All things considered, they land pretty safely. A gash runs up Lily's arm, and her head is spinning, but the night before has a part of that too. It's not like a motorcycle – the broom has rolled to the edge of the embankment, and Potter is beneath it, but he's blinking and quite uncrushed. They're on a grassy bank, a creek trickling beside them, and trees shyly bordering the hidden little place. Lily murmurs as she traces her wound with the tip of her wand, watching it mend. She's not got the knack for Healing, but the skin knits itself together. Potter sits up, pulling chunks of grass out of his hair. She swallows hard and tells herself he's fine, she doesn't need to – and then she's running towards him, falling on her knees, already muttering diagnostic spells.
"You didn't break anything?" Her fingers brush his ribs, and he winces. "You – you saved us."
"You defended us," Potter protests, "with that Shield Charm." She casts another spell, and wishes desperately she had more of her healing poultices in her bag. They have to make do without. If it weren't for Potter's flying, they'd be as flat as pastry sheets. She's never been so thankful for Quidditch.
A road rolls over the hill and creeps down towards them, patient and empty. They stagger towards it, Potter still hitting his stick against the ground in case of snakes. Lily's fists ball weakly. If Lord Voldemort follows them to the island and tries to poison the source – well, she's going to just about kill him, if only because she's desperate for another decent sleep.
"Hey," says Potter, as they near the road, "wasn't this part of your idea?"
"Sorry?" Sheep dance through her mind, begging to be counted.
"You explained it," Potter says. He walks up to the very edge of the road and sticks his thumb out. "It's how the Muggles get about, isn't it?"
Lily smirks. "Yes," she admits. "But there typically needs to be a car around to get a ride."
They sit down on the grass while they wait, and Potter pulls out a bottle of water for them to share. When he passes it to her, her first thought is of germs, and personal space, and – who is she kidding? Lily gulps it down, thankful for the relief, and tries not to think about kissing him. The sun swelters and her head thuds and she draws patterns on the fabric over her thighs. Whatever happened last night - whatever show they had to put on, whatever effect the alcohol had - it's done. They're in the daylight now, and they have a job that needs doing.
The first car ignores them, and the second only slows for a moment. Potter stubbornly holds out his thumb until his sore hip starts to give in, and they swap. Sweat trickles down Lily's nose; it's supposed to be autumn here, but it's senselessly warm. The third car is full of men who yell out to them, something about a forest. The fourth car to come over the hill is a low, rusting Commodore, and it stops.
Lily and Potter go to the window, and a moustachioed man in the driver's seat cranks it down so they can talk. His fringe takes up half his face, and his bushy eyebrows fight valiantly for the remaining slice.
"Hi," Lily says, and he blinks at the accent. "Sorry. Thank you for stopping."
"That's quite alright," he says. "Where are you wanting to go?"
"Where are you heading?" Past the front seats, she can see a pair of children tucked in the back, both peeking at her with curious eyes.
"Warrnambool," the man supplies. "By way of Colac. If you're wanting to see the Apostles, I'm a good bet." Lily stares. A close cousin of hope warms her from the inside out. Could they be that lucky?
Potter leans one hand against the car and peers over his glasses at the man.
"Warrnambool sounds brilliant," he says. "I'm Jim. This is Lily."
"Good to meet you." The men shake hands through the open window. "Hop in, why don't you?"
After some eye contact, Potter slips into the front seat, tucking his bag between his legs, and Lily climbs into the back. The two boys – Michael's sons, she presumes – lift their legs up for her to get past. She settles into the middle and straps herself in, nursing her rucksack. The boys drop their legs down. She wonders if it wouldn't have made more sense for one of them to squish in the centre. But it is their car.
"These are my boys," Michael says gruffly, throwing his hand back. "Peter and Paul. After their uncles. They're visiting for the holidays, down from their mother's."
"Hello," Lily says. The smaller one waves shyly. The bigger one frowns.
"Are you from England?"
"I am, yeah."
He screws up his nose. "Oh. The Bells on Chisholm Street are from England. Mr Bell cried when Brearley resigned."
"He did too," Michael laughs. "Give me a beer, Paul. Jim, you'll have one? VB. World's best."
"Here you are, Dad." The smaller boy rummages through a blue box and thrusts two cold beers into the front seat. Potter shoots Lily a nervous grin and swigs.
"Best in the world?" asks Michael.
"Pretty close."
The car pulls off the roadside and onto the motorway, and Potter exclaims as it starts. Lily presses her lips together to keep from laughing. Peter and Paul have no such reservations.
"Don't you have cars over there?" Paul questions, leaning forward. His dark blonde hair falls past his ears in a pageboy cut, and his nose is smattered with freckles. The brothers are both scrawny and long, like they'd been stretched, with stark lines beneath the sleeves of their t-shirts drawing a border between pale skin and red sunburn.
"We do a lot of walking," Lily puts in. Potter catches her eye in the rearview mirror and smiles – with gratitude?
Michael turns the radio up, but it's talk rather than music. It's Lily's turn to jump when the word 'bombers' comes over. Panic blurs her vision. Are they tailing them still? Have they endangered Muggles? Has anyone been killed? But Paul giggles and Peter starts singing out of tune.
"We are Geelong, the greatest team of all! We are Geelong -" Soon the cry is taken up by all three of the Australians, while Lily's head spins. She leans in to listen to the broadcast. Bombers and – tigers? – and –
"What sport is this?" Potter asks, a quaver of excitement in his voice. Michael stares at him incredulously.
"The best sport in the world." Completely deadpan.
