Just as Lily loses her mind, something slams into her. She lurches forward, losing her grip on the Portkey. It doesn't matter. Nothing can matter.
"Grab!" someone barks. Lily blindly follows and clutches the first thing she feels – something hard. A wooden stake. Her mouth waters and dries. She knows the feeling. A paper bag hangs from the stake and – she's sorry, but, fuck it. She opens it and empties the contents of her stomach, pastries and all. Her gullet burns and her eyes water, but it's out. Groggily, she lifts her head. She blinks. A cool wipe hovers next to her. For -? Before she can finish the thought, it swoops towards her and wipes her mouth, before catapulting into the bag. Lily leans on the stake and looks around. Ten uniformed wizards stand with their wands raised in a perfect circle around them – the stakes, she realises, make the outline of the inner circle, where they have landed. In unison, the wizards raise their wands and say a spell she doesn't recognise. Something changes. She peers in the bag, and it's empty once more – it smells vaguely of disinfectant.
"Are you alright?" Potter looks refreshingly unbothered, his hands out as though he expects her to topple over. Lily's stomach tumbles.
"Yeah," she pants. "Fine now." And throws up again.
Potter is surprisingly gracious, considering he ends up with her sick splattered on his robes. The uniformed wizards move them on, sending them out of the terminal, and Potter wrangles the rucksack off her back before she can even stop her head from spinning.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, taking an offered wipe and dabbing her mouth. "Oh, shit, Potter, I'm sorry."
His head dips so they're at eye-level, and his hand brushes her shoulder. "Do you feel better? Do you want some water?" White flames burn in lanterns affixed to the walls, and they leave spots in her eyes, even when she closes them.
"Can we sit down?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Come on."
Every step brings its own difficulty, and she's terrified that at any moment, the rest of her guts will spill out. Potter leaves his hand on her shoulder, and she doesn't shrug him off. Through the slits of her eyes, she spots people, shops, restaurants; it seems to be at least the size of Diagon Alley and its laneways.
"Sit," Potter orders, and Lily does. He murmurs something, and the seat beneath her grows infinitely more comfortable; both soft and supportive. She groans, and hears a rustling of plastic. When she opens her eyes, Potter is bent in front of her like a wicket-keeper, a bag open between his hands.
Lily rubs her eyes. "What are you doing?" Potter almost looks apologetic.
"In case you're ill again." Lily hiccoughs, taking in his wide eyes and outstretched fingers. And then she laughs. Maybe she's a little hysterical. But it's the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen.
"If I am, it's not going to come out like a bloody cricket ball," she tells him. "I'll be alright with some water. Honestly, Potter."
"If you're sure," he says, getting off his haunches. He's deposited their bags at their feet, and he takes the seat next to her and leans down, rummaging through. "Cricket. That's the one with the ice?" He hands her a bottle of water. Lily sips at it. It's cool on her tongue.
"Not exactly," she murmurs, her head drooping. And then it hits her – a bolt through the heart. "Wait – Potter – Mulciber!" In the fog of illness, she'd almost forgotten.
"Sh," he says. "He missed the Portkey. We're safe until the next one comes through."
"We have to go," she insists. "Every second we're still -"
"Your face is practically green," he insists. "Give it a rest. Drink."
She turns her nose up.
"Don't be impossible. You'll feel better."
"Don't tell me what to do." She reaches down for her bag and fiddles with the clasps before sliding her hand in. She knows roughly what she's looking for – everything is organised in neat packages, and this particular box is lathered in extra protective enchantments.
She pulls at the latch and slips out a vial. It's labelled in her own careful hand, though she would recognise it anywhere. It's one of the most basic healing potions – it works to settle an upset stomach. She has probably ten tucked away. She uncorks it and sips.
"I'll feel better soon," she says, swallowing mouthfuls. "Maybe ten minutes, if I've brewed it properly. We can get going."
"Ten minutes." Potter checks his watch. "It's an hour before the next one comes in from Rome. Unless he's hopping from Keyport to Keyport…" Potter shrugs. "They'll be getting into him if he sent a hex after us. Interfering with Portkeys can be pretty serious."
The potion she's taken has the side-effect of making her a little drowsy, but she elects not to mention that; she can fight through it, if she has to. Her muscles relax against her will, and the loss of control sends a nervous flutter through her stomach – but she is tired…
"You're being very blasé," she scowls. "Potter, the Death Eaters are onto us. The mission could be compromised." Potter's lips press together.
"Yeah," he admits. "I know. But unless they've infiltrated the Order, they have no way of knowing, for certain, where we're going. They might be waiting at the other end," he continues, "but they're going to be hard-pressed to find us once we're out of this Keyport, until we get to that little island. We're as safe as we've been the whole time – relatively."
She can feel the medicine working its way through her body. She slumps back in the seat, watching Potter. He's not cleaned his shirt yet. She pulls her wand from her pocket.
"Evanesco," she says. The chunkier bits vanish, though his silky, expensive robes are still marked. Lily can hardly believe he decided to dress like that for their mission. It's very fitting for a holiday, but it seems out of place in this drab, humid Keyport. The humidity has been sneaking up on her – vines creeping around her wrists, a tongue wetting the back of her neck, and now the air seems to cling to her chest. She's still in the thick robes that suited pre-dawn in an English April, and they are suffocating in an equatorial spring.
"Your clothes," Lily whispers, something heavy pressing on her eyelids. She tries to keep herself awake – where's Mulciber? Will You-Know-Who find us? – but it all seems small in comparison to the ache of her limbs. She's not really a morning person. "I'm sorry. How long until the next Portkey? Three hours?"
"Delayed," Potter tells her. "Four."
And then it's just dark. Dark, and fear, and running. And running. And run -
Hair clings to her forehead when consciousness returns, and something firm and hard presses into her cheek. Lily stirs, and burrows deeper into the warmth that runs up her side, that wraps around her shoulders. The sturdy pillow is slipped within a silky case. A low buzz of chatter reaches her ears, and her back aches a little. The blanket traces a circle on her left shoulder. She takes a weak fistful of the silk and shuffles closer. There's something she ought to remember, but…
"Evans?" a man whispers. "Are you awake?"
Lily flinches, eyes flinging open, and at first she only gets an eyeful of yellow. Hot breath caresses her crown. She shifts, and the arm around her drops away.
"Potter?"
"Yeah." Lily tilts her chin and finds that she's been laying on his shoulder, one arm draped over his torso. The warmth of the touch floods through her, burning scarlet in her cheeks, wrenching her back from him. But it's harder to untangle than she thought; her fingers skim the muscled ridges of his stomach, and her hair catches on a button. His hands are there before hers, gently easing the auburn strands over the gleaming brass sphere. Something pulls tight over her back. She reaches around, grasping at air, and Potter sucks in his breath.
"What?"
He hesitates, squinting one eye. Lily flips her detangled hair over her shoulder, folding her arms across her chest. "Potter?"
He grimaces. "It's alright if you freak out, but we can't afford for it to be too – er, loud."
"What?"
"Don't pull at the fabric, please," he says, and there's a note of something desperate in his request. Lily frowns. For that's what it is – the word she hadn't been able to find, for the lack of anything appearing to be around her. But something soft slips over her, and if she's right, it seems to stretch over Potter too. A protective enchantment?
"It's a cloak," he says, voice low. "An Invisibility Cloak. It's – I don't know, Dumbledore's interested in it. But it's not like the ones you can buy at Carkitt Market. It belonged to my great-grandfather."
Lily's brain works furiously. "An – you've got an Invisibility Cloak over us?"
"Yeah." His face tightens. "Mulciber got in about an hour ago, if he came at all." Lily frantically checks her watch.
"An hour?" she whispers furiously. "How long have I been asleep?"
