Chapter 20: Till In Heav'n We Take Our Place

Sirius stared into the mirror, and a serious, muggle-suit-wearing man stared back.

He hadn't ever really paid much attention to how he looked: he had no need to, always understanding (from the looks, the words of others) that he didn't have any worries in that department. Unlike James, Sirius' hair always fell just so, with very little effort beyond a comb and some shampoo required. And, considering his aversion to quidditch—much preferred watching to playing, always had—he was in good shape, the sort of lithe, well-built body that seemed to cope just fine with him shovelling chocolate and alcohol into it, or smoking like a chimney (a habit he was trying to break, with little success). His appearance was reliably appealing, he knew that much.

But now, even beyond his usual reliability…Merlin, he looked great.

He didn't have much experience with muggle formalwear, but Fleamont had suggested they might fit in better, given Lily's mum was a muggle. The last thing any of them wanted to do was draw attention, make a scene, on a day like today. And so, Euphemia had procured the four of them suits for the day, and he didn't think it was immodest to say that he thought he carried the look rather well.

Not that the day was about that. But it didn't hurt to know, for the future.

Funerals had always made him uncomfortable. He had a vivid memory of attending one, his grandfather's, at the tender age of seven: he had sat, stiff-backed in uncomfortable dress robes, listening to people drone on about how Pollux Black was a pillar of the community, the standard against which they should all measure themselves, a man with the right ideals in a world fast forgetting about what was important. He remembered struggling to match up the man presented in this elegy, a mountain of a man looked up to by all, with the frail but fierce, vicious grandfather who had shut him in the cellar last Christmas for daring to speak out of turn. He remembered wondering, where was this version of my grandfather all these years? How many different people could one person be?

He'd been naive, then.

There'd been many more funerals since that one—inbreeding did tend to play merry havoc with people's life spans—but the most recent one had been the hardest. Uncle Alphard had been, by quite some distance, the least awful member of the Black family, and one of the few relatives Sirius felt any kind of kinship with. His death had been a blow, like the last thread that had kept him connected to them had been quietly snipped away, setting him adrift. His mother had worn her grief like a costume that day, a performative approach that only served to remind everyone that all she really cared about was Alphard's money.

Sirius would've given anything to be there, to see the look on her face, when she found out it had all been left to him.

He wasn't sure how today would feel; it was different, wasn't it, without that personal connection? Obviously he cared about Evans, she was his friend, but he'd only ever seen her mother in passing at King's Cross. She'd seemed nice enough—practically anyone was, in comparison with his own mother—but he hadn't known her. His grief, today, was more for his friend than for the deceased.

A different sort of task, then. Look out for Lily, make sure she was as okay as she could be.

He paused, then, remembering the sight of her, pale, so much in shock that the tears hadn't yet arrived, as she hurried through the common room. At the time, they hadn't known what was going on; they hadn't known anything at all until Mary joined them by the fire, her own face drawn, and said, "Lily's mum…"

That was all she had needed to say. They could finish the rest of the sentence themselves.

Sirius cast one last look at his reflection in the mirror, then turned, making his way out of his bedroom and into the hallway. The Potter household was never usually quiet: if he or James weren't creating some kind of ruckus, then Fleamont would be singing along to his wizarding records, or Euphemia calling out one question or another from the other side of the house. This morning, though, was peaceful, unnervingly so.

He glanced into the open doorway of James' room, but saw no sign of life; the door to one of the spare rooms, where Remus had slept, was securely shut—enough of a hint, even by Sirius' standards, that no one should feel free to wander in—but the other spare room, Pete's quarters, was open, and he stepped inside, finding his friend sat on the end of the bed.

"Looking sharp, Wormtail," Sirius spoke up; although Pete didn't carry off the suit with quite as much panache as Sirius did, he still looked smart enough. Maybe they should all be wearing these things more often… He nodded to the scrap of parchment in his friend's hand. "What are you up to?"

Peter looked only mildly embarrassed. "Wrote a poem, for Evans," he replied, handing over the paper. "Iris said muggles bloody love that sort of thing at funerals."

Sirius wasn't sure how Iris, who was pureblood at least four or five generations back, knew any of this, but didn't say so. "I'm sure Evans will appreciate it," he nodded, glancing over Pete's meticulous writing; he'd taken a lot more care with his presentation than he usually did. "I think rhyming Rose with 'froze' is imaginative," he offered, quite generously, he thought, "but it does put you in a bit of a sticky situation, grammatically speaking."

