunched over the shelves again, rummaging for whatever.

One by one, because a narrow opening to the side only allowed for one person at a time to enter the cramped space inside, the boys enter the shop. They stand there, uncomfortably crowded, looking around like lost kids.

"Well, go on then! Haven't got all day, have we?" the woman says, exasperated. "Pick anything!"

They scramble for something at once. James picks a yellow rose by instinct—Lily's favourite, something he doesn't fully realize until he notices the other three looking at him funny.

Apparently, however, they have no time to discuss such trivial things.

"There you are..." The woman straightens back up, her wand now secure around her fingers. She's careful not to raise her hand too high in case anyone from the street sees. "You brats know anything about Portkeys?"

"We do," they say.

"Ever created one before?"

"Er, no."

The woman rolls her eyes. "Fine, fine. Hand me those flowers… Should've known you'd be late. Merlin, I was going to have a bit of fun with you before sending you off, but—"

"What?" asks Sirius.

"Shut up there, Shaggy."

"Shaggy?"

She ignores him. "You. Potter boy. Give me yours."

James hands her the yellow rose. The woman points her wand at it, tongue between her teeth in concentration. "Portus."

The rose moves ever so slightly in her hand, a tremble that James could only have imagined. It takes on a pulsing bluish hue, but before James can take a proper look the woman's handing him back the flower. She nods urgently towards the back door, hidden almost entirely by Peter's body. "Get in there. And quickly. It'll activate in a minute." She points at Sirius. "Shaggy, you next."

"Please stop calling me that," mutters Sirius as he steps up, but the woman only rolls her eyes again.

With effort, James manages to go around Remus and Peter and out the back door, where there's a small dusty chamber on the other side. More flowers, and a stack of barrels in a corner.

Sirius is just opening the door and getting in the back room himself when the yellow rose wrenches James forward, and the world disappears from underneath him.

James arrives first. He appears out of nowhere and lands immediately inside the room, propping himself up against the nearest wall, crouching down to catch his breath. He... he's holding a yellow rose. Moody helps him up, rather roughly, and Lily sees James cringe in fear for a second before recognition passes over his eyes. "Hey, Moody," he greets him, and then brushes himself off.

Moody just grunts.

Sirius appears next, cursing as he stumbles in from the void of a Portkey trip, a purple ground orchid rolling off his fingers onto the floor. He doesn't bother to retrieve it.

Ten seconds later, Remus and Peter are in the room too, swearing, Remus with a sunflower and Peter with carnation—Where the hell did they come from, exactly?

"Sit your tardy behinds down," Moody barks at them. Sirius takes the seat beside Mary, nudging her with his elbow and muttering, "Hey". He doesn't acknowledge Lily. The rest of the boys take the remaining unoccupied seats around the table, Remus patting Lily's shoulder and smiling down when he passes by her. James ends up in the seat across Lily. He doesn't look at her until he's properly seated, and Lily doesn't feel like he even wanted to when he finally does. She doesn't know if she should say hi.

When Remus and Peter hand Mary their flowers to relieve themselves of them, James slides the yellow rose towards Lily. He's not exactly smiling when she looks up at him. He only shrugs, not a big deal, and then turns his full attention to Moody.

Moody looms over them, his mouth in a thin line. "Well, then," he begins, looking around from one person to another. "Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix. You kids have been called to war."

The explanation turns out more brief than Lily expected.

It's a resistance group, the Order of the Phoenix, doing everything they can to thwart Voldemort and his plans. The existing members—they're careful not to mention anyone—are busy looking out for possible infiltrations in the Ministry and making sure the departments' high ranks are guarded with people within the Order's movement. Their insiders have unearthed that Voldemort's rise is steady in its pace, worse than they have anticipated, but finding this out before it blows up in all their faces is a step forward for their side. The Order is founded by Dumbledore—no surprise there—and it's been responsible for the most recent Death Eater arrests and trials. Not many, but they're doing everything they can. It's always been just through anonymous tips up to this point for them, and the group remains undetected so far.

