AN: Late Merry Christmas, and a Happy Happy New Year! And a million thanks to Lindsey and Mary. (Also to Naughty Boy and Dan Smith for "No One's Here To Sleep"—my god, that song.)

Four: If I Lose Myself
"I had to find you. Have to. Always."

Some fragments would be missing. Someday, when you'd ask James how today went, it would be like putting together a puzzle with pieces he's already deliberately chucked away.

But this is how he would remember it.

The morning of Charlus Potter's burial arrives with clouds like tidal waves suspended high up in the air; pale silver and one in grief with the residents of the home he's left behind.

Evangeline Potter is dressed and ready at six sharp, impeccable and unseeing in front of her elaborately carved dressing mirror. Every step around the house is a heavy booted foot over the shards of her broken heart, but she keeps walking.

Remus and Peter have gone home to their respective families last night.

Sirius stays. Early in the day he finds James on the second floor landing overlooking the foyer. Merlin knows how long he's been there. He hasn't been speaking much.

Last time they were here, Charlus asked James that they all take care of each other. Like he'd known he wouldn't wake up the next day. Sometimes things are funny like that. But he didn't know, James thinks. He couldn't have, because Charlus wouldn't have left them. Not now. It's just these days everything everyone says sounds like a dying man's last words. These days they're all dying, aren't they? All leaving.

Take care of each other. I love you. Be safe.

Sirius puts a firm hand on James's shoulder, but the young wizard doesn't look up. He keeps his gaze forward, his face impassive. Sirius doesn't leave. As long as James doesn't shrug him off, which he hasn't yet—hasn't ever, fortunately—he's here.

The graveyard is packed with people, many of them James is not best pleased to see. Present are his father's former colleagues in work; pompous purebloods he's sure are only there for show. Their impartiality in Charlus's recent ousting from the Ministry over questionable grounds irks him greatly. At his mum's request, however, he greets them still, with polite handshakes and curt nods of acknowledgment. Even Sirius acquiesces to this. When they make their way to their designated place in front of the crowd, yards away from the white marble coffin lined with an abundant sea of white flowers, James feels like he's not really there. Like it's not really happening. His feet shuffle him to where he ought to be, his mouth spills the words he ought to say—but he can't keep track of all of it. He can't keep track of himself. It feels like a dream.

If it is, it's the flash of red that catches his eye and wakes him up—Lily stands on the sidelines with her fingers fiddling over a purse as black as her dress. James stares. It all processes slowly. He turns to his mates in question, all seated beside him in the front row—and it's Sirius, surprisingly, who looks back at him in answer, sheepish but otherwise unregretful. James does not comment. Some other day he'd have said something about his best mate finally speaking to Lily again, but right now he can't put his finger on the right feeling or words.

Evangeline beckons Lily over before James can find his voice. As the young witch walks towards them, Sirius moves to sit beside Remus to make way for her. There's something there, James thinks, something there that made it worth noting, but he can't pin it down.

Sirius nods at Lily when she passes by him, even hugs back when she pulls him into a tight embrace. When she sidles up next to James, she hesitates. Evangeline nods at her with a benign smile, so Lily stands on her toes and wraps her arms around him.

"Hey."

It's her voice that slices too easily through the wall he's built, and this, right here, James knows, is why Sirius has asked her to come.

There's nothing tellingly different from the last time they hugged besides their fancy clothes and the fucking coffin nearby, but this time James doesn't let go. "Hi, Evans."

"Alright?"

It sounds stupid, that. But he does feel lighter, and more himself by the second. He hums and nods against her shoulder.

When the murmurs start, when the stares go blatant around them, his grip only tightens around her waist.

The ceremony doesn't last long.

The words fly out of the little old man's mouth up front and land in a mangled, unrecognizable mush on James's lap. His brain keeps shutting down and snapping awake at random intervals. The only things he seems to be able to make sense of are his mum's hand in his right and Lily's warmth on his left. He clings to that, to the people sitting with him on the front row, and denies everything else.

He thought he'd properly known pain when he walked away from Lily that night. In some ways, he'd foolishly thought he's over that mandatory initiation to this kind of thing. But apparently the universe doesn't work like that. Out of all of them—Sirius and Remus and Peter and he—he's always been the pampered one, hasn't he? The safest. The spoiled. How could he have prepared himself for this? How do the others do it? Sirius? Remus? And Lily. Even Peter. All of whom he's watched battered around him, time and again, all of whom he's tried to help, to fix, but never really being able to fully acquaint himself with the sort of pain they go through.