"You needed it. We're not late."
"The Order's had an Invisibility Cloak this whole time?"
"Yeah."
"And…?"
"It's been on a need-to-know basis."
The world swims before her for a moment. Sleep clings to the corners of her eyes. She picks at it. Cloak. Mulciber. Sleeping on Potter's shoulder. Singapore. The morning already feels like a far-flung fantasy. A yawn forces its way out, and she stretches her neck until it clicks. The Cloak is see-through, and beyond their little bubble, the Keyport bustles with life. People buy books, drink coffees, check tickets, and wrangle children in the little shops and the spaces between the rows and rows of seats. High above them, the roof is made of glass, held with slats like that of a greenhouse's; though Lily presumes it's coated in magic, or else they would be frying like ants in the tropical sunshine. Metal signs affixed to the walls, similar to those that mark the roads back home, glimmer as the letters rearrange themselves. 'TOKYO 132 – THIS WAY' is replaced by 'JAKARTA 721'. Lily's eyes flick from the bookshop to the apothecary to the Robes of Recreation sale signs. Witches in broad-brimmed pointed hats and families wrangling children and suave businessmen in hippogriff-down cloaks wait by counters and peer at shelves, but there's no sign of the square-chinned Death Eater Lily has loathed since her schooldays.
"Potter," she says, thinking, "if no one else can see us, how have you stopped them from sitting here?"
He smiles broadly. "I convinced them it's jinxed."
"Oh?"
He wrinkles his nose playfully. "If you get within – well, about six feet – the chairs start emitting a terrible smell. They'll have to get maintenance onto it."
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, wiling away the last part of their wait. Lily is thankful they're not doing it the Muggle way – it might have prevented Mulciber from trailing them, but the exhaustion would be near unmanageable. She's careful not to resume the proximity she and Potter had taken up during her sleep – accidents happen on missions like this, but the last thing she wants is for him to get the wrong idea. She's well aware of the whispers that dogged their footsteps in school – of the quidditch player haplessly in love with the prefect, of the captain mad about the Head Girl – and though she doubts Potter ever really had any part in the rumours' circulation, she's not about to risk it. Maybe it's ridiculous that she's into her twenties and still ruminating over things from the schoolyard, but her permanent position in Potter's orbit since they joined the Order has ensured it's never strayed too far from her mind.
She watches him read; the Invisibility Cloak seems to filter the light that beams down on them so it's almost silvery. He's pulled out his paper and dictionary again, and mouths the Italian words as he reads them. She wants to ask why – why now, when they have a million other things to think about, is he taking up a language? But Lily doesn't ask. She just watches him. It's like he blocks out the rest of the noise. He has a mole on the base of his cheek.
"Amelia?" he asks, looking up suddenly. Lily smiles quickly and hopes he hasn't caught her. "Are you hungry?"
"I could be." Her brows furrow. "How do we go, without taking the Cloak off?"
He winks and holds a finger to his lips.
It's not as mysterious as he makes out – it's his plan for the Portkey as well, apparently. He transfigures sunglasses for them, and rather large berets, and the Invisibility Cloak rustles as they adopt the ridiculous outfits. They lengthen their cloaks until they are trailing monstrosities that obscure most of their bodies. By the end of it, Lily would only be able to pick Potter out of a crowd because she knows he's the person in the world likeliest to dress so absurdly.
It's in these outfits that they swagger up to the money exchange and turn in their Galleons, and then they find themselves at the little café-cum-off-licence. Lily hesitantly gets a tea, and the both of them devour sandwiches. Potter gets a bit of butter on his lip and she laughs at him as he dabs everywhere but the right spot.
"You're an idiot," she informs him. He rubs his nose.
"I can't feel anything."
"Not there." His nose crinkles when he smiles. Lily feels her own do the same.
She squints through the orange tint of the sunglasses and expects Mulciber around every corner, but he never shows. It seems impossible, but could he really have missed the second Portkey? Could they have such good luck? No. He might have found another way. He might have his own Cloak. He could have Polyjuiced into anyone – he could have Imperiused everyone. Her thoughts run away on her, and it takes her a few moments of deep breaths to reel them back in. Mulciber's not that bloody clever.
"Amelia?" Potter pops up like a mole. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," she smiles, "sure. Er – I don't want to be sick again."
"No," he agrees. "This one's quicker."
They don't really need to check in this time, and waving the tickets for Amelia and Archibald gets them through to the terminal easily. Lily's stomach turns riotously at the sight of the Portkey – another neat, many-handled object. If the Order could be so organised…
"Ginger," Potter whispers, nudging her.
"Shut up," she retorts. He holds out his hand, and a little brown jube sits in his palm. "They sold them at the apothecary." It's surprisingly thoughtful.
"Thanks."
"Yeah."
Her hands tremble on the rung of rope, and she chews on the ginger. It makes her feel a little green, but maybe that's the idea of it. They count down briskly. Everything is filtered through the polarisation of the glasses – it's like the world has been doused in honey. Potter is next to her once more, and when their shoulders brush, she's almost thankful for it.
Almost.
The hook is strong enough to choke her, and then she's clinging on for all she's worth, spinning through space. Potter laughs as they go. The ginger is heavy in her gullet like a stone, and with each turn she thinks, please, please, oh god, fuck, please. Lily isn't at her most eloquent. She blames that on the Portkey.
The landing isn't so hard, but she spits out a mouthful of sand before she can process where they are. The sun sears her skin. The light dazzles. Her hands slip from the rung, and the blood rushes in her ears. Bile burns her throat. No, please don't. Please. Really, please.
"Amelia?" She peeks through slits. Potter stands over her, offering her a hand. Has she fallen? Jesus. Ow. She reluctantly takes his fingers and jumps up to her feet. Her body sways, and for a moment she's terrified she's about to lose her stomach again. There are no posts here. She clutches at Potter instead, and one arm curls around her back, keeping her upright. "Steady on."
"Sorry." She breaks from him. "I'm alright. I'm alright." She takes a deep breath. "I'm alright."
"Alright." He smiles winningly. "Good job. Let's go."
Rather than the neat squares of Tekong, pits of sand line the Sydney Keyport. Lily's feet sink in one. Grains cling to her robes and dust her hair. It's absurd and then she's laughing, and Potter's laughing, and his arm is still around her waist and their eyes meet and they can't stop laughing – it's some kind of contagion. His forehead wrinkles in this funny way when he really gets laughing, bending double as his robes swish through the sand and the crowd parts around him, and the way he doesn't realise that he's Moses in the Red Sea makes her stomach hurt even more and she's choking and he thumps her on the back and –
"'Scuse me," an attendant butts in. "If you could head towards Customs, please, cheers."
"Sorry," Lily manages, swallowing her mirth. They're on a mission. She's not supposed to be laughing at the way Potter laughs, or even noticing that much about him. They sure as hell aren't supposed to be drawing attention to themselves, laughing like maniacs in the middle of a sandpit, the only ones left. It's Potter's fault, she decides. Something about him makes her insensible.
"Where to now?" Potter asks, glancing at her. Lily bites her lip and looks around. The shelves on the front counter of the newsagent are stuffed silly with pamphlets.
"One second." She ducks through the crowd and inside. Bright, bold fonts proclaim the names of places she's never heard of, and Lily grabs half a dozen, until they bulge between her fingers. The man behind the counter raises his eyebrows. She winces. Right.
"Er," she starts, and grabs something blindly from the row off chocolates. "Just this one, please."
She unwraps the chocolate on the way back. It's a frog – not like the ones of Potter's world, and not quite like the ones of hers, either. It's something different. Uncanny. Odd that they'd have it in a Keyport. She smiles over its head at Potter, and then bites into smooth milk chocolate.