The meeting is still nothing more than an invitation, Lily reckons, just like the letter. Nothing specific or of utmost importance is divulged. The rain of questions that follows lasts longer than their primary initiation. It mostly concerns what is expected of them, what the membership encompasses, everything else they can know at this stage. The last turns out not to be plenty.

"We don't expect you to jump on board now," says Gid, when at last there's a break from the eager hands in the air. "We're giving you the entire week to think about it."

"We don't expect you to jump on board ever either," cuts in Moody. "And that is important for you to know. I'm aware that some of you are itching to get in the field,"—his eyes land on James and Sirius and the lot, "—but I want you to think long and hard about this. Consider your families, your plans, the fact that you might not come home one day, that there might be no home to go to. Because that happens. This isn't a bloody vacation, get that in your heads, and it's not going to be some out of a tale adventure. It's a hell pit from here on out. We have lost members since formation, in the most gruesome, inhumane ways, and we won't hold it against anyone who says no." He pauses, lets it sinks in. "Understood?"

A collective murmur of assent sweeps over the room.

"Any more questions?"

"How do we let you know after a week?" asks Mary.

"Oh, yeah—you write to us," answers Gid. "Just address it to me or Alastor or Dumbledore. The owls will know. A yes or no would suffice, by the way. Nothing else. Yes, Meadowes?"

"No consequences at all for people who say no?" Dorcas asks. It's the first time she speaks. Lily remembers the way she looks at people, and it hasn't changed; it's stayed dangerous still, somehow managing to seem both somnolent and sharp beneath her lids. "For some reason I find that hard to believe."

"What do you mean?" says Gid, eyebrow raised. "You're free to refuse."

"But we would know about this group," says Dorcas. "Your secret, undetected Order. I doubt you'd just let us walk away. The knowledge of your existence alone is relevant, isn't it?"

"What are you saying?"

"Prewett," calls Moody before Gid—Prewett?—can respond. He eyes Dorcas curiously. "You're right. We're not going to let you walk away with that information."

Dorcas cocks her head to the side and arches a perfectly curved brow.

"We will conduct modified, selective Obliviation to those who say no."

The room erupts into a sputter of questions. Moody holds up a hand and the room quiets down. Lily and James find each other in the crashing wave of objections, both frowning.

"We fully respect your choices," speaks Moody over the remaining din. "But the Order is just beginning to gather the information it needs, and it's imperative that we remain hidden until we have as many pieces as there are to work with. And such will be the case until Dumbledore deems it the right time, or until we can no longer hold it secret." He leans forward, his palms making a cutting sound against the wooden table, and bores his palpable fervour upon everyone. "You are here because Dumbledore trusted you to be strongly sympathetic to the cause, whether or not you decide to fight this war with us. Prove that you are and understand that it's for the best."

No more disagreement this time. Not out loud at least. Dorcas leans back in her seat and crosses her arms.

"Use the week well," says Moody. "You are not going to be offered this twice."

The initiates are instructed to exit the meeting once more through Portkeys. They never find out where they are, because the Portkeys are all ready and inside the room when the meeting ends. They go in groups, and somehow Lily ends up with the marauders and Dorcas Meadowes. When she tries to subtly request to be put with another group, Mary's, Mary sidles up to her side and assures her that it's okay, and that she'd come visit her later in the week to talk about all of it.

Lily only joins her assigned group when they're already poised around the Portkey on the table, ready to go. It's an empty firewhiskey bottle this time, the label torn and faded. She stands between Remus and Peter and tries not to meet Sirius's or James's eye. She feels the bottle pull, and the yellow rose on the table is the last thing she sees before she's taken away.

They land in a park somewhere. Dorcas walks away without so much as a tip of the head for a goodbye.

"I hope I never get to work with her," says Sirius, watching her go. Remus and Peter hum their agreement.

James doesn't take his eyes off Lily. She was too fast to shift her eyes when their gazes met for a heartbeat upon stumbling onto the grassy ground, and he can't decide if it's better to just let it that way.