Everybody gets their turn, isn't it? This is his. It's only fair.

But how the fuck do people do it?

It's beyond frustrating too, how he doesn't have anyone to blame in this. They've all fought their little wars in Hogwarts, and there's always someone on the other end of their wands. But who's to blame when someone just doesn't wake up? He just—Charlus just stopped living. There's a war, for fuck's sake, and one day he just decides he won't wake up anymore. That's not fucking fair. Who is James supposed to... How's he supposed to deal with—with this, this grief-turned-fury that throbs and stirs and weighs him down, but just stays lodged inside of him, unable to find a proper way out?

When Evangeline moves to stand, James is snapped out of his thoughts and unconsciously tugs her down in dazed surprise. But Lily, who isn't one to miss, is quick to catch him and takes his other hand in hers. He gulps and lets his mum go.

Evangeline Potter is a picture of grace and elegance, composed as if it's only any other Ministry gathering. Her tears and hiccups and sniffs weave around her words like the strong, gentle goodbye that they are, and everyone is silenced in sympathy and awe. Her speech is not long, but it's enough. She speaks for everyone who ever loved the late Charlus Potter. She speaks for James—especially for James—who has chosen not to take his place on the makeshift podium anymore. He remains alarmingly quiet and still until the entire thing is over.

When Charlus is lowered into the ground, Remus and Peter put a hand each on either of Sirius's shaking shoulders. James puts an arm around his weeping mother, draws her frail body close to him and kisses her lined forehead. His other hand reaches out to grip Lily's, who squeezes back reassuringly, who is here for him and with him if only until the graveyard's empty once more.

He doesn't throw the white rose down so much as he lets it weakly roll off from his fingers. He doesn't cry anymore, but his face crumples every so often, and each time, he succeeds to punctuate it with breaths that come short and shallow, painful against his chest, tight in his throat.

There is a gathering prepared at the manor for the attendees, and James ought to help his mum tend to the guests milling about in the clearing.

Lily notices his reluctance to let go. "Your mum needs you," she reminds him, and he nods. He looks back at her once on his way to his task. Lily manages a small smile. She watches Sirius help James and Evangeline usher everyone to designated portkeys and apparition sites. Remus and Peter have excused themselves a while ago, volunteering to head back in advance to the manor and make sure everything's in order.

Alone in a corner then, a foreign observer to a crowd of Purebloods comfortably chatting, discussing things like the Ministry and their interconnected families—she really should have known it's nothing short of the perfect moment for Demetria Greengrass to show up.

Lily starts walking away at the sight of her, sickened, but Demetria catches up and wrenches her arm till she turns around. "Don't walk away from me, Evans."

Lily shakes her arm off her grip. "I'm being kind, Demetria. If you don't stay away from me, I'll—"

"What, hex me? In front of everyone? Let's see you try. I'd love for everyone to know just how rabid you mudbloods can be."

"There's nothing in the world that I want or need to hear from you."

"I want to know what you're doing here. The gall—leading poor James on?"

"What even," hisses Lily, furious, "is the point of all of this? Do you like him? He's all yours. I'm done with you."

"You tore my family apart, that's what, and I won't let any of you get away with even just a morsel of happiness for it! How dare you be here?"

"I tore your family apart? Excuse me?"

"People the likes of you!"

"Just how deranged are you? You murder 'people the likes of me'."

"There is no evidence of that," says Demetria, but Lily is just so goddamn tired of it. "The trial—"

"I don't care," snarls Lily. "Not about your killer of a father, certainly not about you. Get the fuck out of my life." She makes to leave again, but Demetria pulls her back roughly by the arm one more time.

"You think you're all high and mighty, Evans, but the truth is that you're every bit as selfish and heartless as you make out the rest of us to be." Demetria's nails dig against Lily's skin in an iron grip that's even tighter now if that's possible, but it's the wild, solid self-conviction in the Slytherin's eyes that confounds Lily. "Look at you. All dressed up. Showing up here like you didn't break his heart."

"Shut up." In spite of herself, Lily's guilt kicks in. "Don't you dare."

"Oh, I'm not accusing you, you dimwit. I'm reminding you."