"You killed him," Potter says, and his eyes are alight. "Is that – does it really not move? Not at all?"
"Apparently not," she says.
"Strange."
"I suppose." Her eyes dart from wall to wall for a sign. "Shall we?"
At Customs, her heart races a little faster. No fewer than three dozen posters warn them not to smuggle in fresh fruit or vegetables, and a sandy-haired wizard casts several Detection Charms on them – not for Polyjuice, but for traces of dirt. They don't seem to notice Potter's Invisibility Cloak, or forged documents, but they confiscate half of Lily's poultices.
"They're medicinal," she protests. "They're -"
"Apothecary in Pagewood," the man informs her, in a voice that's somehow both gruff and nasal. "Go there for everything. Give 'em a visit." She's thankful they don't go for the smallest vial. It slips beneath notice. Maybe there is something watching out for her.
They stumble out on the other side with bags full of banned spellbooks and incredibly rare magic items, but no plant matter foreign to the country. This room is airy and light, and humming with reunited families and excited tourists. A television hangs in the corner, playing – something with British Muggles. It's like a funhouse mirror of the place they left behind. Lily and Potter stand in front of a large wall of advertisements, and only half of them move. The sea of black-and-white stretches high above their heads, some papers curling at their corners. Surfboard repairs, Potioneers for Every Purpose, a fundraising 'sausage sizzle', second-hand brooms to good homes. Cars amble past outside. Potter's head twitches up at each one. They're a novelty to him. The corners of her lips turn up despite herself.
"What do you think?" She offers him the splay of brochures from her backpack. Potter's face lights up.
"Thanks." He unfurls them, and it seems like everything catches his eye. Something warm lights Lily's chest. "What about this place? It's right by the beach."
Their destination is, exactly, one block from the beach – and half an hour's walk from the Keyport. Lily refuses point blank to apparate again; she's not going to test the extent of the ginger's power. A yellowing building with five floors stands between two low bungalows, paint peeling. Cursive blue letters on the hotel's face proclaim it 'STARRY SHORES'. Balconies stutter out from the windows, with bent, rusted railings, victims of the salt air. A rubbish bin on the pavement overflows with brown bottles and paper bags. Lily looks at Potter, whose eyes twinkle mischievously.
"Suitably subtle, don't you think?" he says. Lily tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"At this point, I'll take anything with a mattress."
They cross the asphalt and push through the glass doors.
A violently maroon carpet welcomes them, and the woman at the desk is on the phone, swiping her blonde fringe to the side as she chatters away loudly, gum squelching between her teeth. A rack of pamphlets exclaim locations at them with little explanation: 'BONDI!'; 'COOGEE!'; 'TARONGA!'; 'LUNA PARK!'. Behind them lies a spattering of stickers and fading posters, for parties in King's Cross (Lily snorts – if the location is as suggestive as the colourful imagery on its advertisement, it's probably very much not where you want to take your eleven-year-old to head off to school) and Maroubra. Lily's never seen so many pictures of surfboards in one room in her entire life. How did they ever end up chasing Lord Voldemort's secret weapons all the way to this? An image of him in swimming trunks crosses her mind unbidden, and she laughs again. Potter shoots her a curious look.
"What?" he says, clearly flummoxed to be on the outside of the joke. Lily shakes her head.
"Not here."
They approach the desk, and the woman nods in acknowledgement, but doesn't put the phone down. Her chair spins so her back is to them, and the curling cream cord stretches around her.
"Look," she says, and then gasps. "He did? Bloody hell! No, but Kaz, there's people here – yeah, right? – I'll ring back right away – mmhm – hold that thought." She spins in the opposite direction and undoes the tangle, before hanging the phone up. Lily sneaks a glimpse of Potter's face, which is suitably bewildered. On one of their previous stakeouts, she'd had to use a telephone box, and he'd amused himself pressing the buttons and goggling when sound came out of the receiver.
"Can I do something for youse?" asks the woman. Potter steps forward, oozing charm. Lily's seen it before – chatting up girls in shops, whisking them through The Three Broomsticks on Hogsmeade weekends. One hand tousles his hair and his other elbow rests on the desk's edge. The receptionist sits up a little straighter, absently patting her tight blonde curls. "Sir?"
And once Potter starts talking, her attention doubles. "I love a Pom," she gushes. He wheedles her through a maze of polite chatter before coming to the point. Do they have a room with a pair of twin beds? Are they discrete?
"You're not married?" The sharp-eyed receptionist's eyebrows arch. Lily's fingers sit accusingly bare. "Why don't I get you two rooms? Next to each other. It's important a lady gets her own toilet." The woman laughs. "Or else you'll spend hours waiting for her to do her hair." Beneath her humour is a tone that brooks no argument, and Potter hands over a not-insignificant portion of money in exchange for two keys.
They climb the stairs up to the fourth floor, and Lily's lungs protest fervently as they pass each landing. Paintings of sailboats and children on beaches hang from the cream walls. She is dreaming of a proper bed and a proper sleep – the first she will have had since England. Her eyes flicker over Potter. His features are set in lines of determination, and his hands are strong and veined around the straps of his bag, but there's a certain shallowness to his breaths.
Their rooms adjoin – 401 and 403. Potter juggles change and bags to slip a set of keys between his fingers and hand them to her.
"Thanks," she says. "Can you -?"
"I can get it," he says, coins slipping between his fingers as he fumbles for his own key. Lily shoves hers in her pocket and drops to her knees to catch the multicoloured notes that tumble from his grasp. When the key follows them into the pull of gravity, Lily closes a fist around it before it hits the dirty carpet.
"You could be a Seeker," Potter says. Lily's eyebrows flit upwards, but she says nothing as she steps past him to unlock the first room. The door groans open at the slightest touch. She gets the impression there is no room for secrets between the occupants of this floor. Maybe that's why the receptionist was reluctant to let a rambunctious young couple room together. "Thanks."
"It's fine," Lily says. "I'm going to go for a shower." Potter shuffles through the doorway with his belonging, and Lily fishes out her key and goes to the next room. From the hall, it appears much the same as Potter's; only mirrored.
She shuts the door behind her – it squeaks in protest – and pulls out her wand, muttering incantations before she dares to settle. No waiting traps. No traces of magic. Nobody is stuffed into the little wooden wardrobe, waiting to jump out and strangle her. A door to her right lead to a dinghy little bathroom. The wall to her left is bare save for a black-and-white photograph of a bird. Lily continues into the room, where a bed flanked by a mismatched pair of side tables creaks with her footsteps. A low buffet by the wardrobe displays an ashtray, two chipped mugs, a mostly-empty box of teabags, an untouched map, and an electric kettle. Sunlight streams through the yellowed curtains which cover the far wall, which she suspects to actually be a glass sliding door.
Lily dumps her rucksack on the floor by her bed and unzips it, before Summoning her bath towel. She finds that there's one hanging on a rack between the sink and the toilet, but she doesn't trust it. She fiddles with the taps and soon water shoots down her sleeves. She pulls off her robes and dives into the hot water, letting it wash away the sweat and sand and sick. Rivulets run through her hair and over her toes. Her skin shades red. The steam clears her nose and swirls around her head. Her muscles sag. The adrenaline flushes down the drain, and leaves her with a dull ache behind her eyes and a longing to be horizontal.
She dries herself slowly and combs her fingers through her hair, her breathing slow. The hiss of pipes lets her know that Potter is doing much the same as her. She pulls on her pyjamas and wipes her feet on the bathmat. Her reflection floats in the mirror, smudged by steam. She looks old. Or at least older than she really is; where's the flush of the prime of her life, the glow of twenty-one? There are lines under her eyes, but when she turns her head, a red spot wells on her jawline. Young and old all at once, like time is curling around her. Too young for any of this. Too old to be frightened.