"Well, it's poetry, isn't it?" Pete shrugged. "It's not about grammar, it's about…meaning."

"True enough." Sirius handed it back over. "Nice gesture, Pete. You've done well."

Pete stood up, carefully folding the parchment and sliding it into his jacket pocket. "I've not been to a funeral since my dad's," he said, quietly casual; the only evidence that this statement might mean more was the way his eyes flickered just briefly over to Sirius', as if testing for his reaction. Peter never really talked about his dad: the man had died ten years ago, and he always said he didn't remember that much about him. Sirius sensed, though, whenever Pete watched James and Fleamont interact, that he missed the idea of a father more than the man himself. And that was something Sirius could relate to, even if his father was alive and well, last he heard.

Sirius nodded. "Might feel strange, then," he offered, and paused. He wasn't used to being the one to offer thoughtful advice. "You can always step out a bit if you need to. Evans would understand."

The flash of surprise across his friend's face made Sirius feel a twinge of guilt: that Pete had not expected this level of understanding from him didn't say much about his friendship levels of late. Still, he could and would do better. "Yeah," Peter agreed, with only some caution. "Thanks, mate."

"S'alright," Sirius nodded again, shoving his hands in his pockets. A moment, heavy with awkwardness, passed before he spoke next. "Breakfast? Euphemia promised bacon butties."

Pete's eyes widened and he patted his stomach. "Merlin praise Mrs P."

Sirius smirked. "Indeed," he agreed, and gestured to the hallway. "Let's do this."

It was bad luck, that was all it was, and there was nothing to be done about it. Remus didn't have control over the phases of the moon: his life would have been a darn sight easier if he did. But nonetheless, it was simply bad luck that the full had fallen only two days earlier, and that Remus was in a bit of an exhausted, sorry state even now, preparing to head to his friend's mother's funeral looking like he'd been recently swept under by some variety of wasting disease.

He usually slept like the dead the night after the full; it was the night after the night after that always hurt. He'd spent most of it tossing and turning, despite the comfort that always came with staying at the Potters', and had given up entirely by six, instead retiring to a warm bath in a way that Sirius usually compared to that of a little old lady.

Well, times like this required the simple pleasures of stewing in hot water. That was just the way of it.

He finished knotting his tie, smoothing it down before catching sight of himself in the mirror. A pale, worn face stared back. In a way, maybe it was for the best that the timing had worked out like this; another recovery away from Owain, who, although trusting and kind, was surely only a matter of time away from working out the truth about his boyfriend.

Something that had been on his mind a lot, lately. How long he could continue this charade, this falsehood; whether he should be honest, and risk everything. The alternative…he'd known he'd have to consider it eventually, but the truth of it was painful: fess up, or break up. And maybe even both.

It came down to trust, didn't it? And his trust had been battered and bruised in the last year alone. Did he trust Owain to cope with the truth, to keep his secret and still see him as Remus, rather than a monster?

He wasn't sure. And that, in itself, felt like a betrayal of his boyfriend.

But today, of course, was not a day to worry about that. Owain was back at Hogwarts, enjoying the last few days of term; he'd said he would owl Remus as soon as he was home, that they would arrange to see each other before long. Owain more than understood why Remus had to be where he was; it was important, to be there for his friend. Today was about Lily, keeping her in one piece, if it was possible.

Remus' experiences of funerals were muggle, his mother's parents within months of each other in their bungalow in Cardiff back when he was ten. It had been a shock, to suddenly realise that his nan wasn't there, wouldn't ever again slide him a fresh Welsh cake off the griddle, winking his way; that his grandpa wouldn't settle in his armchair, challenge him to another round of his favourite card game, or tell him a long-winded but entertaining story about his service in the Royal Air Force during World War Two. To find two gaping holes, all of a sudden, in their family: two ways for his mum's heart to break a bit more.

He supposed no one really had good associations with funerals, though.

He threw one last look around the room, checking he hadn't forgotten anything, before he opened the door and stepped out into the plushly-carpeted hallway. He could hear voices drifting up from the kitchen, as unusual as it was for any of them to be ready so early—they did have a very good reason for it today, of course.

Winding his way past photos of James and his parents (laughing, playing quidditch, engaged in some kind of tug of war over a large bar of chocolate), he followed the voices downstairs, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen to take in the scene before him.