Chatter about balls and sports and points flies over her head as they roll through the Melburnian sprawl. Over her lap, the boys shake their hands and make scissors with their fingers. The sky is so much higher here. A proud cerulean blue arch shimmers above bungalows and spacious gardens, dousing the faded watercolour smears of grass in white sunlight. She searches the sky for some pursuer, for the blur of a broomstick or ripple of a Portkey. As the clusters of houses give way to rolling green fields and patchwork fences, the muscles in her limbs relax, and her breathing evens. It's a tentative sort of safety in this little car, wedged between two children and a cooler box. Brown cows hang their heads in sparse paddocks, some traipsing to the shelter of a lone tree. Farmhouses of brick, or more often timber, stare with lonely eyes onto the only road in sight. Hills well in the distance, swollen shadows like blue bruises. The position of the sun is wrong, she realises – it sits to the north rather than the south.
The knot of anxiety returns as quickly as it left, budding in the veins in her wrist. The world is too big. She feels like she might be swallowed whole. Out there, somewhere, Lord Voldemort is hunting them. Hunting Petunia, and Vernon, and their little boy Dudley. Hunting Sirius and Remus and Peter. Mary. Marlene. Even in thinking their names terror shoots through her, like he might be able to look into her mind from the other side of the world, like in conjuring their faces in her mind she will conjure their deaths. The road is rough and unsettles her stomach. What if the Death Eaters have got to the island before them? What if Lord Voldemort is waiting for them there at this very moment, the crystal destroyed? Peter has got into trouble for shoving his brother and glares murderously out the window. Paul has a comic in his lap but is too busy pouting to read it. What if she and Potter have endangered them? What if their steps from the airport are traced, and they lead to this father and his kids and their sun-bleached hair and their bodies, which would be so small in death. Lily has seen enough dead bodies to know. She bites her tongue to ward the memories off, and her gaze trails to Potter. The radio has finally moved on to some rock song and he stretches out in the seat, dark hair falling over his ears in a fluffed mess. His denim-clad legs are mostly extended, and are tight where robes tend to be loose. His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes. She counts each lift of his chest and soothes herself once more.
They stop at a service station in Colac, and the boys insist on McDonald's. Lily leans against the car and bites into a burger. The boys bite into their soft-serve ice creams, and Potter and Michael smoke under a tree. Lily joins them when her stomach gives up on the food, and Potter holds out his cigarette in an offer. Fuck it, Lily thinks. They've kissed. They're supposed to be madly in love. Death has scraped close to them today already. She can't be afraid of his saliva.
She accepts and takes a long, relieving drag. God.
They bundle back into the car, and the boys get sticky hands on the back of the seats. Lily leans her head onto her shoulder and shuts her eyes, but she knows sleep is out of the question. She lets the hills and the cows and the banners for football teams pass her by, falling together in names like Camperdown and Panmure. Excited chatter anchors her, and when she bothers to properly sit up, they're coming into town. Pine trees dominate the slopes of houses, marching down the main street.
"You'll be going down to the beach? Lake Pertobe?" Michael asks suddenly, looking over his shoulder at her. She nods.
"That's the one," she smiles blithely, the name foreign.
Happy Seashores Holiday Park is a collection of brick cabins and caravans, arranged in orderly rows and punctuated by stunted palms, which look rather out of place in this world of pines. A blue dog tied to a camping chair barks as they pass. Their feet crunch on the gravel, and almost in unison they whisper incantations, pointing their wands out of their sleeves at each place as they cross the boundary markers. Their cabin is number twenty-one, and is at the end of a row of three. The keys jingle in Lily's hand and she unlocks the door.
It's a nice place, if best described as cosy. A bench divides the kitchen from the little living room, and two doors on the left wall lead, presumably, to a bedroom and toilet. She looks in both of them and they dump their bags at the end of the red-sheeted bed, before stalking around the perimeter, casting their Detection Charms. Nothing shows. She glances nervously out the window.
At the end of this, Lily sinks into the sofa, bones weary, and tilts her head back until her crown brushes the panel of warm wood affixed to the orange bricks. If the painting fell, it would smack her square in the face. The frame is bleached with salt air, and the pink seashells sit painted for all time, patient and unmoving, a purple sky behind them. Fixed. Safe. Muggle. She runs her fingers over the ribbing of the brown cushion covers.
"Tea?" She turns her head. James hovers in the kitchen, spoons spinning under their own power in two unadorned mugs. His wand lays on the bench. He stands in front of the glazed-glass windows and their lacy white curtains, and for a moment he might be a bride at the night's end, worn and warm all at once. She has a strange, sudden surge of affection for him. She's lost how long they've been travelling in the change of time zones and the blur of fields, but he hasn't given up once.
"Sorry," she says, and ignores as he tells her not to mind it. She pushes herself up and stumbles to where he stands, adding a dash of milk to her cup while he pours two sugars into his.
They don't eat dinner, by some unspoken agreement. Potter returns to his dictionary and Lily excuses herself to lay down. Potter hesitates. The park is close to booked out, thanks to the Easter holidays, and all they had was a couple's retreat. Lily had to accept it. The trouble is that just one bed resides within the dinghy little bedroom.
"It's fine," she says, leaning against the doorjamb. "We're adults. Keep to your side, and I'll keep to mine."
His eyebrows raise. "I can sleep out here," he volunteers. "I don't mind."
"No." The word rushes from her lips before she can stop it. His eyes widen. She hurries to make it make sense. "You can if you want, but – tomorrow… You'll want a good night's sleep."
He presses his lips to his fist. "Will you get that? If – you know, if…"
"Yeah," she says, and smiles too wide. "You've seen me. I'm like a cat. I'll sleep anywhere." Potter watches her through the round rims of his glasses.