"Let me go, Greengrass, or I won't care at all about everyone seeing you lose your goddamn face with a mudblood's spell."

"Expecting a tour of your future mansion, aren't you?" It's like she didn't even hear. "Because you know, that no matter how hard you crush that poor boy's heart in your filthy fingers, he'd come running back to you."

"I still don't see the point. If it weren't so pathetic, it's almost funny how much you care."

"Is there a problem here?" someone cuts in before Demetria can answer back. Sirius stops in front of them and crosses his arms. "Your mother wants you, Greengrass."

Demetria glares at him, but does stalk off to her mother, hips swaying, nose in the air. Her mum, Lily finds, is a tall woman with the same ruthless, beautiful face. Once reunited, the women stand together with unpleasant expressions on their faces.

"Thanks," mumbles Lily.

"No problem," says Sirius.

"I mean, also for—you know. Coming over to tell me. Asking me to be here. I really appreciate it."

He nods, and then clears his throat. "Everyone's almost assigned and ready to go now. There's a slot for one more person in my group..."

Lily looks away. "Sorry, Sirius."

She didn't plan it. She didn't think about this—about after—truth be told, and it's so stupid that she didn't. But she can't go. She feels like she has unwittingly used this somehow (selfish, heartless, as bad as the rest of them…), like she has jumped all too fast and easy at a chance to be here for James again. And that doesn't make sense, because of course she would be here, with them together or not; they're still friends, right? More or less? But—but she broke his heart, didn't she, and for a reason? Disregarding that reason would make all of their pain pointless, wouldn't it? That's why Demetria was reminding her.

The gall, indeed.

The ceremony is over. It's time to go home.

Sirius doesn't seem to get mad at this. He must have recognized her expression. Or heard that tone in her voice. Sometimes Lily can't be swayed when she's already wrapped her head around something. Sirius knows that now. She has to realize it alone, whether or not something's right. There's no point tapping into her convictions.

"Okay," he says. "I'll tell them you had to go."

James starts when he hears the unmistakeable crack of apparition. It came from a small patch of trees a little away. The tops of the trees quiver, and a clump of birds fly frantically from the grove. He doesn't linger on them; he immediately checks the place he left Lily at.

No one there.

No Lily anywhere.

He doesn't know what to feel. There's already so much in him as it is; the fast shifting of his emotions from bad to worse has just dulled into this horrible, consistent drone.

Sirius is walking over to him from where Lily was, but James already knows what he's going to say.

Before Sirius can reach him, James apparates himself back home.

The afternoon passes without much event.

The manor is filled with enough chatter to let it breathe again. The elves, at least, are more than happy to dispel their sadness for a while in dedicated service of their mistress's guests.

James disappears at some point, however, muttering to Remus, "I need air," and doesn't come back. A house elf goes to Sirius and tells him that they found James in his father's study. Sirius looks up at this information, in the general direction of the book-walled room through ceilings and halls—but chooses to stay behind and help Evangeline.

At half past three, everyone decidedly exhausted, Sirius, Remus, and Peter see the last guest out through the fireplace. With tired gazes and hunched shoulders, they watch the green flames dance its last in the hearth.

Sirius collapses on one of the couches and stares blearily at the ceiling.

"I need a drink," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "Where's James?"

"Still locked up," says Remus.

Sirius gets to his feet. "Merlin, he can't just—"

"I think we should give him space right now," Remus advises, although not unkindly, laying a hand on Sirius's shoulder to gently push him back down his seat.

Sirius stares at him long and hard, and then lets himself sit down. He massages his forehead, his hand covering his eyes. "Right," he mumbles, voice thick. "Whatever."

In the evening it finally rains, all those dreary clouds from today giving in. The sound soothes the scathing silence that settles in the house after the visitors have gone. Dinner finishes without James, and Evangeline's sad eyes occupy the empty seats around the dining table.

"Thank you," she tells the boys who have joined her instead, her sons from a different bind. Sirius, Remus, and Peter share the same smile in reply. "Is James still in the study?"

"Last we checked," answers Peter, looking over at Sirius for assent. Both Sirius and Remus nod.

"He's not there," a small voice pipes up. Zirk the house elf, who's been standing by the table, steps forward, twiddling with his fingers and his big eyes filled with worry. "Sorry, no, Zirk meant—Master James, he—Master's left—Master James has been missing for hours..."