Euphemia and James appeared to be in a dispute over his hair—surely this was not an unusual occurrence—which the former managed while simultaneously frying a vast array of bacon on the stove. Pete was tugging at his shirt collar, munching his way through a preliminary bowl of cornflakes; Fleamont sat at his side, reading the paper and sipping from a mug of tea. And Sirius…

The boy in question turned round from his spot by the back door, silhouetted by the sunlight pouring in behind him; he wore his suit like it was tailored specifically for him, like he'd been poured into it. His dark hair was, for once, tied back at the nape of his neck—all the better to highlight his razor-sharp cheekbones, although Remus guessed it was probably more about propriety, considering the occasion. Basically, he looked far better than he had any right to look.

Sirius raised his eyebrow in Remus' direction. "Alright Moony?"

Right. He shouldn't just stand there staring at his friend. "Fine," he agreed, moving from the doorway over to the table.

"Mum, just leave it," James brushed her hand away, looking over at Remus. "We scrub up well, don't we?"

"Such a handsome quartet!" Euphemia agreed fondly. "I know it's for a funeral, it's terribly sad of course, but…should we get a picture, Monty? With our boys looking so smart?"

Fleamont glanced over the top of his paper, giving his wife a smile. "Good idea," he said. "Merlin only knows when Jamie will look so tidy again."

"Slander," James sighed, sliding into the chair opposite Remus. "The very cheek of it…"

"What time are we meeting the girls?" Pete asked, having finished his cereal. "Is it nine?"

Sirius nodded. They'd arranged a place to apparate to, to meet with Mary, Marlene and Dorcas, so they could go into the church together. Remus wondered whether Lily's closest friends felt as helpless as he did, but maybe that was just the way these things went.

"You'll have to make sure you look after each other," Euphemia said, carrying a platter of sandwiches over to the table. "You'll all want to be strong for Lily, of course, but that in itself is draining."

They all reached forward for a bacon sandwich, getting stuck into their breakfast with some relish. "We'll look after each other," James promised his mum. "That's what we do."

Euphemia nodded, staying standing for a moment longer. She looked pale, worried. "You're all so young, to be attending funerals," she noted. "It's not right…"

No one seemed to know what to say to that; Pete seemed determined to keep his focus on his sandwich, while James looked lost in thought.

Well, someone had to say something. "Life is made of ever so many partings welded together," Remus said, watching the way ketchup dribbled out the side of his sandwich.

There was a short pause; he glanced up. Sirius was watching him, an inscrutable look on his face. "Well," Sirius said. "That's cheerful, Moony."

Remus couldn't help a small smile. "Blame Charles Dickens, not me."

"I will," Sirius assured him with a slight smirk of his own.

Euphemia shook her head, as if to dislodge whatever melancholy mood had overtaken her. "Well, anyway," she dusted her hands on her apron. "Eat up boys, you'll need to get moving soon."

But not, apparently, until they had each had another sandwich.

James had never set foot inside a church before. He was fairly certain that Sirius and Pete hadn't, either, although Sirius was pretending to be something of an expert, largely on the back of his continuing Muggle Studies for longer than the rest of them. James remembered looking at a picture of a church in a lesson back in third year—a still photograph, too, to be "truly authentic", according to Professor Shales—but, when he reminded Remus of this, trying to point out that he didn't need an etiquette lesson on how churches work, thank you very much, his friend simply sighed and replied, "that was St Paul's Cathedral, Prongs."

As if that meant anything.

Anyway, after the brief lecture from Moony about the best way to avoid accidentally desecrating a church or defiling someone's religious beliefs, they had gathered up the girls—all dutifully dressed in black, too, and Mary already looking tearful—and headed down the road towards the Cokeworth parish church.

St Bartholomew's did not quite measure up to that picture from Muggle Studies: it was significantly smaller, had no domes to speak of, and was jammed in between rows of tired-looking houses. Still, there was a narrow stretch of grass up one side that led, he assumed, to the graveyard, and the relative-brightness of the limestone walls compared to the smog-worn redbrick homes gave it a cheerier look than he had expected.

Not that it needed to be cheery, today of all days. Or maybe that would help—he wasn't sure. He felt, already, out of his depth, and they hadn't even seen Lily yet.

They stepped out of the bright sunshine and into the cool of the nave, taking a moment to let their eyes adjust to the changes in light. Remus picked up a pile of paper booklets from a table nearby, each identical and printed with a small, black and white photo on the front: a woman, smiling in the sun, somewhere leafy and verdant. Beneath, in neat, printed letters, read 'Service of Remembrance for Rose Joyce Evans, 1938–1977'.

James swallowed, staring down at the picture. She'd been very young. His own parents were considerably older.