Lily lays out her travel-stained clothes on the bed and uses the last of her energy on cleaning charms. After that, bed calls, though the sun is still hovering above the horizon. She rubs her eyes and puts the kettle on instead. Her fingers fumble at the curtains – she flinches at the layer of grime coating them – and she slips onto the balcony. The wind is violent. It howls past her ears and whips at her hair. It's not unlike this morning's – well, yesterday morning's. Or was it the day before yesterday? They've lost time hours somewhere, but she can't say how many. She's willing to lose another in the ocean. A few low buildings block her vision of the sand, but the Pacific is persistent, continuing on and on and on until it meets the orange horizon. The end of the world. Or that's what it used to seem like, when she was a kid. Great Britain in the middle of the maps, and that big, foreign ocean on either end, trailing off into nothing. She's never thought to see it. She's only ever dared to dream of as far off as Majorca. But there it lies, so close she can smell it. Australia even smells different. It's not like home, with the comfort of buildings that lean on each other and cluster close together, with the rain running through the cobblestones, with the cloud cover like feather downs. It had been eleven years before she'd strayed from the shadow of the old mill and its smoking spires. She holds her hands up, making the shape of Cokeworth's smoggy skyline, like home can be an anchor.
The sky is pinking by the time the humming starts. Lily looks sidewards. The rundown hotel clearly doesn't believe in privacy, because her balcony and Potter's can only be three feet apart at the furthest. A fluffy towel wraps around his waist, and he leans on the railing, looking quite content. His stomach is firm and well-defined, she realises, and his chest could be a plate of armour. She's never really seen him like this before, except when he's been injured; and in those times, the focus has been on keeping him alive, not – well, no, she's not admiring him, that's ridiculous. But something is strange – his face is flatter, somehow. Less distinct. Lily blinks and leans towards him a little, trying to work it –
"Oh," she says, feeling stupid. "Your glasses."
"Sorry?" Potter's eyes flick over to her.
"Your glasses," she repeats, reaching out like their absence is tangible. His fingers skim his undereyes.
"You know I don't wear them in the shower," he grins.
"I'm not stupid," she says. Maybe too abruptly. "I just – I don't think I've ever seen you without them. You don't look like yourself."
His eyebrows rise. "And how do I usually look, Evans?"
"Good." Shit. Lily forces herself to look into his smirking face, but his eyes are oddly luminescent in the light of the star-speckled sunset. "Like James Potter. I don't know. Your face looks like you." Her hands flex in frustration as she tries to find the words. "You know how when you first meet somebody, they're just sort of a blank slate – they might be fit or off-putting or something – but you spend an hour with them, and by the end of it, you can't remember how they looked at the start? Because who they are sort of gets written all over them?"
He looks at her so intensely she thinks he's staring through her. His jaw tenses, and she watches the muscle ripple beneath the day's growth of stubble.
"Yeah," he says finally. "I know the feeling."
"Well," she continues, "without the glasses, it's like – back to square one. Like you're a new person." One of his hands goes to his wet hair, combing through the tangle of curls. Droplets run down his neck and over his collarbones, glistening on his tanned skin.
"Do you like this new person?" Potter asks. Lily hesitates.
"I don't know him."
"Do you want to?" The towel around his waist shifts as the rest of his body does, with a deeper breath. It reveals the small inward press of his navel, and she glimpses the fuzzy dark line that trails down his stomach, ending sharply at the roll of terry cloth. Lily wraps her arms around herself. The boy she knew in school would have meant it as innuendo, without a doubt. Now she isn't sure. The cheeky Gryffindor in her memory has a rounder face and longer hair, fuzz clinging vainly to his upper lip. The Potter in front of her is a man. The humour in his eyes is tempered like a sword – in the fires of adversity. She rubs her eyes. His face is shadowed lightly, like someone has cross-hatched over his features in the lightest lead pencil. But he is clear. Has she always had to tilt her head, just a little, to look him in the eye?
The realisation winds her.
Has she been staring into an afterimage all this time?
"No," she says. "I want the Potter who didn't hex me half to death when I threw up on him."
Potter absently rubs the spot where her sick had splattered. "Are you just using me as a paper bag, Evans?"
It's her turn to smile. "Of course. Why else would I keep you around?" And her breath hitches. Is that mean? Again, she's spoken without thinking. But she's just overtired, oversensitive, overthinking - she searches his face for the mask of good humour she expects to materialise. But Potter runs his fingers through his hair and looks at her, nose scrunching.
"Do you really not like me?" he asks, and it's disarmingly genuine. Lily blinks. For once in his life, he looks uncertain. It unnerves her. She remembers her first night at Hogwarts – the shock of the Sorting that put her on the far side of the room from the only person she knew in that whole wide world, the stitch in her side from the stairs, and her eyes going round with wonder when the painting of the Fat Lady not only moved, but talked, and swung open to permit them access. It had been wondrous and terrifying – and the terror had bothered her far more than she should've let it. It felt like a joke, to shove her into the house of the brave and courageous, when all she felt like doing was curling up on her bed. But she hadn't been about to admit it.
The thing that stands out most, all these years later, now that the sofa and the fireplace and the chess boards and the bookshelves and the dizzying height of Gryffindor Tower have all faded into pleasant, nostalgia-tinged memories of nights with friends and her first time trying whisky, is the bespectacled eleven-year-old boy who grated on her nerves all evening. He had argued with a prefect and rambled on about the history of the house to the sulky, silky-haired boy whom it was obvious – at least to Lily – would soon become his best friend, if it hadn't been solidified already. He'd run up the girls' staircase without a moment of hesitation, and when it turned to a slide beneath his feet, he'd simply straightened up and made for the other set of steps, the laughs bouncing off him like he was crafted from Teflon. Lily had watched him all night, transfixed by his buoyancy, and decided then and there that that boy was absolutely incapable of looking unsure.
Now he is all but naked, hair blowing in a foreign breeze, irises ringed with a painful curiosity. Looking right at her. Entirely unsure.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice weak against the wind. "I've been – I've been really sharp today. It isn't fair to you."
He presses his mouth against his fist. Lily's heart beats a little harder – why? What's he going to do? He'll hardly abandon the mission, and like it or not, they're stuck together while ever they refuse to give up on Dumbledore's orders. They need each other.
"Thanks," he says, after a silence that stretches into a chasm. "But I want to know – do you not like me?" Lily's mouth opens and shuts. He adjusts the towel that hangs over his hips. "If you don't," he continues, "you know – that's alright. I don't expect everyone to. I want to know where I stand. That's all."
As Lily processes, the lump in her throat hardens. She can't think when he's looking at her that way.
"I don't know you very well," she mumbles.
"Evans," he scoffs. One fist closes around a hunk of dark hair, and he stretches over the thin railing, stomach pressing against the flimsy cream bar. "We saw each other every day – multiple times a day – for seven years. We patrolled together for, what, total, in seventh year? Eighty hours? Ninety? And I've seen you twice a week every week since. You and I and Sirius and Marlene – we spent a fortnight in that hovel on the Isle of Skye, tracking Rosier. You've thrown up on me. I stood in the back at your mum's funeral. You saved my life."
"I didn't save your life."
"I would've died without you," he insists, a fire kindling in his gaze. "You were the one who stayed with me and apparated me back to Shacklebolt's. And four days after that, you were the one who made the potion that burned the infection out of me." His face hardens, and Lily's eyes sting with the memory of the smoke and the panic ringing in her ears. She had been sure he was going to die. She had been sure her idea wouldn't work. She had been convinced they were only letting her try to humour her, or else to get her out of the road, because once again she'd been fixated on him and completely unable to leave his side, watching as the life pulsed out of him.
"It was based on Muggle antibiotics," she says, "like I told you at the time. It wasn't my idea."