"If you're sure."
"Of course."
Lily sticks her head out the window to check the moon, and then curls up on her side and wishes she'd brought a book. A novel. Some stupid romance between a duke and a blushing maid. She wraps her arms around herself and pulls the blankets over her. It's cold. And there's no heating, really, not like home. The walls might as well be made of canvas. It's not much of a place to spend her last night on earth, but it's what she's got. Her first night on earth was probably less comfortable. Lily Evans was born in a blackout in one of the worst hospitals in England. She can't rightly say that anything in her life has been a surprise, not after that.
Potter joins her sooner than she expects, flicking off the light in the main room as he does so. Lily shuts her eyes and pretends to be sleeping. She hears him shrug off his jacket and unfasten his bag, and he messes about for a while before the mattress dips and another weight joins her. He's silent and careful, pulling at the covers with a pinch. The springs squeak. There's a gentle sigh as his head hits the pillow.
Lily waits in the dark for his breathing to deepen, so that she might let herself fall asleep. It doesn't. She watches through slits and her eyes adjust to the dark, until she can see that he is awake, shuffled over as far from her as possible, arms folded over the blanket and his chest. The pillow is softer than she'd like beneath her cheek. The lumpy mattress underneath juts against her teeth, through the wall of stuffing and linen case and flesh.
"Potter," she murmurs into the night. Her heart jumps when his head turns. Her voice was so low she had thought herself safe.
"Evans?" he says. In the wear of his voice, there is still some faint note of curiosity, like a piano being played in the furthest room. "Can't sleep?"
Her hand curls on the pale undersheet, only an inch from her chest. It is as far as she dares to encroach on the chasm of no-man's-land between them.
"I've never heard of Port Despair before." The admission is quiet, creeping from her lips. "I've never heard that poem. She feels his inhale rather than seeing it, the weight on the shared mattress shifting. The duvet lifts off her legs with the rise of his ankles. He stretches, rolling the weight onto his shoulders.
"It was a battle," he says, as his heels touch down. "Near the end of the last war." Lily flinches at the rattle of the door outside. Laughter follows it, and her palm aches for her wand, her muscles spasm to run. But it's the laughter of lovers; a man says something warm and liquid and a woman's voice replies in honey and amber, and bottles clink in a rubbish bin and then that door shuts once more. It's fine, she tells herself, but her lungs do not listen. Her throat closes. It takes a moment for her to push the air through.
"Yes," she says, when her body temperature begins to regulate. "I thought as much." Potter has half-rolled onto his side, eyes trained on her, one hand flat by his face on his pillow. Lily looks him in the eyes for a fleeting second and is stung. Her gaze flickers to the exposed swathe of collarbone peeking above the top undone button of his nightshirt. Safer.
The bed jiggles. It takes a second; Potter's leg is wiggling. His thumb draws a circle by his nose.
"They'd been fighting for around a week," he says. "It's not like Muggles and their guns. Shield Charms, potions, enchanted cloaks, certain curses - it draws out. A week on the coast of - well, what's Poland now, anyway. I don't know if the place had a name then." Slowly, Lily pulls her eyes back up to his face. Even in the black of the room, she can see the shadows beneath his eyes, like blue bruises. James Potter's façade of perfection defeated. Fifteen-year-old Lily might have rejoiced. Lily now is struck by the urge to touch them - not to better cement the black eyes, as her schoolgirl self might have urged, but to trace them in tenderness. In recognition. Instead, her fingers trail the crescent shapes across the sheet they share.
He rubs his chin. "Grindelwald was losing in France, and in the Netherlands. Word had it that Dumbledore was after him. He – he wasn't what he is now, he was just a talented sorcerer, but Grindelwald had always been afraid of him, they said. And so he fled to Poland, and they say it was by his order that they released the last of the creatures in their captivity to fight." His voice tightened. "They don't know how many there were, exactly. They outnumbered the wizards – both sides put together – at least five to one. They didn't care for allegiances. Most of the wizards there had been fighting somewhere on the continent for at least a year, and most had lost hope. It was a feast." His hands fall lifelessly by his sides, and he turns onto his back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. His chest rises sharply. "Dementors."
Some pit drops through Lily's stomach. "That's awful." Hollow, but what else is she supposed to say? A thousand images burn through her mind. She's seen dementors at a distance, once. The sight alone had filled her with a dread like cotton wool stuffed in her mouth.
"Eighty-seven survivors," he says. "Uncle Edwin was one of six from England."
"Six." The reality is unfathomable. He inhales.
"One of the other men wrote the poem. Two years after." His voice tightens. "Died a week later. But he sent it to one of those he fought with, from Denmark. And he circulated it. A reminder, I guess. Not to do it again."
But Potter and Lily are here. Doing it again. Making the mistakes of the generation before them in the hope that this time, it might be the last. Convinced they would break the cycle while still participating in it.
"He died?"
"It can get into your bones," he says, very quietly. "Prolonged exposure. If you're vulnerable already."
It's an impulse, and an absurd one at that, but she gives in. Lily reaches across the bed and holds her hand out, offering. He swallows. She doesn't expect him to take it. She doesn't need him to. But after the past – well, she's lost track of the time, of the hours, of how any calendar works. But after this trip together, this mission, she wants him to know that she has his back. As he has had hers.
They aren't alone. Or if they are, they're alone together.
Tentatively, his fingers brush hers.