Fuck, he did not want to start thinking about that. That was a worry to shove right back down to the bottom for now.

It was only once they'd found a seat, about halfway up the aisle and overlooked by an almost menacing stained glass window relief ("that's Jesus," Sirius whispered helpfully; "yes, thanks Pads," James had hissed in reply, "I'd sort of worked that out for myself") that he took the chance to have a look around them. The church was filling up quickly, muggles in sombre colours clutching handkerchiefs. He craned his neck to see to the front, but either she was hiding, which seemed unlikely, or Lily hadn't yet arrived. He wasn't sure how muggle funerals worked compared to wizarding ones, and he'd only been to a few that he could remember. For his Uncle Abhainn's funeral two years ago, they had gathered by the sea in Cornwall; Euphemia and her remaining siblings had each said a few words; and then that was it. Well, apart from going back to Abhainn's palatial home and helping his wife plough through what was left of his firewhiskey supply. But Abhainn had been ninety-one, the oldest in his family, and had by all accounts led a long and happy life.

You could hardly say the same for Rose Evans.

Only a few more minutes passed before a blast of music issued from the organ at the front of the church (startling poor Pete, who had been flicking through the Bible that sat in the hymnal holder of the pew in front of theirs); everyone around them stood, so they did too, and gazes flickered almost as one towards the back of the space. And James, from his position at the end closest to the aisle, had the unfortunate luck of seeing exactly what was coming before his friends did.

Four men, solemn-faced and eyes lowered, carried the coffin. It seemed…so small. How could that box carry a person, carry someone's life? And behind the coffin walked three people, arms tightly linked like they were depending on each other to stay upright.

In the centre, Lily's father was staring straight ahead, gaze fixed on his wife's coffin as if worried it might disappear. He looked tired, James thought, not that that was much of a surprise. To his right, he assumed, was Lily's sister Petunia: blonde hair, tight-lipped, spine ramrod straight. It was almost as if every step was painful, but she kept her chin high, her eyes on the portly young pallbearer nearest to her. And to his left…

Her eyes were rimmed red—the only one of the three, in fact, who looked like they'd been crying—and her hair was scraped back from her face, uncharacteristically neat, orderly, as if she were trying to douse the fire of her red locks. James felt a strange ache in his chest as he looked at her, as he watched her stare at the ground. They passed the row of Hogwarts friends, and that close, he could see her hands were clenched, knuckles white as she held onto her father's arm.

Helpless, again. That was the overwhelming feeling. He stood there, in a strange muggle suit in this strange muggle church, and realised that he would do literally anything to help her, if he could. And he hated that he couldn't.

Which he would feel, seeing that kind of grief on the face of any of his friends.

He let that thought, even if it was tinged with a hint of desperation, carry him through the whole service. It required a lot more effort than he thought, pretending to be like everyone else around them: these muggles seemed to share a common thread of understanding that told them the tune to each of the hymns, or how to do the call and response in the prayers, or the appropriate times to stand up and sit down. James thought they just about made it through, largely due to the lead of Mary and Remus. Afterwards, they filed out of the church with everyone else, spat back out, blinking, into the June morning sun and around the corner to the church hall.

"Moony," James murmured, sidling up beside his friend as they lurked in a corner of said hall, clutching a mug of tea and a plate replete with cake. "Are these places always so…"

"Depressing?" Remus supplied quietly, glancing around the room; nearby, a window showed the glorious view of a moss-ridden brick wall. "Sometimes. Not always."

"Bit bloody miserable for a funeral," James decided, trying to balance his mug on his arm so he could attack the slice of lemon drizzle cake that had been calling his name. It was harder than he thought it would be. "Even by a funeral's standards."

Remus shrugged. "They probably thought, with this many guests, they wouldn't be able to host the wake at home. And this would've likely been free."

"Well, yes, Moony," James agreed, as lightly as he could, "because to charge for this hole would be surely against the laws of decency." He gave up on trying to balance his mug, instead lifting his plate directly to his mouth so he could take a bite of the cake. "Wonder where Evans is…"

Marlene, stood nearby and watching with undisguised disgust as James ate mouth-to-plate, glanced towards the doors. "They were doing the burial part privately. They'll be along in a minute."

Pete sucked the chocolate crumbs from his fingers. "Oh, good. I need to give her my poem."

James decided not to ask for more information—just caught Sirius' eye, a single eyebrow barely raised, and nodded at the slight turn of his head in reply. "I thought the, um…the talk? Was nice."