"That's not the point," Potter says hotly. "I don't give a damn who patented it. You made it. You saved me."
"Don't." Her heart is swollen in her chest, bloodied and battered and oversensitive. She wipes at dry cheeks and glares at the ground. "Potter, we're strangers. Really. I don't hate you. I don't feel anything about you."
She feels him swallow, rather than seeing it. She knows. For all the space between their balconies he might be standing next to her, hip against hers, breath on her hair. It's like the shape of his body burned into her at the Keyport and is refusing to leave. She can't vanquish it. She's good at Charms; but Vanishing objects never came naturally.
"Evans," he says. Lily shuts her eyes. This isn't about her, or him, or the things that aren't between them. It's bigger.
"We're here on Dumbledore's orders," she says, and her voice is so sharp it cuts her lips on the way out. "We have a job to do for the Order, to stop Voldemort. We're the best people for the job. And we work well together, historically, because we keep things civil, and we share leadership. I appreciate what you did today, but I don't need you to coddle me. I have a plan for tomorrow," she says briskly. "And I don't hate you. You're a cat in a box. You don't exist when I'm not looking at you."
He's silent. The waves lap habitually at the shore, tired of routine. The sky keeps on in its darkening, turning purple like a bruise as the silhouettes fade into evening.
"What are we eating tonight?" he asks, finally. Lily inhales.
"Today's your day," she tells him. "Tonight's your night. Your choice."
She returns inside before he can suck anymore words from her. Her chest aches. Her eyes burn, and she can't say why. She sits on the end of the bed and wishes she'd nicked the newspaper from him, so she might be able to play sudoku. The numbers can't twist on her the way language does. But she's paperless and she packed as little as possible, so she sits on the end of the bed and stares at the desolate bird picture and runs through a list of useful spells and plans for the next day. She knows where they need to get next, but if she's honest, her understanding of the geography is more than a little hazy. So far, the Death Eaters will be expecting them to keep relying on Portkeys, and will be moving to the final location as quickly as possible.
Lily traces a pattern on her knee. She's not Potter. While, yes, she outscored most of the Death Eaters at school, she's never been a prodigy. She doesn't assume she can outrun them, or outduel them. But there is one thing they aren't, for certain: patient. She grabs the map and examines it, chewing her lip.
She makes herself a cup of tea and has nearly drained it by the time something shoves itself under her door. Lily jumps, grabbing for her wand, and immediately casts Detection Charms on the foreign object. Nothing pings. Cautiously, she pulls it out from its wedge.
It's a flyer.
At seven, there's a knock at her door and she's standing in front of the mirror, wondering if she's going to regret this. The flyer came with a handwritten note, and he has a point – it's nice, it has the possibility of being fun (if not for the company), it's unlikely, and it fits perfectly into their guise of stupid-in-love travellers. It's been a long while since she's been on a date (not that this is one). Leaving every other week on missions for the Order makes things difficult. The wizards she knows who aren't in the Order don't understand what it's like for her, and the Muggle blokes she meets can't possibly dream of understanding. But it's fine. The war will end sometime or another and she'll meet someone then.
Nevertheless, all those rationales don't make it easier for her to decide what to wear, never mind that she's packed exactly one nice dress. And it feels like too much. It's simple and black, with round shoulders and a cinched waist. It's supposed to finish at the ankles but a few spells bring it up to the knees, and with a pair of stockings underneath it feels like it's approaching appropriateness. Her hair hangs limp and she wrangles it into a knot at the back of her head with a few loose locks falling down her neck. It's not the desirable frizz of curls she longs for, but it'll have to do. It's only a disguise – it's not as if she's trying to impress anyone.
"Evans," Potter says, almost surprised, when she answers the door. He's in a tailored suit which actually flatters him quite well – it accentuates the broadness of his shoulders and the rises of his biceps. He looks more mature, somehow. Though his hair is still a mess. She almost wants to ruffle it.
But their conversation hangs between them. Lily meant it – they are only strangers. Associates. She doesn't know – well, she does know his middle name, but it's only because they went to the same school. Hogwarts is small.
"Amelia," she corrects him. The door is open and anyone could be around, after all. "Come on."
The Surf Lifesaving Club – which apparently doubles as a restaurant - isn't as far as she thought. They take the stairs down and pass through the all-but-abandoned lobby, and then the streets are broad and bare. The streetlights are few, but the sky clings to that shade of twilight that casts the occasional shadow, and lamps and televisions glow through cream blinds and lacy curtains. The smell of roast lamb and boiled vegetables swirls from the lower houses, and the sea's swishes punctuate her every breath. Lily keeps her wand close at hand as they walk, but they're alone. Potter hums. Lily doesn't say a word.
The building is two storeys and jammed with people, and right on the beach. Sand scatters over the carpark and teenagers loiter by panel vans, smoking and giving them wary looks. The smell of smoke lights a nerve in her fingertips. She could kill for one right about now. But Potter offers his arm. Lily takes it. They're not the sixteen-year-olds hanging around outside anymore. They're on the inside.
Potter holds open the glass door graciously and Lily slips inside. He follows. It's not what she's been expecting – it's much nicer and much sandier somehow all at once, like people have been coming in off the beach. It's light and airy and filled with pictures of men in red-and-yellow caps and swim briefs, showing off absurdly hairy chests. They're directed up a narrow set of stairs by a friendly sort of bloke, and up there are asked if they have a preference on where to sit.
The dining room stretches across most of the top floor to a wall of glass doors pulled open, and beyond that is a balcony littered with smaller tables. A bar dominates one corner, and men of all ages clasp pints and elbow each other. Lily is struck by the hubbub of foreign voices and the unfamiliarity of the whole scene – Australian Muggles. But whatever she's thinking, it must be even more strange for Potter. Has he ever seen a jukebox? But he's smiling from ear to ear.
"Outside?"
Lily orders barramundi and Potter shellfish, as well as some Hunter Valley vintage. Potter pulls out her chair and all the stops. He's good at this 'boyfriend' act – it intrigues her. As far as she knows, he's not dated seriously since they were in school. But then, it isn't as though they know each other that well. The wind is high and fearsome, and as it picks up the waves below crash into a rocky outcrop, spraying salt and sea as they slam together. Lily shivers. The moon is distant and pale in the sky, and something about it seems off – like she's looking at it upside-down. The phase, fortunately, is the same. She does the mental mathematics, thinking of the vial hidden deep in her bag.
"Are you cold?" Potter asks, leaning forward. Lily blinks rapidly.
"No," she says. "No, I'm fine, just -"
"Here." He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders before she can protest. Lily tugs at it.
"Po – Archibald, really, it's not necessary…"
"I don't want you getting ill," he says, hazel eyes serious behind his specs. "See if it helps. If it doesn't, take it off."
"Archibald," Lily insists, but he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, lifting his chin defiantly. Lily grumbles. "Dickhead." Her arms slide through the holes. It's a little big on her, but it's remarkably warm, and it smells like home.
Do you really not like me?
"Thank you," she says, making a conscious effort to be kind. The breeze whips her hair against her cheeks, and the lashes sting. "You're being very kind."
He smiles lopsidedly. "I feel more odd when you're being this nice." Lily frowns.
"What do you want me to do, then?"
"Be yourself."
A bloody tall order.
Their meals come, and Potter digs in, holding the shells of the oysters to his lips and sucking expertly. It's close to indecent. Lily skirts around the edge of her plate. Truthfully, the fish is some of the best she's ever had – it's nothing like the stuff she grew up frying in the miserly little shop in which she spent half her summers. There's still the red mark of a burn on one side of her hand, from the oil she'd worked with. She'd been fourteen years old and entirely without access to the wizarding world, so it had healed in the normal way. By the time September had come, it had been too late for the various salves and ointments to do anything. She rubs it now.