"James," she whispers. Two of her fingers grasp one of his. His are bigger than hers, but softer. For all his days of Quidditch, he's never spent nights in a chip shop pulling fish out of oil and burning through thin disposable gloves. He's never done anything resembling hard work without supple, charmed dragonhide gloves. He's never spilled acid on his only pair and resorted to revising potions with bare hands because the school's stock has been empty. He's probably never even had the handle of a shopping bag break over his knuckles.
"Lily," he says. She blinks, forcing herself into composure. Her mind drifts on the waves of exhaustion, and the world seems not quite real. How can this not be some nightmare? She's on the other side of the world in a bed with James Potter, holding his hand, with death all but promised on the dawn.
"Do you think we'll win?" It sounds childish. But isn't that the crux of all this? Winning. Defeating. Destroying a man with half of Britain at his command, with a knowledge of Dark Magic that goes beyond the bounds of natural law, whom whispers of immortality follow. Someone who has already faced that last enemy of death and risen from its ashes victorious.
James's hand closes around hers.
"I don't know."
The little bedside clock wakes them at four. Lily doesn't remember falling asleep. The alarm chitters in the night. She shifts, using her shoulder to pull the covers over her. Her throat is raw. She wiggles her fingers and finds them against skin. Wiggles the other hand. She moves her touch over the foreign thing clutched between her hands, finding the ridges and the bends, the hard bones and the shortened lifeline. James's hand. One of them. She blinks into the darkness. He's rolled mostly onto his stomach, one arm squashed beneath his body – the one that she holds – and the other is sprawled across the bed, stretching towards her. It stops just before her curled up knees. Her sight adjusts to the dimness. As he breathes, a wrinkle in the pillowcase flutters.
She gives herself ten seconds. For ten seconds, the only thing they have to do today is lay like this. Her body rises and falls in time with his. What if, she thinks, fleetingly. His breaths whistle. She wonders what their lives would be like if she was familiar with that mole on his cheek, and with the length of his back and the soft of his neck. If she knew this man who has saved her and who – maybe, on occasion, sort of, kind of – she has saved.
The count reaches double digits. Lily gives up, and prepares to die today. Somehow, in this light, it seems not like a frightening prospect but like the truth. Maybe she's known it all this time, since the English spring morning she left behind. Her feet hit the carpet.
She's made them each a cup of tea by the time James joins her, hair mussed and eyes dopey. They stand in the kitchenette and drink. He pulls out a muesli bar, and they go halves in it. It tastes like coal. James reaches past her for the bin, and the proximity nearly kills her. Not today. There's no point in it. There's nothing they can do to change things. Her heart gnashes against her teeth. It's just not meant to be, she tells herself. It's not the life you've been meant to lead.
"Lily?" he pulls back, a question in his eyes. Lily swallows.
"I need to brush my teeth." Because even knowing she'll be a corpse by the day's end, she can't give up on her orthodontist-endorsed habits. She even flosses, until her gums bleed. She bares her teeth in the mirror, and wonders if the fish will eat her like she tore into the barramundi. It's funny how far she's kept the reality of this mission from her consciousness. For a while, it had almost felt like a holiday, instead of a death sentence.
She packs her bag carefully – the little one, her purse. She bought it in Diagon with Marlene. She fetches the hardy little vial, ripening only today, in this phase of the moon, and shoves it to the bottom. She leaves her real passport on the bedside table, so they can find Petunia if they ever connect the dots. I love you. She lets herself picture her sister's face for the last time, because after this, she has to be focused on the task at hand. If she lets herself wander through memory, Lord Voldemort will cement his immortality. I love you. I love you even if you don't love me.
She hitches the leather strap over her shoulder and waits out the front for James to follow. She digs out the lighter she keeps for Marlene and lights a cigarette. James joins her as she stubs it out in the ashtray. She drops the keys inside and twists the lid shut.
"It's not far," she tells him. His lips press into a thin line.
"Yeah."
They leave in the dark.
Waves roar against the rocky base of Thunder Point, the water choppy and grey and still drenched in night. Further along the coast, dark silhouettes speckle the tiny peninsulas, armed with buckets and fishing rods. A shadow flickers along the horizon. Lily shivers. All her life, there's been something further south – Birmingham, France, Africa. But from here, there's an empty expanse of ocean until the sheets of ice that form the Antarctic. If those men on the rocks fall… She hugs herself, and checks her footing.
"It's that one, isn't it?" James points out to sea. Nearer to the coast, a clutch of islands hang by, but further out a mirage shimmers. The island they're seeking is supposedly invisible to the Muggle eye, though not because of some Charm placed on it by an ambitious warlock. The magic of the island itself enchants it, in the way it enchants the pool within. Lily reaches into the small bag she's brought along, stuffed with only the select items that will help them. One of which is her notebook. It was purchased at a Muggle bookshop on Oxford Street and is completely unremarkable, and that's precisely why she chooses to fill it with the things she does. She flips through the pages.
"Yes," she says. "Yes, you're right." Her notes match up. The Piscinam Australis lay just within a wizard's vision, from here. Lily looks at him, and he looks back at her. She reaches for his hand. He takes it. This is it. The fishermen pay them no mind, though Lily questions their purpose. Death Eaters, she thinks. Watching them. But it's too late to hide their purpose. Their deceptions are dead. The only way out now is through.
"Do you want to?" His thumb circles over her knuckles. Lily swallows.
"Yeah," she says.
They walk a little closer to the water's edge, until the rocks are so slippery that she holds him in a vice grip. With her left hand, that is. Her right has control of her wand, and she holds it between her fingers like a cigarette as she pulls out a tiny object from her bag. With a deep breath, she tosses it into the waves, and performs the spell as soon as it's in the air.
"Engorgio."