"The eulogy," Mary supplied. "I agree. Lovely words."

"I've often wondered what people will say about me when I die," Sirius said, clearly trying to lift the mood. "Apart from commenting on my devastating good looks, of course."

"Trouble is, Black," Dorcas sighed, all faux sympathy, "it's not considered polite to talk about what a colossal prick someone was at their funeral, so what would there be left to say?"

"I guess that just leaves my huge—"

"Funeral," Marlene hissed, eyes darting frantically around them to see if anyone was listening. "We are at a funeral, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, look, there's Mr Evans and Petunia," Mary pointed out; sure enough, Lily's father and sister had made their way into the hall and were being greeted, hugged and sympathised with by everyone they passed. "Where's Lil?"

Huh. She was nowhere to be seen.

The porch of the church offered some respite from the heat; Lily sank down onto the steps and leaned against the cool stone wall. The porch was open on three sides—from the front, you were gifted a view of the cars parked along the road, crammed in like sardines, and the houses similarly squished together opposite. From the left, you could look across a modest patch of grass and over to the entrance to the church hall, currently packed with people desperate to tell her how sorry they were.

But from her place on the right of the porch, she couldn't see anybody at all; she couldn't see the weight of their expectations. From here, she couldn't see the church building itself, where a vicar who had never met her mother had spoken about a life well lived; she couldn't see the graveyard where her mother's coffin now rested in the freshly dug earth. All she could see was a hedge, neatly trimmed and dotted with white blossoms. She could almost be anywhere, at any time.

None of it felt real, yet. She wasn't sure when it would…if it ever would. She had stood in front of the mirror this morning, smoothing down wisps of hair, and half expected her mum to appear in the doorway, to remind her to polish her shoes or they'd be the talk of the parish.

She looked down at her shoes, now. The leather was scuffed. She wasn't sure anyone would dare to remark on it, though. Or if they would…whether she would even care.

She was still looking down at her shoes when someone sat carefully next to her: black leather brogues, laces neatly tied and looped in bows, and trousers that were not quite long enough to hide some truly spectacular socks. A neat row of golden snitches, presumably charmed to stay still for the occasion, peeked out at her. She would've been able to guess who it was anyway—something about the scent of him, the way he held himself—but the socks would've given it away, if she hadn't. "Alright, Evans?"

Lily looked up, finding James not watching her as she thought he might be but rather gazing, as she had been, at the hedge opposite. It felt like a gesture of kindness, him giving her space, should she need it, even as he sat at her side. "Alright, Potter," she replied softly.

He carried on staring straight ahead, and she wondered for a moment if he was going to even say anything else—quite out of character for him. But then he cleared his throat, a gentle thing that made her look away. "I'm really sorry," he said, his voice unbearably tender. "About your mum…"

She nodded; she still hadn't worked out what to say to such things. 'Me too'? 'Thanks'? It all seemed so empty. "Thanks for coming today," she murmured. "It…" A swallow, against the lump in her throat. "It means a lot."

"We wouldn't have missed it," he assured her. "McGonagall tried to tell us it only needed to be the girls who came, you should've seen Sirius' reaction."

She couldn't help a snort at that. "Epic?"

"Truly," James confirmed. "He monologued about the importance of friendship for at least three minutes before she managed to cut him off."

She smiled—a sad, faded sort of smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Well, I appreciate you all missing out on the end of term fun for me."

He gave her shoulder a nudge with his own. "Don't be daft." He paused. "It was a nice service."

So much of it had been a blur to Lily that she might as well not have been present at all. "Yeah, it was…"

"I liked the, um," he cleared his throat awkwardly—he was obviously trying, and she wished she had words to tell him not to worry, not to bother. "The songs?"

"Hymns," she supplied softly, and looked his way a moment. "My mum loved those ones. About the only thing she liked about church, I think."

A pause. "You mean she didn't like the insane coloured-glass pictures of Jesus?"

Lily smiled, faintly, down at her feet. "Well, who doesn't like those."

"True," he agreed quietly.

Silence fell again, and after a few moments she glanced up at him. He looked terribly grown up in his muggle suit—not like a boy playing at being a man, but like an actual man, all broad shoulders and long limbs. When had that changed, she wondered. "I was having breakfast."

He looked up, meeting her gaze. The sympathy there was almost overwhelming. "…breakfast?"

"When she died." She blinked, aware of the sting of tears in her eyes all of a sudden. "I was eating bran flakes and thinking about my last exam, whether I was prepared enough."