He follows her movements as she quietly picks the discarded bottle up and walks over to a nearby bin. She sits down the bench beside it, looking out down the street where Dorcas is just turning the corner.

His fingers unconsciously curl into fists. Merlin. He misses her more than he thought.

"I think that's a diner," Remus is saying, and James tears his gaze away from Lily just in time to see him point at a modest building on the opposite lane. "And I'm famished."

"Me, too," says Peter eagerly.

"You coming, Potter?"

Potter.

James raises an eyebrow at Sirius, but the bastard only raises one back at him, too. Sirius calls him Potter—and in that tone—when he's unsettled. He must have seen him watching Lily.

"One sec," says James, deciding right there, ignoring Sirius's expression. "Wait for me, I'll be right back."

He walks towards Lily in big strides before he can back out.

"Hey," he says, and Lily can't believe he's here.

He actually came over here. Okay. Oh, god.

She only smiles. She thinks she might just croak pathetically if she tries to speak before she could.

He takes the space beside her on the bench. When their arms brush, she feels him discreetly move farther away. "You didn't take the rose."

It takes her a moment to reply. He waits patiently. "I wasn't sure if it was—"

"'Course it was for you. You love those."

"Yeah, but..."

"It was just a rose, Evans. We were in a shop, it was a Portkey, and you like them. That's all."

Lily blinks. "Alright. Sorry then."

He stares at her funny, and then mumbles, "Damnit." He lets out a breathy laugh that doesn't last. He's nervous. He shouldn't be, but he is. "Sorry. Er, so, anyway, will you...?"

She knows that that's the only sensible reason for him to come here and talk to her. The Order. That's all. Of course it's all. Nothing else. She has no business whatsoever being disappointed. "I don't know."

"Okay."

Mary was right, she thinks. She doesn't know why she has to properly realize that now, but she does, and Mary was goddamn right. It's impossible for this boy to stay out of it. She tries to muster up that stifling feeling of conviction, that dreadful weight that drove her to drive him away—Demetria's voice echoing around the bathroom halls, Charlus Potter mentioned in a Prophet headline. But she only sees James's broken face.

Despite everything, he's still here, readily on the brink of war with her, and... and he's gone and she can no longer justify it. She can't take it back now. She can't take him back.

"I don't know either," he sighs. He leans his head back and stares up at the sky. "I thought I was sure. I was so sure about all of it before I got in there and... now I don't know. I'm not. I—wow, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"You don't have to do it, you know."

She remembers Petunia, and it makes her wince. You don't have to live here, you know. She never thought she and her sister could sound so much alike. She doesn't want to think about her, especially not now that here's this. Here's the Order. A Plan B that's going to be an even bigger wedge between them if she decides to do it, like the pathetic hermitical brewing in their own old house wasn't enough. She'd probably never even see her again.

Thankfully, the growing suspension of the usual rebuke from James distracts her. It doesn't come at all. Lily feels like she's drowning; this is too much strained silence between her and the people she loves. "You mean I can refuse to join, yeah?" says James finally.

Lily expels a breath she didn't even notice she was holding. She can't place his tone, and that disconcerts her. "Yeah."

"I do know that."

"So why even think about it?"

"You think it's stupid, don't you?"

"No, it's noble." She watches him, now while he's not looking at her. Her objections scatter at the sight of him, at the conscious feel of him so close. She grasps at the words before they disappear into the faint longing itch at the end of her fingertips. Give him a chance to give you a second chance, didn't Mary say? Tell him they got to you. "It's—it's heroic of you, truly. But retreat doesn't always mean you're not any of those things. I know that you think you can, that you won't get harmed out there, but you can't risk this. It's too dangerous."

"I believe we've had this talk, Evans," he says, almost sighs, so quietly she almost wishes he'd yelled it to overcome the guilt clawing at her chest.

Right. "Sorry."

"It's so much more than just because I think I can."

She doesn't say anything. Tell him you're sorry, Mary said. Tell him you didn't mean it.