It expands into a full-sized wooden dinghy as it hits the waves, and another quick spell stops it from smashing into the rocks. With her magic and her might, Lily holds it at a safe distance. The next part is supposed to be simple.
"You first," she tells James. "Then you can steady it for me." It's maybe fifteen feet down to the water. James's gaze burns into hers.
"See you down there," he says, and with a crack, vanishes. Lily's heart slams into her ribs. Crack. Lily peers into the darkness. James reappears in the boat below, unsteady on his feet as it mounts another wave.
"I'm good!" he shouts up at her, waving. "I've got it! Come on!"
Shit. "Coming." Destination, determination, deliberation. Lily turns on her heel. Crack. An unpleasant feeling squeezes her through the space, and then her shins hit the dinghy's wooden edge. She gasps, breathing in salt spray. BOOM. They slam down the side of another wave, and white water floods. "Shit," she says. "We need to go."
"I'll Vanish the water," James says. "You steer. I trust you." The water surges again, lifting them up. The cliffs above don't seem so far. But there's no time to think. The sea soaks through her boots into her socks.
"Okay," she says. "Let's do it." She raps her wand against the little boat's prow and wishes she knew how to navigate.
Lily grits her teeth, using careful, deliberate movements of her wand to send the ship towards the breaks between the waves, over the smoother water. James shouts again and again as he empties the water from their vessel, keeping them afloat quite literally single-handedly. But he can't stop the ocean. Lily makes an error in her judgement and a wave smashes into them at waist-height. It's all she can do to keep hold of her wand. She falls into the boat and water screams past her, over her face, through her hair. It's an explosion of blue and salt that burns her eyes. Something grabs her ankle. She shrieks, and bubbles rise up.
"LILY!" Her head bursts through the surface and she spits out saltwater, throat burning. James has hold of her legs and pulls her over the side back into the boat. One shoulder hits the edge and she cries out.
"Shit," she says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know." She shakes uncontrollably. Her clothes are soaked and freezing. Her teeth chatter. She taps the tip of her wand against the boat again. The cliffs recede behind them, and the shimmer grows closer, turning from the hint of something to a bona fide island as they near. It rises from the ocean like a rocky hill, and only the glow of its boulders indicate that anything is unusual. They're close. They're closer than they were a second ago. Lily clings to that. Her eyes scrape the sky, and she finds no trace of Death Eaters. Either they're not guarding it at all, or – maybe worse – they're waiting inside.
The further out they get, the calmer the waves are – it's counterintuitive. Maybe the weather is changing. James leans against the little seat and pants. His dark curls drip like a rainstorm, and his clothes – robes, for who gives a fuck, really, about them breaking the Statute of Secrecy as they go to their deaths? – cling to him, ruined by the ocean's attack. Lily is parched. But she can't stop. As she guides the ship forwards, she can feel herself tiring. Her head hurts. But she can't give up.
Finally, finally, they break through the mist and approach land. The hill looms large, with rocks in perfect circles spiralling upwards.
"It's like a volcano," Lily breaths, as the dinghy hits the sandy shore. "If I didn't know better…"
"I hope it's not," James says. "Or we're not going to have very much fun." He jumps over the edge and into the water, wincing when he lands. Lily clambers awkwardly after him, but his hands on her waist help her with the landing. Her toes are too numb to care about the water any longer. She wonders how long it'll be until they fall off.
His hands linger on her, and she doesn't push him away. She looks up at him. He's got a cut over his eye, and his lips are dry and cracked. It doesn't stop her from wanting to kiss him. Not even a little bit. Droplets fall from his curls onto his nose, and run down his face. She holds his shoulders. They could be slow-dancing. They never had dances at Hogwarts, and the nightclubs were never the place for the sort of sappy swaying best practised by lovestruck teenagers. Lily bets he can dance, and dance well. She has an idea of how he's been raised.
She knows him a little better than she really cares to admit.
"James."
"Lily."
Her breath catches. His face screws up; he looks down like he's pained. His pulse is staccato. The water eats at the hems of their cloaks. She still can't stop shivering.
"James," she says again, trying to find the words. Like it matters. Like it could make any kind of difference to their lives. He makes a choking sound, and she jumps forward, terrified he's about to give out on her – but he looks up, and he's only crying. Oh, God, he's only crying.
"Come on," he says, sniffing hard and wiping his eyes. "We've got a dark lord to stop."
Lily doesn't know if the path to the cave is supposed to be defined, or if someone has just been here before them; but the grass grows long from beneath the rocks and is flattened along a certain ridge. They climb. It's steeper than it looks. They follow the rise for five or so minutes, the boulders growing bigger and bigger. With each step, Lily becomes more certain that she's walking to her grave.
"That's it." James stops dead, pointing to one of the rocks that make up the great big hill. It's as tall as he is, and marked with a rune vaguely familiar, from her schooldays. His eyes are dry now, but they blaze.
"Yes, I think so," she says. They stand on the precipice, considering. Or she assumes he is. Maybe he's ready. Maybe he thinks twenty-two is old enough. Lily looks over the ocean, to the continent in the distance, and wonders if her parents can see her from where they are. She wishes she could believe that there's something next. But all she has is James. James, who walks side-by-side with her to death. She clears her throat. "Shall we?"
"Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah. It's time."
Together, they point their wands. "Wingardium Leviosa." From their very first Charms lesson. They lift the door as one, and deposit it on the path below. A long second passes. James goes first. Lily follows him into the dark.