He let out a breath she hadn't realised he was holding. At his knee, he flexed his fingers, as if itching to move his hand—to reach for hers? Probably not. "I didn't realise," he said, looking pained. "I thought—you know, that you got to…"

"Say goodbye?" She looked away again. "No. It happened quite quickly. And…dad was overwhelmed, it took him a while to remember how to get in contact with McGonagall…by the time he did…"

It was too late. It was all much too late.

"I'm sorry," James murmured, what could have been seconds or minutes later. All she knew was that she'd started crying again, and at some point, his arm had wound around her shoulders, pulling her gently into the warmth of him. It wasn't something they did very often; it was odd, how normal it felt. "I'm—it's fucking awful, Lily."

She took a gulping breath, moving to hastily wipe her cheeks, as if that might erase the knowledge that she'd cried at all. As if he couldn't see the tears, didn't feel the shaking of her shoulders, hear the shuddering attempts to steady her breathing. What was the point in pretending, anyway, of hiding her vulnerabilities away? Everyone knew they were there.

Maybe that was worse. She had been largely numb to it all as they walked into the church, following behind her mother's coffin; she'd been too busy thinking about how this was the last time she'd be anywhere near her mum, the last time there wouldn't be six feet of cold earth between them. How could she worry about what people thought when they looked at her, when she could only try to remember the last time she'd hugged her mother—had it been in the Easter break? It must have been, but then, each step heavy against the flagstone floor, she couldn't even vaguely recall it.

Was that how it would be, now? Every part of her life with her mum, every touch and smile and word just smudged away, fading over time until it was gone completely?

That thought made her want to crawl, drag herself over to the ground where her mother lay buried, and sob into the dirt until she had nothing left to give.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed before she found herself able to talk again. "I don't think I can go in there," she said, eventually, the tears slowed and her head now almost resting on his shoulder. "Everyone wants to tell me how brilliant she was. As if I don't know that…"

He nodded, glancing back in the general direction of the hall. She could almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain. "Well…do you think your dad would mind if we sneak you away for a bit?"

She managed a tremulous smile. "I'm not sure he'll notice, to be honest."

He nodded again, more sure this time. "Okay. Stay there, and think about somewhere we can apparate to. Back in a jiff."

He'd already leapt up and strode off round the corner, making light work of it with his ridiculously long legs, before she even had the chance to consider just how much he'd calmed her. He'd listened, been thoughtful, been respectful… if someone had said to her a year ago, she'd be accepting comfort from James Potter, she'd have told them to piss off.

Life certainly took its strange turns.

James reappeared a few minutes later, closely followed by the rest of the sixth years, each clutching various lumpy napkin-wrapped items. James shifted one such thing into his suit pocket, held out his hand to help her up, and gave her a smile. "So," he said. "Where are we off to?"

The place they apparated to was not far away—in fact, Sirius thought he could see the church spire, if he turned back towards the town—but, given the way the temperature had ticked up throughout the morning, and they were all still in their smart funeral clothes, they had quickly decided not to bother walking. Lily had chosen a spot on the outskirts of Cokeworth, where a river lazily threaded its way through a copse of trees, as if avoiding the busy town nearby before it made its way further south. They set themselves in a huddle on the riverbank, sheltered from the heat of the sun by the shadow of a huge oak tree; Marlene and Dorcas took off their shoes and tights, deciding to go for a paddle in the shallows, which, Sirius had to admit, was an appealing thought. Still, he just shed his jacket and lounged on the grass for now, deciding to conserve his energy.

To his right, Mary had settled herself in next to Lily, one hand grasping hers like she thought she could transfer strength purely through her grip. The group had unloaded their napkin bundles, various chunks of purloined cake and sandwiches from the church hall, and spread them out on the ground: now, Mary tried to tempt her friend into some Victoria sponge, or a cheese and cucumber sandwich, with little success.

"She'll eat when she wants to eat, Mac," Sirius pointed out, a friendly statement which earned him something like a glare in return.

On his other side, James had also shed his jacket, as well as his tie, and was trying his hand at a bit of amateur grass weaving. He seemed well focused on the task, such as it was, and didn't seem bothered about making conversation, even when Sirius had tried to quietly draw him out on what he'd talked to Evans about back at the church. It was very unlike Prongs not to want to talk about an interaction with Lily.

"I'm really okay," Lily said, a promise which meant absolutely nothing to any of them. She squeezed Mary's hand. "Honestly. Don't worry about me."