"But where did he go?" asks Evangeline. The three boys sit straighter, alert at once. "Did he say?"

"Er—he said—he said he had to get out of here for a mo'. He seemed very distraught... We thought you knew! We thought he was—he had his wand out, and he... we're really sorry, Mistress!"

"Oh, Merlin, that boy..."

"Excuse us," says Remus over the sound of his chair grating against the floor. Sirius is already on his feet. Peter sighs, but follows as well.

"We'll go look for him," says Sirius, walking over to Evangeline to give her a one-armed hug before they leave. "You go rest, okay?"

Lily is alone in Cokeworth, trying to drown her thoughts in hot drinks and the sound of rain and the pages of a book Remus gave her last Christmas. She's halfway through, almost finally lost in it, when the phone rings.

"Lily?" Mary asks on the other end before Lily can say hello.

"You owe me one, Macdonald," says Lily, earmarking the page and putting the book down. "You let me show up there alone today."

"I am so, so, so, so sorry," says Mary quickly. "You didn't let the Pure-bloods eat you up, did you?"

"I'm speaking to you from their guts."

"Oh, dear lord."

Lily rolls her eyes, but Mary just managed to draw a chuckle out of her. "Nah, s'alright. Well, no. God, it wasn't. But..." She trails off with a sigh.

Mary's tone softens: "How's James? Sirius?"

"As terrible as you'd expect. Mary, tell me honestly, d'you think I shouldn't have gone?"

Lily can feel Mary's narrowed eyes through the static. "Did someone tell you that?"

"No," says Lily, a little too defensively.

"I'm going to jinx them to oblivion! Look, he needed you today, okay? It's only right that you went, I promise. I'd have said something if you bailed."

"Alright."

"But, er, hey. So, anyway, that's—that's not why I'm calling you, though."

"Oh, yeah?"

"No, wait, of course I wanted to check in on you, too! I do. But—I have something important to tell you."

"Okay."

"Can we meet tomorrow? At Chuckskate's?"

Lily frowns. "You can't tell me now? I could really use the distraction."

Mary laughs nervously. "No, sorry. Brunch, yeah? Around ten?"

"Set. Are you okay, though? You sound a little off."

"I'm okay. It's—hang on. My mum's—what is it? I'm talking to Lily!"

Remus does another full round at the park, screwing his eyes up through the rain and making sure he didn't miss anything.

His grip on his wand tightens when a crack shatters through the night—the rain is heavy and the sound easily drowned in it, but that's someone apparating, he's sure—only when he squints to see, it's Sirius. He sighs in relief and walks towards him.

"Found him yet?" Sirius asks over the downpour.

Remus shakes his head. "Sorry. What about Peter?"

"We were just at Cokeworth. He went to check at Mary's."

"James is not at Cokeworth then?"

"No. Peter checked—as Wormy," adds Sirius, in answer to Remus's silent question. "She was alone." Sirius extracts something out of his trouser pocket, unceremoniously swiping a strand of wet hair out his eye. "Damnit—Prongs." The mirror is soaked within seconds, and Remus watches Sirius mutter Prongs over and over like it's a swear word. He waits. The glass remains empty, and Sirius swears for real. "I'm going to kill him..."

"He's okay," Remus assures him. And himself. "He just wants to be on his own."

"He could have fucking told me that."

"He's okay, Sirius," Remus says again. "He'll turn up. Come on, let's go check Hogsmeade. I'm freezing."

"Hang on. My mum's—" Mary covers the receiver with her free hand. "What is it? I'm talking to Lily!"

"You have a friend from school over," her mum calls back again. "I let him in—"

"Mum!" Mary stands at once, her bed creaking beneath her. "Lily, can you hang on one sec?"

"Yeah, sure," says Lily.

Mary puts the phone down and gruffly opens her desk drawer to retrieve her wand. She runs out to the second floor landing. "Are you insane?" she admonishes her mum, who stares up at her from the cramped living room below. "Don't just let people in! Where's Tim?"

"In the bathroom." Mrs. Macdonald grimaces. "And don't be like that, dear; he can hear you, you know."

"Who is it?"

"Peter, I think?"

"As in Pettigrew? Pete, is that you?" Mary leans further against the railing and cranes her neck to see. Her wand hand is tense behind her back.