They're in a sort of sloping corridor of rock, bordered by a sharp row of stalagmites that glow with an unnatural aquamarine. It throws them into a ghostly light. The knot in her throat swells. James doesn't light his wand, and so she doesn't either. The rush of the rolling water in the ocean beyond echoes in here, tossing and turning and churning against stone. Their footsteps sound like they belong to giants. James keeps walking, and so Lily stays close. The air is cool in here. No fire. It's not a volcano. She tries to be thankful for the small mercies.
At the end of the corridor, they step tentatively around the razor of stalagmites. Lily sucks in her breath. An electric turquoise pool shimmers in a depression in the cave's centre, lit by a shaft of the rising sun, as it filters through a hole in the rockface above them. Blue steam rises from the depths, twisting and twirling like spinning ribbons. The surface bubbles furiously, and the steam rises higher, streams circling tightly around one another like the beginnings of a tornado.
"It's beautiful," James murmurs. Lily nods.
"Isn't it?"
From the whirl of water comes the high, cold voice of Lord Voldemort.
The water falls over him like a robe, tying at his waist. His dark eyes are shadowed, and his face is gaunter than the last time she encountered him – to the unfamiliar, he looks near emaciated. His shoulders are skeletal, and his coiffed dark hair thins. His handsomeness is inhumane. He floats over the water and steps onto the rocky path, feet bare. Lily's mouth dries. His eyes are narrow slits as he approaches them. She grips her wand tightly. Her knuckles blanch.
He smiles at them, like he's delighted they've come. He spreads his hands magnanimously.
"Do you seek it, too?" he asks politely. "You wish to… share?" Neither Lily nor James answer him. He laughs. "No? You've come an awfully long way for a holiday."
"Thought it could be fun," says James, the tremble in his voice giving him away. "Quick hop across the continents, pop in, see if you were around. I wouldn't mind a cup of tea." Voldemort's nostrils flare, but he keeps smiling. He examines them like they're some sort of museum exhibit.
"Dumbledore sent you all this way, and didn't teach you any manners? A pity." He strokes the bone white of his wand longingly. The hairs on Lily's arms stand on end. "Tell me what it is you desire, James Potter. I know your stock. Pure of blood, if not heart. Is it the Mudblood?"
"Don't call her that," James growls.
"Ah. Of course." Voldemort walks towards them, his gaze flickering up and down Lily's body. She holds her ground. "Interesting," he murmurs. "If it is immortality you seek for you and your little pet, you need only admit it. I can be generous. I have seen the human heart, and I know of its pitfalls."
"You seek it?" Lily asks. His eyes narrow.
"Sought," he corrects. "Did dear James not tell you where you are? Piscinam Australis. The southern convergence of the ley lines. It is here, in the heart of the pool, that we may bathe and learn the secrets of the soul, Miss Evans. Tell me," he continues, "does the word horcrux mean anything to you?"
Lily flinches. It's nothing – it's a nothing word to her. But the way he whispers it is prayerful. The walls of the cavern gleam, smoky but bare.
His smile widens. "Ah. Dumbledore does not see all."
"The extent of the waters' powers are unknown," Lily says hesitantly. He chuckles.
"Not to me." Lily's heart drops. Does it mean…? Can it mean…? They've been sent to prevent this very thing. Dumbledore's instructions, explicitly, were to prevent him from ever reaching the waters. Lily has delayed them, and now…. It's going to be her fault. It's going to be her fault if something happens. Her eyes burn, and her shoulder with them, and she grits her teeth. James is looking at her. He must blame her. She's fucked it all up – again.
Voldemort eyes their wands. "There's truly no need for that. Can we not have a little… chat? I would hate for things to become uncivil."
"What have you done?" Lily demands. "They say it has power over life and death…"
"It's a gateway," James supplies. "Like Janus."
"You've been revising," Voldemort says silkily. "Little scholars."
He approaches James, and Lily drops back, a weight in her bag burning. Somehow, the thing has remained tangled around her arm all this time. She fiddles with the clasp and slips one hand inside. If Voldemort has already reached the waters… But it depends how long it's been. By the water's edge, there are still footprints, leading down through the soft dirt. They can't be that old. Less than an hour, Lily would wager. And Voldemort's death-defying spa bath has been interrupted.
"You say you want the muggle-borns gone," James continues, not looking at her. Lily takes another step back into the silver shadows. "What does this have to do with them? There are thousands of Muggles in that town. You could've killed them easily."
"I do," Voldemort says. "They're a scourge. It is because of them that we are forced to hide the truth of the world. We are taught that we are innately criminal. That our being, our existence, in the public space is to be… discouraged."
"Because of the Statute of Secrecy," James says. "The Muggles didn't make that one up."
"It was the Muggle lovers!" Voldemort cries, brandishing his wand. He casts no spells yet, but James's back is flat against one of the stalagmites. Lily takes the small vial from her purse and runs her fingers over the glass. It's ready. It must be. She's been gazing at the moon every night, and the time is right. She has one chance – but she needs James out of the road. Maybe they can't stop Voldemort. The impossible is the impossible. But if he's not yet completed all the steps of the ritual – which, given the cavern is empty of runes, given that the air is so cold, he likely has – then there is a chance.
She needs James to trust her. She's not done anything to earn it, and it's too late now. She has to believe that he will. She has to believe in the good in him she's seen, she has to believe that he will listen to her. It feels like it's impossible that anyone would ever pay attention to her.
But James Potter has never been just anyone.
"ARCHIBALD!" she screams, uncorking the vial, "JUMP!"
She throws the vial of aconite into the pool and leaps for her life.
The world shakes – it gapes and roars, and with great upheaval, changes. Lily's bad shoulder slams into the earth as the world tilts off-axis, the contents of the vial reacting with the pool, and she rolls down the dirt. She spits out mud. Something stabs her lungs. The cavern ceiling shakes, and rocks begin to fall.