Pete lurched up from his prone position, grasping in his pocket. "Oh, Evans," he said, leaning over her outstretched legs to hand her the folded piece of parchment he'd shown Sirius that morning. "Erm…I wrote this. For you."

Lily was clearly trying not to look too surprised, glancing briefly over to James (interestingly, Sirius thought) before she unfolded it. They watched her read it, and Sirius was just wondering if he might need to cause a diversion to help with any awkwardness when Lily looked up again, her eyes bright with tears. "Peter," she said; even James finally looked up, his gaze moving between them in confusion. "Thank you, this is so—" She shook her head, and pitched herself up onto her knees so she could lean over and give him a hug. "Thank you."

Pete's cheeks flushed pink, and he patted Lily on the back as if she were a baby in need of burping. "Oh, well. You're welcome, Evans." He paused. "Lily."

She pulled back, tucking the parchment into the pocket of her cardigan, and wiped at her eyes—catching Sirius' gaze now, too. "You didn't write me a poem," she teased, a hint of that familiar smile on her face. To be honest, it was a relief to see it.

"I didn't," he agreed, voice heavy with faux regret. "I tried for a sonnet but got a bit stuck on iambic pentameter. You know how it is."

Lily actually laughed; James glanced between them. "Iambic who?"

Sirius gave an airy wave of his hand. "You wouldn't understand, Prongs," he replied. "You're not as literary-minded as Evans and I."

"And Pete," Lily reminded him, shooting Peter a fond smile.

"And Pete," Sirius allowed. "My apologies."

"Apology accepted," Peter nodded magnanimously.

"Alright," James shrugged, although he had a small smile of his own he was clearly trying to quell; he returned to his grass weaving task. "Have your private jokes."

Sirius grinned before pushing himself up onto his feet. "I'm going wandering," he declared. "Mac, join me."

"Oooh," Pete laughed. "You're not going to cop off in the bushes, are you?"

For a moment, Sirius felt more than a bit baffled, but then he remembered that, as far as Pete knew, he was still happily shagging Mary at any opportunity. To be honest, that fiction had faded from his mind not long after Remus had started being friendly again. After all, and though he would never admit as much out loud, the whole point of it had been to get some kind of reaction out of that granite-like, reaction-less boy. From Sirius' perspective, it didn't seem to have worked to any kind of level of success, but better to have tried and failed than…whatever. He couldn't be held responsible for decisions made when angry and sad and a bit drunk, could he?

Luckily, although he was too busy remembering what on earth his friend was referring to, his so-called sexual partner had more of an idea of what was going on. Mary stood up, rather more gracefully, and brushed the grass from her arse. "No, we are not," she replied. "Of that much, you can be assured."

He held out his hand to her, ostensibly to steady her movements across the cake-laden grass (a movement which, he noticed now, seemed to catch Remus' attention), and she hopped to his side. "Let's stroll, Black."

He picked a direction and started ambling, Mary's hand still tucked in his. Once they were a little way away from the group, he glanced over at her; a few locks of her dark hair had come loose from the bun at the nape of her neck, framing her face in the afternoon light. She seemed fine, but then, she always did: it was something of a skill of hers, covering up her emotions in the name of protecting others. But Sirius knew her well enough by now, well enough to spot the signs—and they were all there today, might as well have been flashing neon letters for how obvious they were, like the way she chewed subconsciously on her lower lip, or her reluctance to hold anyone's gaze for too long, as if it would draw out an emotion she was trying to keep down. "Talk to me, Mac."

She raised an eyebrow, sure enough keeping her eyes forward. "About what?"

Fine. He could do things the hard way. (It wasn't as if he couldn't be just the same, that much he could admit.) "You're allowed to be upset too, you know," he offered. "For Evans, and for yourself."

Mary tried to shrug it off. "I liked Rose," she replied, each word cautious, carefully chosen. "She was always kind to me when I visited in the hols. And Lil…"

Sirius squeezed her hand. "Yeah."

"I hate seeing her so…heartbroken." She sighed. "And I feel useless, because I can't do anything." She cast a look in his direction, a pretence at hiding her frustration, as if it wasn't real and vividly felt. "Because she won't let me."

He stopped, stooping to pick up a particularly appealing stick from the ground—the dog instincts stayed strong, even when in human form. "It's still fresh, Mac," he reminded her. "Give her a few days to settle into her new existence. Grief takes time."

Mary didn't bother to hide her irritation. "I used to be able to rely on you to be irrational, you know," she told him, just a flash of fondness taking the sting out of her words. "Where did it all go wrong?"