Peter steps into the view at last, ruffling his wet hair with a towel Mary's mum has already provided. "Hi, Mary. The rain's awful. I don't remember the drying spell."

"Oh, good Godric—come on up!" Mary visibly sags in relief. "I'm on the phone with someone—and mum, hey, you can't just let people in like that, alright? Not these days!"

Her mother waves her off with a humouring nod, already turning away to lock the door. "Whatever you say, honey."

Mrs. Macdonald gets back in the bathroom and finishes getting four-year old Tim Macdonald ready for bed, which she was previously occupied with before the disturbance. Peter mumbles a thank-you and is not long after stepping inside Mary's room upstairs. He looks around, curious, lingering on the doorway. Mary, meanwhile, is back on the phone. "Hello? Still there? Peter's here for some reason."

"I won't take long," says Peter, remembering his business. Lily doesn't answer Mary—in fact, the other end's gone completely silent besides the static. "James is missing," Peter declares, oblivious, and Mary is sufficiently distracted. "Did he drop by? Any idea where he might be?"

Mary frowns. "What do you mean he's missing?"

"He disappeared after the burial. His mum's worried."

"Bloody hell. What's he thinking? There were nine attacks alone last week!"

"Sirius has sworn to kill him when he finds him about a hundred times already."

"Merlin. I don't—he wasn't here, sorry! Have you tried—?"

"Mary." Mary snaps up when Lily's telephone-scratchy voice from the other end of the line interrupts them. She sounds flustered. "Mary, sorry, I have to go."

Mary holds up a hand to shush Peter, who was just about to say something. She brings her attention back to Lily. "Are you okay?"

"Someone arrived," says Lily. "I gotta go, sorry. It's important. I'll talk to you tomorrow, yeah? Chuckskate's. Ten."

"Yeah, okay. Are you sure everything's alright? Who is it?"

"I—yes. It's... I'm okay. I'm good." She sounds anything but. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

"Alright, but who—"

"Just an old friend. Sorry. I'm safe, promise. Tomorrow! I love you, bye."

"Lily, wait—" But the line's dead.

Mary looks up at Peter, who stares blankly back at her. She's thoughtful; lips a thin line.

"Lily?" asks Peter, jutting his chin at the phone. "Our Lily?"

Mary nods absently. "What were you saying?"

"James is missing."

Mary watches with unseeing eyes the phone clicking back into its place. "Stop looking," she says, "I'm pretty sure he's at Lily's."

"Lily? Can you hang on one sec?"

"Yeah, sure."

There's a noise that Lily imagines to be a drawer opening and closing, then footsteps, and then Mary's yelling things at her mum, but her words are muffled with her distance from the phone. Lily's got her wand out in case Mary would need her to apparate, and she twirls it around her fingers while she waits.

But, as if on cue, there's a knock on her own door. At first she thinks she only imagined it. The rain continues to pour, and she strains her ears for another sign of it—and to make sure Mary's okay—but there's nothing from either for a moment.

And then—there. Three knocks. Again.

She gets to her feet and tries to discern shapes out the window from her seat in the counter, but she can't make anything out. Mary doesn't seem to be in any serious trouble—she's still arguing with her mum, it seems—so Lily puts the phone down and walks to the door, wand secure.

She braces herself for all sorts of things—there were nine attacks last week, after all, on muggleborn neighbourhoods—but what she sees outside when she peeks from the living room window sends her heart plummeting fast.

She hurries to undo the magical locks and opens the door to a sopping, trembling James Potter, shoulders hunched, breathing hard.

They stare at each other in surprise for a good three seconds.

"Hi," he says, voice hoarse. His hands are in tight fists on his sides. He's completely sodden.

Lily stows her wand away. "James, what—"

"I don't know," he rasps, his face on the verge of crumpling. "I don't know why I'm here, I don't know, I'm sorry..."

She steps forward and hurriedly pulls him down to her. She swallows and stares out at the street as she holds him; wet and cold and shaking so bad in her arms. She gently shushes him when he starts muttering hysterical apologies over and over against her shoulder.

"Are you sure he's there?" Sirius asks, running a hand through his hair. They all stand on Mary's doorstep in the dim orange porch lights, having convened there upon Peter's immediate relay of information. "Just an old friend could mean anyone. It could have fucking meant Snape for all we know."