"'Scuse me."
Lily looks up from her food, and a portly man beams down at her. Thin scraggles of hair weakly cover the shine of his bald head, and a fearsome moustache clings to his upper lip. For one fleeting moment, she's reminded strongly of Professor Slughorn.
"Photograph?" He jerks a thumb towards the man with the camera, who snaps pictures of a giggling group of women in their forties. "For the club album. Always like to remember our visitors, not just the regulars!"
"Ah," Potter says, "we don't want to be a bother." His eyes meet Lily's. She wonders if he's thinking what she is; the last thing they need is a record of their being here. How do they explain to this well-meaning Muggle that a photo of the two of them in his album could end in a bloody massacre, if You-Know-Who gets wind of it? Here, so far from Britain and the danger she's grown used to lurking around every corner, it sounds absurd.
"No bother at all, mate, no bother. C'mon, up you get, hey!" Lily grimaces at Potter, who mirrors her expression for a second.
"Oh, if you insist!" Potter then laughs, turning on the charm. He gets out of his seat and ducks around the table to help her out. His hand takes hers, and something sparks at the base of her spine. Nerves. But that's only because they need to figure out a way to destroy this photo.
Potter offers her his arm like he's some kind of Austenian hero, and she slips her fingers into the crook of his elbow. It seems half of the club is on their feet, leaning over tables and hovering by jackets slumped over chairs. They're taking the photos against the glitzy wall by the staircase, subjects framed by two potted plants on pedestals.
"Swelling Charm," Lily whispers under her breath.
"Fake a medical emergency," Potter whispers back.
"Change our hair colours."
"Set off fireworks."
"I could give us really big chins."
Potter looks sidewards at her, rubbing the body part in question. "I'd be worried it'd never go back to how it was."
"Prominent?" She gives him a warm smile, so he knows she doesn't mean it.
"Proud," he corrects, eyes crinkling. Was she too harsh? Lily's free hand reaches for his face almost instinctively. Her middle finger slips over his stubbled chin, like she's mapping it. Potter watches her with a raised eyebrow. "What do you think?"
She sighs. "Mm. I'll give you proud."
He taps it contemplatively. "Are you proud of it?"
"Am I proud of your chin?"
"Precisely."
Lily shifts her weight back, dropping her hand. "I suppose I can't imagine you without it. You'd look like… I don't know. Peter?"
"Peter?"
"Come on," the bald man says, waving his arm. "Pommies, you're next!" Too late. Potter squeezes her fingers with his elbow and Lily's mind runs. Can they obscure their faces somehow? Make it unclear? A dark-haired man and a red-headed woman could be anyone, if they don't have faces. But they can't turn their backs. Can they laugh, looking away at the same time? Though that runs the risk of the photographer asking for a retake.
Oh.
They shuffle in view of the camera. Potter's arm hovers around her waist, like he's frightened of breaking her. Lily looks up at him, calculating. Maths has never been her strongest suit.
But this could work, if she's not far off the mark.
"Smile!"
Lily throws her arms around James's neck and crashes her nose against his. His eyes widen. The rims of his glasses are like ice against her skin. There's a question in his eyes.
She grazes his lips with hers.
For one stunned moment, his eyes are still open, and their mouths ghost, uncertain. The back of her neck pulses. What if they realise it's not real?
Potter's hand tentatively slips over the small of her back. She leans. Whatever we have to do, do it.
And then it's all at once. He swings her around and she's falling and she gasps but he catches her in a dip. And then James Potter kisses her. His lips are warm and firm and she kisses him back, caught in the heat, somehow imagining if she can kiss him hard enough, she can hold on. Someone whistles. Her heart short-circuits. His thumb circles against her skin and her breath hitches into his mouth. His tongue brushes her lower lip, and something primal in her grips tighter. Then he's swirling her back up.
"Very nice!" the bald man enthuses. Lily's head spins. Her lips tingle with the shadow of Potter's weight. Her mouth waters. She swallows hard. Potter says things to the Australians and there's a hint of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. That's how he looks after kissing her. Marked, hair rumpled.
For one insane moment, she wants to grab him and snog him senseless.
Has her back always been so cold?
Lily joins him in the world of the sensible and wraps her hand around his forearm, smiling, trying to look like the kind of couple who kiss each other like that in public, who travel together, who are completely and utterly obsessed with one another. Potter laughs at someone's joke and he kisses the top of her head affectionately. Her muscles tighten.
It's something he might do to someone he loves.
"We should be getting back to our meal, honey," she says, nudging him. Potter looks down at her, eyes shining.
"We should," he agrees. "Excuse us, please." It's her turn to lead him. She drops her hand to his and they twine their fingers together, as though by some prior agreement. Lily pulls him through the maze of tables and talk to the plates of seafood that wait for them on the balcony. The night is full of stars, and the ocean is the deepest shade of midnight, churning softly. White water laps at the beach, fizzing and bubbling like the contents of her cauldrons. The wind is only mild now, just a cool whisper on her cheeks. If anything, Potter's jacket is too hot around her. She drops his hand and shrugs it off.
"I'm alright now," she says. "I shouldn't let you freeze." She holds it out to him. His hands brush it, and he looks at her directly.
"Amelia," he says.
"Take it." She lets go. It falls for a split second. Lily reaches for it, but Potter scoops it up with his expert reflexes. Their fingers skim. Lily's lungs contract. The feeling stabs. Potter doesn't retract his hand. Lily's throat clogs. Her pulse races. Move, she tells herself, but her body refuses to listen. The night swells around them. The stars bleed. Her skin flushes under the curve of her neckline, and the fabric sticks to her thighs. Her head spins. His nail tenderly traces the swirls of her fingerprint. His lips are slightly apart. Her lipstick lingers. Lily's arm moves robotically, and her thumb wipes the red stain from his face. Her shoulders tremble.
"You had a bit…" The explanation dies in her throat. "Our food's going cold."
Lily sits down hard, and regrets it when pain shoots up her spine. Potter swings his jacket over the back of his chair and takes the seat opposite her, eyes dropping to his half-eaten shellfish. Lily impales a bean on the end of her fork and chomps away, as if the force of her jaw can vanquish the simmering heat deep in her stomach.
"Do you know who I thought he was, for a minute?" Potter asks, leaning forward. Lily, with her mouth full, shakes her head. "Our, ah – erm – professor, who was head of the… er, green house. As in – not Herbolo – er, gardening…"
"Slug," Lily supplies, bite swallowed. Potter clicks his fingers.
"Yeah. Don't you think?"
"I do," she has to admit. She's well aware the conversation must sound nonsensical to anyone listening in – almost as much as if they used the real words. She rests her fork on her plate, debating with herself. "I remember in Seventh Year, when you were invited to that Christmas party. Mary and I were standing in the corner watching. He must have made you get a photograph with him and every person who'd ever so much as sneezed at Quidditch."
Potter laughs. "Yeah. He had tickets on me to play for Wimbourne." He shrugs. "He would've done better backing Bagman."
"Nobody backed Bagman," Lily argues, recalling the boisterous blond who'd been a few years ahead of them at Hogwarts. "I think all McGonagall ever wanted was to see the back of him."
Potter smirks like he knows something she doesn't, and that irritates her. She leans forward, one elbow sneaking up onto the table so she can prop up her chin (Petunia would die of embarrassment).
"What?" she asks, lifting her brows.
"Oh," Potter says, playing coy, "I don't know…"
"Tell me."
"No."
"Archibald."
He twists a curl between his fingers. "Say, do you remember when Bagman announced he wanted to play for the Magpies, and someone gave him great big wings for a week…"
Lily claps her hands over her mouth. "Oh my god."