"No!" Voldemort shouts. "No! It's not finished!" Lily cries into the mud with gratitude. She lifts her head, and sees the waters of the pools reaching out like phantom limbs, snaking around his ankles. Voldemort thrashes as the ties bind him tighter. The pool lashes out, extending its tentacles towards her – shit.
"Archibald, run!"
Lily leaps onto her feet and looks for him, head thrashing violently. He clings to a stalagmite, coughing blood.
"Amelia!" he shouts. "Go!"
"No!"
"Crucio!"
In a flash of red light, the spell hits James's side. James screams; the air is ripped from Lily's body. No. No.
"PROTEGO!" Her Shield Charm deflects Voldemort's second spell. His eyes widen as the blue waters creep around his waist and down his arms. His wand shakes in his grasp. "EXPELLIARMUS!" It flies from his hand. Lily stumbles and grabs it from the ground. It lashes out in her hand, firing sparks. "Fuck!" It burns against her palm. The wand that cursed James. Without a second thought, Lily grabs it at both hands and cracks it in two over her knee.
"Lily!" James shouts raggedly. She tosses the wand aside and runs to him. There's a cut on his forehead, oozing dark blood, and his face is pale. "Lily," he whispers, when she's closer. "Go." Another chunk of rock falls to the ground, and the impact knocks her sidewards.
"No," she says. "No, you're coming."
"I can't," James says. "I can't move."
"You can!" Lily wrenches him from the rock he clings to. He staggers to the ground. Another hunk falls.
"NO!" Voldemort screeches. "GIVE ME MY WAND! GIVE ME MY WAND!"
"RUN!"
Lily grabs James's hand and rushes up the bank. She feels a compulsion of magic – Voldemort is trying to cast without a wand. She looks over her shoulder. The magic of the pool twines around his throat. A weak Stinging Jinx glances off her forearm. "Come on," she urges, hauling James forward. They stumble out of the cave mouth, and a moment later a rock falls, blocking the entrance.
Lily runs down to the boat, her fingers knotted in James's.
"Aconite," she explains rapidly. "During certain phases of the moon, it has explosive properties when it's mixed with water effected by magic. It just needs to be left to dry for a turn. Basic potion-making, really. Sixth year." James gapes at her.
"Are you serious? Lily!" He winces with the effort of speech.
They leap around the boulder from before. The ground rumbles. The sand stretches on forever. She tugs James along.
"Come on!" she screams. "We can get there!" His face contorts in pain and he stops. Lily flings herself back and grabs him by the waist, half-dragging him. His arm flies over her shoulders. He pants hard.
"You have to leave me," he says. "Lily, please -"
"No!" she shouts. "Get fucked, Potter! Together or not at fucking all!" She hoists him so hard she pulls a muscle, but the dinghy can only be fifty feet from them. She's not leaving him. She grinds her teeth together as she pulls, and he stumbles forwards, wincing fiercely. Sobs wrack his broken body, but Lily keeps pulling, trying not to hear the cracks. The sand begins to fall like it's in an hourglass, sinking impossibly into the ocean.
"Lily," James tries again. She spins and grabs him by the chin.
"I know this is going to just about kill you," she says, desperate, pleading, because she needs him to escape, she needs to be able to believe in him, "but we need to run. If you can trust me, when we get to that dinghy I'll fix you. I swear to God I will. But James, we need to go. Now." She grabs his wrist and runs for it.
He screams gutturally, and his body shakes. But he follows. With each step he yells. Lily runs and pulls as much as she can, feet pounding the sinking sand. But the tide begins to recede. Fuck. Their boat goes with it, drawing further and further the closer they get. In the distance, the ocean swells like a monstrous beast. They're never going to make it before the tsunami.
Crack.
Pain explodes in Lily's shoulder, but the first thing she does is feel for him madly, making sure he's still there. James lays in the sand, eyelids fluttering on the verge of unconsciousness. He's whole. Lily sobs. She runs her hands over her own body, checking, checking. She's there. She's all there. She did it. She Apparated them to the safety of the beach in Warrnambool.
"Holy shit!"
She turns her head at the local's exclamation, and sees that out in the distance, a monster wave lashes back against nature, barrelling for the shimmering isle in the middle of the sea. Beachgoers gasp and point, open-mouthed in their swimming costumes, with their beers. None seem to have realised that two more people have magically appeared within their midst. There's an almighty crash. Lily stares. Rocks fly towards the horizon from the explosion, and the wave consumes what's left of Piscinam Australis. People start running up the beach.
That's it. No more magical waters of immortality. Whatever Voldemort was trying to do is finished - and none can follow in his footsteps. As much as it makes her chest tighten painfully, there are some things that should never be under your own control.
Your life and your death. And whatever the hell a 'horcrux' is.
Lily cups James's cheeks. He's breathing, still, but not well. One of the Muggles calls for a camera, and others still grab their umbrellas, their cooler boxes, their beach chairs. None notice her.
"Don't die on me," Lily begs. James doesn't answer. She surreptitiously pulls out her wand and starts the work.
It's not a simple process, putting someone back together. She starts with the Detection Charms. He's broken his ribs, but everything else is only a strain or a sprain. Her shoulder shouts as she moves herself over him. The words come back to her from the elective classes she took in her final year at Hogwarts; she chants them under her breath. His body twitches as she expends the last of the magic she can manage on him. He starts to work as he should; his eyes shut peacefully, and then they're open, hazed with pain.
"Lily." He searches her. "Your shoulder."
"Don't worry about it," she says. "Are you okay? Can you breathe? Where does it hurt?"