Mary glares at him in dismay. "Do you really think she'd let Severus in these days? Lily's not stupid."

Sirius glares back, but eventually concedes. "Fine then. Let's go back."

"Okay," says Peter, donning back his jacket. "I can go in and see real quick..."

"I meant to the manor."

"You're not gonna check?" asks Remus curiously.

In answer, Sirius asks Mary, "You're sure he's there?"

Mary meets his eye resolutely. "I am."

Sirius nods. And then, to the other two, "Come on. He's fine. He'd want us to be at the manor anyway. Someone else needs us... Thanks, Mary."

"Sure."

They're just getting off the short flight of stairs when Mary calls them back. She doesn't say anything immediately when they turn around, and then, in a voice that obviously tries to remain steady: "Has anyone sent their answers in yet? I know we got extensions to decide, for James's dad and everything, but... doesn't this change anything?"

The boys look at each other. It's Remus who answers. "We're still saying yes. All of us."

Mary seems mildly distressed by this. "Of course," she says. And then she smiles. It's convincing enough. To the three's surprise she walks to them and hugs them one by one—Sirius the last and longest. "I'm really sorry about Mr. Potter," she mumbles against his cold shirt. "You be careful on your way back."

Dried and relatively calmed down, James sits in the Evanses' living room, looking as tired and disoriented as he is. He barely moves when Lily comes back in from the kitchen with two cups of tea. She sets them on the low table. When she sits beside him, he starts fiddling with his fingers. He watches the smoke swirl up from the cups and disappear into nondescript wisps; Lily furtively watches him.

"Evans, I'm—I'm really sorry."

Lily takes his hand. "It's okay. Do the others know you're here, though? They might be worried. Your mum..."

James swallows. His face starts to screw up again, but he takes a deep breath and manages to compose himself. He opens his mouth for an explanation, but nothing comes up. He tries that twice.

Lily presses on his hand and shifts closer. "It's okay," she whispers. "You're going to be okay."

His eyes fall on their intertwined fingers, and for a second his hand seizes up, but then it goes slack around hers again. "I know I shouldn't be here. I don't—not anymore. I know that. I'm sorry."

She leans against him and murmurs—again, because she too keeps forgetting, if she's going to be honest. "It's okay. I promise."

They're quiet. James doesn't touch his tea. Neither does Lily.

When the smoke for them to watch runs out, Lily says, "I have something stronger if you like."

"What?"

"Than tea, I mean."

"Yeah, please."

Evangeline is up and waiting when the other Marauders ring in back at the manor.

She meets them at the doorway, her shawl a whisper away from completely falling off her shoulders. She's not crying anymore, but it's only now, for some reason, that Sirius properly sees her, and he finds that he can't stand to see the layers of sorrow on her face. Suddenly he understands James's need to disappear. If he, Sirius, can't even look at her, how frustrated must her son be?

"Where is he?" Evangeline asks them, seeking them one by one. "Did you find him?"

"He's alright, he's safe," says Sirius, hugging her. He tries to justify that as a comforting act, and not so he won't have to look at her anymore.

Remus and Peter assure her as well, nodding behind Sirius. "We found him," says Peter. They lead Evangeline back inside.

"He'll be okay," says Remus.

"But where is he?"

"He'll be back soon," promises Sirius.

They all stay for the night.

An entire bottle. One and a half. Still counting, hopefully forever counting.

Lily forgets the number after her eleventh glass. God, they're not even using proper glasses. There's one for every type of booze, right? She's not the Pure-blood. She wouldn't know. Is that something a Pure-blood would know, though? She's not sure how long the alcohol's been stocked in the kitchen either. She saw it when she returned from Hogwarts, but she never touched it despite the many nights that seemed deserving of a glass or two.

Oh, goodness—Petunia's going to freak. What if it was their dad's? Lily's just given it away. To a wizard. And she's getting smashed with him on the couch...

Petunia. Lily never followed her up. They're probably not even in Cokeworth anymore. She ought to pay her a visit soon. Say goodbye. Have one last argument. Just see her. Before Lily officially joins the Order, which she would. Of course she would.

"Yeah, me too," says James, startling her. Apparently she's been saying things out loud. Funny. "You know," he carries on, eyebrows furrowing, "I'm so... angry. I don't know why. I mean—I do. I do know why. But it's unfair."

"Angry at me?"