And things continue in that vein through two more glasses of wine, until the music starts to sound familiar and Potter is snorting into the space his plate has vacated. The sky spins with stars, and the moon glows. She searches its craters like they might tell her the future. She never took Divination, but in this moment she wishes she had. She wants to know things are going to be okay. She wants to know something is looking out for her. At least it promises her something. It promises her, if they can wait – if they can hold out a little longer…
The wine gets to her all at once, and her heart plummets. Lily stands up abruptly.
"Can we go?" She rubs her temples. "It's been a really – I'm sorry, it's just…"
"No," he says, standing up just as quick, pulling his jacket on. "You're right. We'll do well with some sleep."
The walk back to their hotel is impossibly long. Had there been so many corners? So many holes in the pavement? So many windows? Her feet sting and Lily peels her shoes off, standing in the pooled light of a streetlamp. Her legs freeze in spite of her stockings. The knot of hair is coming undone. Her vision blurs and her eyes sting and her shoulders are heavy. Dried bird shit peppers the ground beneath her. She rubs her face and her hands feel like someone else's, disconnected from her body. "James?" she mumbles.
"Lily?" something warm drops around her. She groans.
"No," she says. "No, I'm sick of you taking care of me. Don't. Don't. I don't need it. I don't want it."
"Evans." His voice is low and soothing. "We're nearly there."
"Stop," she says. "James, you have to understand that I can't. I can't let you. I can't. It's not – you don't want to. You don't want to. You wouldn't, if you knew. We might die tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that, and you'll regret it, you'll regret being here with me, I don't even know why Dumbledore sent me." It all bursts out at once, her body aching with it, and she's stupidly stupidly stupidly crying. "Fucking hell." She wipes her eyes.
"What are you talking about, Evans?" His voice cracks. She staggers back until she's leaning against the brick wall of someone's seaside home, the edges jagged. The tears come so fast she's seeing double – two James Potters before her, two judging her, two not wanting her, two wondering why anyone was ever stupid enough to believe that stupid school rumour.
"I know you know," she says. "That's why you've been – you've been planning everything, you've been… You know I'm an idiot. You don't trust me because you think I don't trust you, and I don't want to trust you, but I don't know how not to, and I wish I could hate you and I've always wanted to, but I'm so bad at it – James, Potter – I'm so terrible at – at everything. At being a witch. At being a Muggle. At being a sister or a daughter or a friend."
"Evans," he says, so ferociously she's shocked out of crying. He blazes in the night, the haze of tiny insects floating in the beam of the streetlight floating around him like some kind of holy aura. "Evans. Listen to me."
"I know I'm being an idiot," she says. "I know I'm just whinging. Don't listen to me. Please don't listen. Please don't take me seriously."
"Evans," he repeats, and he closes the gap between them in one, two, three steps. He takes up all of her vision. She wraps her arms around his neck, tears hanging from her jaw, and his breath his hot against her lips. His hands cup her cheeks.
"Evans," he says again, and their foreheads touch. "Fuck. Evans." He shuts his eyes, and his lips curl like he's fighting something. He looks back at her. His eyes shine like gold. "Evans, I trust you. I trust you with my life."
"You shouldn't."
"It's my mistake to make, if that's what you think it is," he says. Her breath hitches. She stands on tiptoe. Their noses touch. Kiss me, she thinks.
He slinks out of her arms. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you to bed."
Her mouth stings with his absence.
Lily wakes up to sunshine pouring through her curtains, intruding on the empty bliss of sleep. She doesn't remember the last time she hasn't had a nightmare. She shuts her eyes, burying deeper into the hard pillow, hoping that it might stave off the banes of consciousness.
No such luck.
Why her? Why? Why? Why?
Since when has she ever drunk wine?
Her head throbs as she pulls herself from the bed into the shower, and loses her fancy, altered dress. She brushes her teeth and runs her fingers through her hair with her eyes shut, wishing all the light in the world could be Vanished with a flick of her wand. Maybe she ought to have paid more attention in Transfiguration.
She finds breakfast waiting for her by the kettle – muesli bars with a note from Potter. 'Come over when you're awake.' She slides open the glass door and sits on the balcony to munch away on two of the survivors of the Keyport's purge. The ocean glitters, winking white at her, and despite the thunder of her headache she appreciates it. She pulls her feet up onto her chair and watches the rhythmic in and out of the waves. Somewhere out there is Mulciber, and Snape, and Lord Voldemort. Somewhere out there are hundreds of people who want to kill her, and her sister in the suburbs. The world is so much bigger from here, from the other hemisphere, but it's tiny, too; all this water connects them. The names of the oceans might change, but the waves are the same, flowing like oxygen through lungs. She wishes she could swim.
Potter thrusts a glass of water into her hand as soon as she steps inside his room. She's relieved it's messier than hers – robes are flung over his bed and books leak from his bag. He sits on the end of his bed and pats the space beside him. Lily yawns and plops next to him.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. Lily sips her water.
"About ready to go up against the most evil wizard in the world," she mumbles. "Sounds better than remembering last night."
His shoulder bumps hers. "Don't worry about it."
"But I am."
"Yeah. Well." Their eyes meet. She breathes in. There's one part of the previous night that's clearer than the others. And it's not their kiss for show.
Oh, God.
She wants him.
But he's already reaching for his cup of tea, ruffling his hair, completely at ease. "So, Evans, tell me: what's the plan?"
An hour later, Lily helps him into a taxi and is surprised into sitting up front, making conversation about the weather. Their driver is at least sixty and prattles on about cricket and beaches and a submarine in Sydney Harbour. Lily's knees bump the glovebox. In the rearview mirror, she spots Potter looking out the window, one hand pressed against the glass. Her stomach twists. She turns her gaze out her on window and watches Sydney pass them by, in blocks of flats and rowhouses and rundown shacks. She wonders if they'll ever come back. She wonders if they'll ever leave.
He drops them at a football field. Well, rugby, she realises, adjusting her expectations. Potter steps out behind her and his eyes are wide.
"What are you staring at?" she asks. He gestures to the pair of white poles stretching toward the sun, and the crossbar between them.
"There's no hoops," he says wonderingly. "And they don't have brooms. How do they get up there? Do they climb? Do they have to place the ball on top?"
Lily grins. "Yes."
He squints. "Really?"
"Would I lie to you?"
Potter shrugs. "I trust you," he says, like a vow. "If you tell me they swing around those things and dance on them, I'll believe you." Lily hesitates, torn between seriousness and the joke of it all, between the fact of what they're about to do and the ridiculousness of his guesses.
She settles for shaking her head. "Did you know that if you look up at the clouds, you'll find they spell 'gullible'?"
The taxi pulls away from the curb and rumbles down the street, and they're left alone on the field's edge on a bright Tuesday. Potter doesn't look up. He just looks at her, grinning that gormless grin.
"Amelia," he says. Lily shakes her head again.
"Come on," she says. "We've got a long way to go."
She starts down the slope towards the flat of the field, and hopes whoever might be in the clubhouse above the few rows of seats is sufficiently preoccupied. Potter follows. They stop on the halfway line, and he turns to show her his back. She reaches for the buttons on his rucksack and fishes for the silvery soft material of his Invisibility Cloak. It slides between her fingers. She throws it over the both of them. It doesn't quite reach their knees, but it's enough, she thinks, to prevent unsuspecting passers-by from sticking their noses in too deep. The difficulty in this is that they have to stand quite close together, and she's sure she hasn't washed all of the wine scent out of her – never mind the sand. He's still as her arm sinks in shoulder-deep to his bag, scrounging for the smooth wooden handle.
"Are you sure I can't Summon it?" she asks, pushing past what she assumes is a bar of soap. She feels Potter breathe in.