"I'm not throwing away my options." There's a new edge to his voice now. He straightens up in his seat. "This is my only option. I can't run away. I won't. Just the thought of it... I can't leave you. You and—and Sirius, that is. And Remus. Peter. I know you think there's nothing for me here to fight for—"

"I don't think that."

"You do," he breathes out. His disappointment in her leaves him in a hollow, stuttered chuckle. "And there's nothing, I suppose. I can go. But there's nowhere else that would make sense other than here, Evans. Which is fucked up, I know, because this place is breaking apart, isn't it? You're here, though. Everyone's here. And if you lot can't leave, then there's no point in me going off anywhere else without you."

Sirius appears then, saving her from coming up with a response. He's got impatience on his brows and a reluctant nod of greeting to Lily. "We're going. You." He points at James. "You have ten seconds." And then he's off.

Beside her, James mutters as he gets up, "Honestly. It's like you broke up with him..." She knows he meant it as an attempt to lighten up the mood, but she seems to have forgotten how to laugh. "I better go."

She nods. She's out of words. She wants to get out of here, get out of herself, but most of all she desperately wants to go back. To a when and where with James in it, with her not ever having to say goodbye.

She gets to her feet as well, her breaths like lead in her lungs. Before she could help herself, she steps forward and hugs him. Not too tight, in case she doesn't find the will to let go later on. There are a million things she should say, but she doesn't find anything that she could. James is perfectly still at first, stunned, silent. He doesn't push her away, but his eventual hold is cautious. Like he might break her.

Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe he's afraid she'd break him. Again.

When she feels his lips on top of her head, gentle and brief, she closes her eyes and holds on for as long as she dares.

Tell him you love him, Mary said, and that one shoots up her train of thought, through all of them with unstoppable zeal. It explodes in her like fireworks; but she can only watch, in spite of everything, still too terrified she might burn them both if she gave in to it.

"Be safe," he tells her, letting go first. He's turned away before she can look at his face.

Lily remains rooted there even long after he's gone.

Close.

His warm breath brushes her lips, and for a second she forgets the almost in this almost-real, because she's never noticed that before. The warmth.

Closer…

He's gone before her lips find home in his again, but she opens her eyes slowly, like she just closed them moments ago, like this happens all the time. She doesn't remember what was happening before he was there.

She never does. Just that he was there, and she was almost okay again.

She squints against the light. Morning again then. Just a little past eight, her wall clock says.

Still too early considering the time she turned in, Lily gets off the bed. It's another Monday, quiet and thoughtful, and later she's making coffee for herself.

No visitor today. No letters either.

She stirs her drink absentmindedly. The Order would require an answer in a week. Petunia leaves Cokeworth tomorrow. Her internship application is almost finished.
Her life is in shambles, and she tries to find the right decision that could hopefully fix it. But she's distracted, for every time she closes her eyes she feels phantom lips in her hair and ginger hands around her waist.

God, she didn't even ask him how he was...

Nine o'clock, Monday.

James returns from his compulsive flight around the pitch. He's bloody exhausted, but just as he likes. Turning and tossing for hours last night, he ended up grabbing his broom and going out at half past three in the morning. It's ridiculous.

Sirius is at the door of the shack when he goes there to return his broom. He's leaning against the dilapidated wall, head hung and arms crossed. If it isn't too early for him to be up—which it is—it definitely is so for him to be looking this utterly morose. James stops in front of him with a huff, his broom slung over one shoulder.

"Aren't you Mr. Sunshine today?"

Nine o'five.

Lily gets up to get rid of her unfinished coffee, turned lukewarm by the depth of her thoughts and the silence of the house. Almost to the sink, the handle slips from her hands, and the coffee cup falls and breaks. The sound makes her cringe.

The shards are ugly against the spreading coffee stain on the floor, and she curses under her breath when a piece cuts her finger upon picking it up.

Sirius swallows. When he raises his head, his eyes stay trained on the insignificant grove floor. He blinks rapidly, grey eyes set and bleak; like the morning itself greatly offended him.

James feels his heart speed up and his breath catch even before the words are out: "You need to see your dad, James."