"No... no, yeah. Yes." He laughs and leans on the couch. He shuts his eyes, rubs his cheeks with his hands. They're flushed. Lily can't stop staring. "I don't know. I'm just angry."

"Are you angry now?"

He spreads his hand out—they're still on his face—and regards her through his fingers. She stares back. "I don't think I am," he says.

The night passes slowly. The rain doesn't run out.

Remus hesitates for too long. Seven minutes. He stands on the open doorway that entire time, just deliberating, and by the time he means to talk Sirius has already gotten tired of waiting.

"I don't bite, you know," says Sirius, his back still on Remus. He hasn't moved, but he probably heard Remus arrive. He's on the ledge again. His silhouette is even darker than the rain-glinted deep night.

"Yeah, that's me," says Remus, walking inside and climbing up to the other side of the wide window. He's been in James's room a lot of times, but it hasn't felt so big and vacant to him until now. "I bite."

Sirius laughs. He offers the bottle of firewhisky he's nursing, but Remus shakes his head. "Just in case you forget which side is James's room."

That makes him laugh again. "Is Peter asleep?"

"Like a baby."

"I wish I could."

"You can try."

"I have."

"Sorry."

Sirius takes a swig. The bottle's almost empty. "Hey, I'm sorry I got mad today."

"That's alright."

"Moony."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you here?"

Remus shrugs. "I don't know. I couldn't sleep. Peter's exhausted, so he's snoring like a pained dragon." He pauses, leans against the window frame. "I considered just leaving you to it. I might have too if you didn't beat me."

"I noticed." Sirius stares out at the vast expanse of the Potter property below, but there's nothing but shades of black out there. "Do you think James is okay?"

It takes a while for Remus to answer. "I think you all will be."

"James."

Nothing. He's half-lying on the couch, his hand on his face, glasses askew.

"Have you fallen asleep?"

Maybe he's asleep. It's getting hard to move. Lily forces herself up, but only manages to heave her back off the couch arm—and ends up falling on James's side. She thinks she feels him stir. "James," she groans, nudging him with her elbow, "you can't sleep here. Let's get you to bed, yeah? You can stay in the guest room; it's only on this floor..." She's slumping down herself, fully leaning against him. "Come on. Few steps. Then we sleep."

"Okay," he answers finally.

"Were you sleeping?" He didn't sound like he was.

"No." He rights his glasses. When he looks down at her hair, messed up and red as ever on his shoulder, his huff comes out a chuckle.

They get off the couch and have to lean on tables and walls and each other on their way to the guest room.

"Here you are," says Lily, both of them stopping on the doorway and leaning on either side. Their short trip from the couch to here has sobered her up somewhat; shaken off the sluggishness the alcohol has settled in her bones. She feels suddenly sheepish at the sight of the cramped room. "It's small, sorry, but it's got a bed and—only a few hours till the morning anyway... not that you can't sleep in. You can. I probably would. I, er—are you sure you're staying the night, though? I'm not letting you apparate by yourself, but I can call Sirius... wait, do you even have a bloody phone?"

She looks up because James isn't answering—and wishes at once that she'd just kept talking. He's looking right at her like... like that, like so many nights under Friday stars back when he was hers, like maybe he misses her as much as she does him. And she would have looked away, would have had the sense to had she been a little less inebriated.

"This is a bad idea, isn't it?" she asks him. Her voice has gone down to a whisper, like the words themselves don't like to be spoken.

"Maybe."

"We shouldn't be..." Here. Together. So close.

"I shouldn't be here." Somehow he sounds like he doesn't believe that himself.

"No."

"Yeah."

"James—"

"I should leave, shouldn't I?"

She doesn't answer.

"Evans..."

She bites her lip. She thinks she should have brought one of the bottles with her, just for something to do while she stares.

Maybe it's a dream. Maybe they fell asleep on the couch.

She raises a hand to touch him, just to make sure, but it just hovers over his cheek, and he just keeps looking at her.

Dream. This is a dream.

Her hand makes contact.

He's blazing. Trembling. She moves her thumb over his cheekbone, and then goes down; runs her hand down the length of his arm, slowly, her eyes following, her fingers barely grazing. His skin breaks into goosebumps, and he's so still and her heart is beating so fast she wonders if she gets to kiss him before she combusts. She's scared to look back into his eyes, scared of what she might find there now that she's sure she's not dreaming. So she contents herself with his shirted chest. Heat beneath her fingertips. She stares but doesn't see. She lets her hand reach his wrist in its slow quest; lets it chase his raging pulse.