"You can," he says, "but when we get back, you'll have to explain to Remus why you've messed up all his carefully-sorted piles." When. It's an unassuming optimism, and it feels like a vice grip.
"Here I thought you'd just grown up," she says, rummaging still, "and become more organised." Potter laughs then, and she tuts, steadying a stack of books inside the magically-enlarged rucksack.
"I still have those notecards," he says lightly, and her heart jumps, "from Seventh Year. I remember you gave them out to everyone in Gryffindor. Little revision affirmations."
"Don't," she says, cheeks colouring.
"I'm not making fun of you," he insists. "They were – endearing, you know?"
"Endearing?"
"You tried so hard," he continues. Lily's arm cramps as she reaches. "You were so nice to everyone."
"I was Head Girl," she says, "that was my job."
"I know."
"Got it." Lily wriggles furiously, and presses one hand against Potter's side to better get a purchase on the object. Three tugs gets it, and she drags it through the tiny opening and into the realm of the real. The Invisibility Cloak flaps around her hips. She buttons the backpack back up.
"You're brilliant," Potter beams, spinning around to face her. They're forced to be in proximity under the Cloak, and their chests are almost flush against one another. Lily holds the broom between them like a shield. According to the label, it's a Family Cleansweep Six, capable of seating as many as four. Lily runs her fingers over the smooth, polished handle. She doesn't know much about brooms, but it looks about as safe as it possibly could be – it's longer than the ones she remembers being used at school for Quidditch matches, and it has four sets of footrests rather than one. It's hard to properly judge the Cushioning Charms without testing them, but she gets the sense that it's well-made.
"Then don't fuck this up," she says, thrusting the broom into his hands. "Protect me, or something." His eyes crease.
"Until the end."
They have to abandon the Invisibility Cloak to mount the damned thing, though they apply a smattering of Disillusionment Charms before they get rid of their cover. Potter grips it in two fists where it floats level with his chin, and hoists himself up and swings his legs over, as if it's as easy as climbing on a bike. Lily stands awkwardly next to it, trying to figure out how she's ever going to get her bum in the right place.
"This was your idea, Evans," Potter reminds her, leaning back and raising his eyebrows cockily.
"I'm aware, thanks, Potter," she says. "Just – oh, fuck it, what do I do?"
"Get on."
"Arse." She takes a few steps back, and his eyebrows disappear behind a few locks of hair. There's nothing else for it. Lily takes a running start and throws herself onto the Cleansweep. For one terrifying second, it buckles beneath her.
"Shit!"
"Ow!" It winds her, but she manages to get one foot in its rightful place, and the other follows, though she falls forward. Her chin slams into the ridge between Potter's shoulder blades. "Fuck it. Sorry."
"You're alright," Potter says. Her bag is heavy on her back, even with the Featherweight Charms. He reaches around and takes one of her hands, pulling it around to his stomach. Lily pulls in another cold breath, desperate to keep her heartrate normal. "Hold on."
"You know where we're going?" she checks, trying to soothe the racing current.
"'Course I do," he replies. "You showed me." Lily nods slowly.
"And…you can do it?" She needs him to be able to. She can't make him, but she needs it. Or they're out of options. They have to do the opposite of what the Death Eaters expect – and they have to ensure that their timeline will be the antithesis of obvious.
She hopes she's read it right.
"Of course," Potter answers again. He glances over his shoulder, hazel eyes curious. "I've got you, Evans."
She nods before she has the chance to change her mind. "Let's do it."
Potter kicks off. Her stomach swoops. The first rush of flight is like the drop of a rollercoaster. Her feet press hard into the footrests. Potter whoops, discretion forgotten, and Lily watches the blades of grass grow imperceptible, the marked white lines of the field grow thinner. They fly over the roof of the clubhouse and she can't do it. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to distract herself. Defensive jinxes are a classification of spells that may… but it's been years since she's sat exams, and most of her notes have left her. There's little in the way of repetitive or soothing from her adulthood to take up the mantle of 'a calming thought'. So she just holds on. She holds on as the traffic noises fade, and as the birds squawk and fall behind. She just holds on.
They dip for a second and Lily hugs his waist tighter, pressing her face between his shoulder blades. If she falls… but this was her idea. She can't afford to think about things going wrong. Her fingers knot together over his navel, and they vibrate when he laughs.
"Evans," he shouts, to be heard over the rush of wind, "it's alright. We're stable. We're safe. I was just evening out."
"I hate this," she mumbles into a mouthful of his robes.
"You don't have to look," he tells her, "but it's beautiful. It really is."
"I don't care."
"Alright, then. Suit yourself." The footrests feel so slender under the arches of her feet, and though the Cushioning Charm is a relief, when Potter adjusts the broom's direction she's terrified she's going to fall off the end. Any and all hesitations about being too close to him are gone. She never wants to let go of him. Not ever again.
After ten or so minutes of fluid motion, her fingers are starting to turn numb, so she gives up on her hold in favour of pressing her palms flat against his body. The thump-thump-thump of his heart is steady. She squeezes her eyes shut even harder and lets it lull her. How can he be so calm? But she's thankful he is. Right now, he's anchoring her. She needs him like never before.
She starts to lose track of time after that. The cold is deafening at this height, and their path is apparently unimpeded. Potter hums again – it's like he's got this arsenal of middling song melodies trapped in his vocal chords. Slowly, her eyes fall open. Maybe she's falling asleep in reverse. Her heart stops at the sight below; valleys and mountains pass beneath them, and rivers snake like unspooled thread. It's dizzying.
She hugs Potter. She's already holding onto him, but she hugs him, properly. It seems like the kind of thing you have to do when you're thousands of feet in the air with just one other person. He lifts one hand from the broom and presses it over hers. There is no room for words up here. The only language is touch.
'James,' she mouths against his back, like he might understand her. 'I think…'
"EXPELLIARMUS!"
The spell comes out of nowhere. It rips a scream from Lily's lungs. The broom drops suddenly, and she slams into Potter's back. He's diving. Her wand isn't on her – gone. But no. She pulls it out of her pocket and grips it tightly. If not for Potter's flying, she might think she imagined the incantation. Her head whips around frantically. Clouds drift nearby, but they're too high for anything else. Where -?
"BOMBARDA!"
"POTTER!" The broom rolls in midair, flinging Lily upside down. Her thighs clench. They roll and roll and roll, dodging the curse. Lily's heart races; she can feel Potter's doing the same. Where are they? Where can they be coming from?
On their last roll, Lily spots them. Above.
"Down," she whispers urgently, tapping the base of Potter's spine. "Down, down, we have to go, please hear me." Her nose is snotty with cold and terror. At this angle, she doesn't know how to return their fire.
"STUPEFY!" Three figures in dark hooded robes fly on broomsticks above them. Have they been stalking them? How long for? How awful is it if Lily's heart jitters when she thinks about the possibility of them watching her and Potter against those bricks, almost…? But Potter hears her, or he knows what she's thinking, because the broom tilts down and they fall. The tail swings and Lily twists around in her seat, aiming.
"PROTEGO!" she shouts. "PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" Her spells whiz into the sky – it's too hard to duel properly here. They're trying to scare them. It's working. The ground hurtles towards them faster and faster, the mountains growing taller, the valleys wider.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" The Killing Curse shatters her Shield Charm, but slows it enough that Potter can throw them out of the road of it. Lily screams and shoots another Blasting Curse as Potter's dive deepens, and then there's no time for anything else. She can't look back. She flings her arms around him, clutching her wand for everything she's worth, and the ground hurtles closer and closer. He leans forward, so close to the broomstick that he's almost laying flat. Lily leans with him, nose crushed against his spine, hands squashed beneath his weight.
Lily doesn't pray. There's only one thing she can believe in now, and it's the man in front of her.
Everything goes black.