"Don't be stubborn," he says, shaking his head. He pulls his glasses from the safe carrier in his bag, and shoves them up his nose. Lily exhales with relief. He looks more like him; he looks like he could be okay. He reaches for his wand next, and points it at her.
"What are you doing?"
"Sit still. Episkey." She gasps with the click in her shoulder. James tucks his wand away and sits up on his elbows. "Better?"
"How did you know?" She rubs it experimentally. It doesn't hurt.
"I know you," James says. He gazes out over the water. "Oh. That went well. It's gone." He laughs, and Lily can only stare at him. But then she's laughing too. They're mad.
"Yeah," she says. "I suppose it did."
The walk back to the holiday park is surprisingly unremarkable, save for the winds that make the water freeze like ice over their drenched bones. But there are still children with cricket bats out in the park, and pines line the road like silent sentinels. James leans on her arm. Her hair drips onto her shirt. The shock is still raw, gaping like the gum of a missing tooth. Cars roll past. They hobble over the painted crossing and duck beneath the cheerful sign that welcomes them to the Happy Seashores Holiday Park. It's surreal. People smoke outside their aging caravans, and the barking blue dog perches upon an elderly woman's lap, almost suffocating her. But she laughs and feeds it from her plate. It's normal. Normal life.
Lily reaches into the ashtray by the bench outside their cabin and takes the keys from their hiding place. The ash crumbles on her fingers. She turns the key in the lock, and the door swings open to their approximation of home. She helps James in, and sets their stuff aside on the table. He sits down. His hair is wrecked with salt, and his face is barely scabbed over, black and bloodied. He shuts his eyes. Lily's hands shake. What the hell are they supposed to say now? What the hell are they meant to do?
She goes to the fridge and retrieves a carton. Her body knows the steps, and leaves her mind behind. Soon enough she has two mugs of tea in hand – one with a dash of milk, and one with two sugars. James flutters to life with each sip, and she copies him. Her mouth is dry and it hurts to swallow, but she keeps drinking. Their arms press against each other. She can feel his heartbeat. It makes her eyes water. He's here with her. He's alive. They're both alive, against every odd. They've defied Voldemort thrice, and lived to tell the tale.
Lily sets down her cup when it's empty, her mind falling back to usual routine, like she's been on aa holiday and has to work tomorrow. It's ridiculous. But what else can she do? She's caked in dirt and mud and water and she's shivering.
"I'm going for a shower," she tells him. "Are you alright? I won't leave you, if…"
James's hazel eyes meet hers. "It's not leaving me," he says softly. "You're not tethered to me, Lily."
She only smiles.
Lily grabs her pyjamas from the bedroom and shoulders her way into the bathroom. She shoves her fresh cloths onto the sink and tears off her stained clothes, throwing them to the floor. Her blisters burst on the taps. The hot water pours down and she loses herself under it, letting her skin steam. The world melts away. Nothing else can happen to her today. She's safe. She's safe. For now, with James, she's safe. Her lungs burn.
"James," she whispers over the scream of the running water. She left the door open. He stands in the frame, eyes shut. She presses one hand against the glass, breathing hard. It fogs.
He looks at her carefully at the sound of his name, hesitating. His lips part. In the steam, he might be a god. In the steam, he might be risen from the dead.
"Lily." His voice cracks.
The bathroom is small. She runs. She runs from the shower and slips on the mat and throws herself at him, and he clashes into her, lips on hers. He tastes like blood and sweat and life. She grabs a fistful of his hair and one of his hands cups her hip, while the other frees himself of his heavy cloak and his soiled clothes. His tongue caresses hers, wet and hot. She moans against him and his hips jerk. His shirt comes off, and she tugs at his trousers. His skin gleams with water. She hooks a leg around his waist. He grabs her arse and lifts her against him. She needs him. She needs him. He steps out of his pants and they stumble backwards into the wall of the shower. Lily bites his lip. He squeezes her. She's crying, she realises, but the water washes it away. His brows furrow.
"James," she says desperately, "James, I never hated you. I never hated you. I trust you. I trust you more than anyone. I trust you. I trust you." He inhales her words; she feels like if she pulls back from his face to talk, they'll lose everything. She can't risk losing him. Not now.
"Fuck, Lily," he groans, and she writhes against him. Her core burns. "I trust you. You know that? I've – I've trusted you as long as I've known you. Maybe before that. Maybe always."
"James," she whimpers, reaching for him. "I want -" He knows. He thrusts and she cries out, back cold against the wall but burning through with the fever of him. They move together, and she wraps her arms around his head. His mouth grazes her curves. Her back arches, and he moves harder, firmer, faster. "James," she gasps. Each roll of his hips brings them closer together. "James," she rasps desperately, as his lips pulls at her, as he kisses her, touches her, wants her. "James, please, please, please, please."
"I need." His voice is husky. "Lily, I-"
"Touch me," she insists, taking him in. He balances her weight against the wall and one hand circles her hip and the other slips down her stomach. "James," she pants, mouth on his shoulder. "Please. I trust you. I trust you. I do."
James pauses. "Til the end," he says. There's no question, for her.
"Til the end."
He moves again, and again, and again, everywhere, until she is at the edge of her nerves and her body is trembling and then beyond, crying out, and he says her name into her neck as they fall apart. The water runs aimlessly into the drain, and Lily wraps herself around James, terrified to let go. In this world, it's only them. James and Lily. That's it.
"Lily," he murmurs, into her bare shoulder, holding her like she is the world. "We did it."
"Yeah," she whispers back. "We did."
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! The uncensored (but still only rated Mature) ending is available on Ao3 :)