Don't look. Just feel.

"Lily," he whispers, and it's a plea and a question and an accusation all rolled into one, poison and wine on his lips. "I still..."

"Me, too," she finishes for him. She wants to hear it as much as she doesn't. She leans forward, her forehead thudding against his chest, wanting to hide. She spreads her palm over his, fingertips millimetres short of his own, pulse on pulse but not lacing their fingers. Silly. Like that would make up for having gone too far on so many things today. She doesn't deserve this. "Me too, James." Me too, so much. He's warm, smells the same; still so, so James beneath her that it hurts.

He doesn't move. His chest heaves laboured breaths that match hers. "But—we still can't be, can we?"

She's crying now. "I'm sorry. I'm here. I'm here right now."

"I can't lose you again, Evans. You can't be mine tonight and be gone in the morning."

She leans closer. She should let him go now. He's right. Her mind hasn't made up, in spite of everything, and it's so unfair that it isn't, but she owes it to him to be completely honest about this. She can't lead him on. And she does love him—she does, she's so sure of it that she's going to explode—but everything is just so fucked up right now, and—and she can't be uncertain about being together and risk hurting him like that again—

She opens her mouth to speak, broken sentences that stitch themselves last-minute on her tongue, but leave broken glass lodged in many places of her heart.

James beats her to it. "You don't miss me," he says.

Lily leans back just enough to look at him. "What?"

"Tell me," he presses on. He balls his hands into fists, casting her hand aside. "That you don't miss me."

She can't.

"Tell me you don't want me. That you want me gone. That you don't need me. I shouldn't be here."

She can't. "James..."

"I need it, Evans. Tell me again. I need to hear it again."

"Why?"

"Because when you let go today I felt like I let go of me, too." He's so close. There's only so much distance on a bloody doorway. "Because I had to find you so bad. Have to. Always." He tucks a stray strand of hair beneath her ear and keeps his hand there, almost almost there, but not quite touching. She closes her eyes, and the familiar warmth's all there is to tell he's this close. "Tell me again because I keep forgetting your reasons to leave. I can only always make sense of why I should come back."

She can't.

Breathing's becoming difficult. For him too, she notices. Perhaps that's why, when she finally opens her eyes and tells him with them what she's unable to do, he shakes his head and drops his hand. He takes back the steps he took. That's why; because he can't breathe anymore, because his heart's taking too much room in his rib cage. She knows because she feels it, too. He gasps in a shuddering breath and starts turning away—away—and—and everything around and inside Lily is spinning and spinning and she thinks he says something like "I can't" but she can't be sure because she doesn't let him finish—

She grabs his arm and pulls him back to her, wastes no more time. It seems to be his snapping point, too; that heartbeat worth of an impulse. People lose their minds in wars, don't they? Some? Well, here they are. James Potter and Lily Evans, lost and imperfect souls at eighteen.

Nothing matters tonight.

Nothing.

Just his lips, which she swoops up to claim, which he gives back, hard and desperate and furious. He kisses her like this is their war, right here, like it's the culmination of it—she losing her fight to be apart and he winning his be together. He is hers, all hers tonight, all of it. Hands and hips and every scarred calloused finger massaging and digging against her waist, in sync with his mouth, in sync with his whole fucking body. All of him. He's shaking. She is, too. She runs her palms over everything her hands can reach, none of that slow cautious hold anymore—his shoulders, his arms, his heaving chest when he discards his shirt, frantic; and she doesn't stop even when she hits the door, when he starts tugging at the hem of her shirt, when he starts pushing her towards the bed. Both of them slam against all that's in their way. They don't stop when she drops on the bed, when he follows on top of her.

Nothing matters.

Just lips on skittering pulses. Finger-trails on his sides. Pressure on her hips. Biting down on shoulders, on clavicles, on moans and each other's names. This is real—through the tingling warmth all too quickly racing up to inevitable implosion, that's what she reminds herself over and over. That this is real. This is James. Breathing with her, moving with her. This is waking up and staying to what should be, not the other way around.

This is real. This—the world disintegrating like this, herself falling apart like this.

This. Him. Her.

Nothing else.