Sirius smirked slightly, pausing to throw the stick into the river; watched, as it bobbed at the surface before sinking down, caught by a gentle current. He knew the feeling. "I think we should break up."

She paused at his side; he could feel her gaze on him. "Sirius, my love," she started, and he glanced over at her, finding the warmth of her eyes. "I hate to break it to you, but we were never actually together…"

He sighed. "I do know that," he assured her. "I just mean, to the others. Pete still thought I was going to drag you into a hedge for a quick fuck…"

"Well, he needs to get his mind out of the gutter," she decided. "Iris is obviously a bad influence on the poor lad."

"That's a whole other topic," he decided. "But you see my point."

"I do," Mary agreed. "And it's fine with me. Although I think I should be the one to dump you."

He raised an eyebrow. "How'd you suppose that?"

"You've got enough of a tarnished reputation as it is," she reminded him. "Besides, think how sympathetic you'll look if you've been dumped."

He decided not to ask her who she thought he wanted to garner sympathy from: it would only open him up for a conversation trail he didn't want to wander down. "Fair enough."

She leaned in to dot a kiss to his cheek. "I'll dump you next week. It's not the done thing to do it at your friend's mother's funeral."

Sirius allowed her a nod. "No, I remember that from my etiquette lessons." He gave her hand a squeeze before letting go. "C'mon. Let's see if we can get Evans to eat one of those coronation chicken sandwiches."

Mary laughed, a soft, sad sound, but somehow brighter than it had been before. That was progress at least. "Worth a try."

James felt that familiar, strange twist of gut behind his navel, opening his eyes to find himself once more down the side of the St Bartholomew's church. Lily was at his side, clutching his arm: too tired, too distracted to apparate herself. To be honest, he felt nervous at the thought of leaving her with her family—she seemed too fragile, like even the slightest gust of wind would just lift her up, carry her away where no one could reach her. He'd always seen Lily as someone strong, chin high against life's pain; ever since her mum became ill, he'd watched as that got slowly eroded. It was still there, or a semblance of it was. He just wasn't sure how much more she could take.

Lily kept hold of his arm as they followed the group slowly, quietly, back into the church hall. The crowd had thinned out, but there were a few people around, deep in conversations—enough that he was fairly sure no one would have noticed their absence. Anyway, the cake was such a quality that most people, he decided, would be hard pressed to think about anything else.

(He made a mental note to slip another slice of lemon drizzle into his pocket before they left.)

They gathered near the door, exchanging hugs, and talk turned to their first official event of the summer: swimming/splashing about half-drunk in the river that flowed through Malmsmead. His mum had been more than happy to host his friends again—she said she found their youthful energy "invigorating"—and the weather was set to continue the stretch of warmth, which they had all decided they should take advantage of before it turned cold and wet again.

"You'll come, right, Lil?" Marlene asked, holding her friend close. "Wouldn't be the same without you."

Lily closed her eyes, heaving a sigh too weighty for someone their age. "Maybe. I don't want to ditch dad…"

In another lifetime—the lifetime of a year ago—James would've stood quietly, not wanting to weigh in for fear of tipping the scales in the wrong direction. Now, as Marlene released Lily from her embrace, he leaned in for a quick hug of his own, and added, "Of course you should spend time with your dad, Evans. But you should have time for yourself, too."

She met his gaze as she pulled back, managing a faint smile. "I'll think about it. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed.

But as he watched her hug the others, he wasn't sure if she really would think about it. Whether she might take the chance to just hide away for the summer, to stew in her sadness. He wasn't sure why that thought was so uncomfortable, why he felt a real and sudden urge to draw her back to him, to hold her shoulders and look into her eyes and tell her it's okay, you'll be okay, let us be there.

He didn't, of course. But he wanted to.

Potter —

(thought about writing 'James' to start with, but it felt a bit strange. I'll get there!)

I know you said it was all part of being a friend, but I wanted to write to say thank you again, for coming last week. It really meant a lot to me to have you all there.

I know we haven't always seen eye to eye (remember when I called you a raging narcissist?) but I'm so glad things are better now. I really appreciate your friendship, James, and I hope you know that.

I thought about what you said and I think you're right. I can't just spend the summer in hibernation. Not least because I may end up murdering Petunia in her sleep. SO I have decided I will join you lot for these fun days out after all.

See you soon for swimming in the river at the bottom of your garden (still strange…)—bet I can outswim you.

Love, Evans

Cady,

I think we need to talk.

Can I come and visit you tomorrow? Midday?

J