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nineteen
She woke up, most nights—a sudden jolting, wrenched into consciousness, a gasp at her lips—and looked, instinctively, to her right. The sight of him there: the mass of dark, messy curls, his steady breathing, a metronome that pulsed through her, forced the calm back into her limbs. Even amongst the fears and fury of war, a war that raged inside their house as much as it did outside, she knew that him being there, close enough to touch, was all it took. Like sinking into a warm bath: there we are.
It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, the last time she saw him. Her, at one with the sofa, half dozing with the remnants of the newspaper strewn around her—a futile effort to recover from a long night helping patch people up at headquarters, to try and act like a human again. Him, gathering his wand, his cloak; pausing, now, to lean over the back of the sofa, to let his hand drift into the cloud of red hair she’d had to keep pushing out of her eyes. A smile that warmed her, his lips brushing all-too briefly against her own, and then, words that would replay on an endless loop—a gentle kind of torture, all the agony of ripping her teeth from her jaw hidden behind a soft, gauzy veil of memories—probably for as long as she would live.
“I’ll see you later, love.”
And then he was gone.
====
Grief was a strange thing: the way it shifted, slipped under her skin; faded to the background for long enough that she caught a glimpse of her old self again, and then blossomed out again, something raw that she could feel under the fingernails, in the set of her shoulders; something that seeped from every pore, infected the world around her.
Grief didn’t even come straight away, anyway. At first it was a steady stream of, he’ll be back, that merged into, he just needs time to find his way back. It was almost ten months before she sat on that same sofa, the clock ticking over from one day to the next as it insisted on doing, and Sirius—cool, hard, wry Sirius, who believed that James was capable of walking through fire—told her that the man they both loved more than anything wasn’t coming back.
To hear that from him; that was what finally cut through, cracked her into pieces.
No body to bury; another name in the paper, a small picture—smiling, hair caught in the breeze, quidditch hoops behind him and a whole future, unravelling before him, with no clue that that future was so easily curtailed. That a life so vibrant, so valuable, could be summed up in only a few square inches of ink felt like having the heart ripped out of her life all over again. A monument, one that could be crumpled to the side, torn away, to the best person she had ever known—the only man she could ever love—and it was like it was nothing. She couldn’t even give him that.
The recriminations were unending. A loop of I shouldn’t have let him leave and I should’ve made him take the mirror and I should have got off the sofa and held him one more time; strings of words, barbed and brutal, and somehow surprising even though they came from her own mind. No one else blamed her, at least not out loud. But each time it caught her, as she lay in their bed, her hand stretched out into empty space; as sobs shook through her with a force that she should have been able to feel; each time, the chorus started again, whispers of doubts that she found impossible to ignore.
Peter was gone, and Sirius and Remus were tentative friends again, and the world continued to shift and change around her. As if the gaping hole that had been carved out of it wasn’t even there.
Nineteen years old, and broken.
====
Healing seemed to be the only thing left that felt real, that felt purposeful.
She completed her training, throwing herself into work in a way that everyone knew was unhealthy but that no one dared question. She took on as many shifts at the hospital as she could fit around her work with the Order, feeling that if only she could help some people, then the karmic balance would be redressed, and maybe, he would return.
He didn’t.
Sirius would stop by, sometimes with wounds that needed tending to, sometimes with a grim expression, but always with a cup of tea and a sandwich. That Sirius Black, of all people, had been forced into the role of caretaker should have shown her that she was in a dark place—but denial was a strong force. She accepted his tea and food and hugs, and then sent him on his way, because every minute not working was a minute not helping someone in pain.
One night, a long shift had turned longer, and she had finally got away, body heavy and eyes sore. The Floo would have been the safest option; apparating to her doorstep, the next best choice. But something compelled her to set off into the darkness, the only sound her footsteps on the wet pavement, the faint patter of the rain around her.
She hadn’t cried in a long time. Maybe she’d used up all her tears, her lifetime allowance; maybe she was so numb to it all now that there was nothing left to give. Maybe she was worn out, by all of it: the weight of grief, the effort of getting through each day, knowing that he wasn’t there—that he wouldn’t be there when she got home, that he wouldn’t be there when she woke up. Exhaustion, then, in the place of tears. Weary, worn, walking on fractured legs that couldn’t be fixed.
Home, an empty house, a half-lived space—just another place, now, to pass the time. To wait, and to push down hope, hope that only burned every time she got within reach of it.
She slept, at last, knowing that at least in dreams, he would be there. Even if it would hurt.
====
twenty-one
The war, in its last gasps. She stood, tucked into the corner of the meeting room—someone’s lounge; a safe house, it felt, in name only—and watched as Severus Snape told the group about Horcruxes.
At her side, Sirius was rigid, that old familiar enmity impossible to hide, even if he had wanted to. She reached for his hand, caught his eye for just a moment: unspoken, the vicious irony that he was there, alive, existing, while James was—
She excused herself, voice barely above a murmur, and no one looked surprised. Had she made it through a single Order meeting in the past two years? She couldn’t remember. The truth of it all was that a fog had descended on her life the moment he didn’t return as expected, and she wasn’t sure how anyone could expect her to see through the haze.
Tears, then, sat on the edge of the avocado-green bathtub in someone else’s house. It felt strange to cry again, after so long with nothing left to give. Remus had sat with her a few weeks ago, told her it was okay to be upset, and she had laughed. The sound had been bitter; surely she was too young to sound this way.
When she emerged, the meeting had ended, most members already long gone, back to the imagined safety of their own homes. They didn’t know, yet, that it was all an illusion, that no matter where you were, that creeping hand would find you, would snatch something away and leave you with the tattered remnants of your life.
(“I wish it was me, gone,” she’d told Remus, when the laughter had died. “He would’ve coped so much better than I am.”)
Severus had lingered—something he had always been good at—and sought her out as soon as she stepped back into the lounge. He looked the same: pale, thin, shadows under his eyes, mouth drawn. “Lily,” he said, and she hated the sound of her name on his tongue. “You’re still fighting.”
She could see Sirius and Remus watching from across the room; she imagined it was all that Sirius could do not to barrel over there and intervene. “Yes,” she replied simply. She didn’t tell him that it felt more like a fight than it had before; that it leached her energy more and more with each passing day. The effort, not to just wilt and mould and die. “I am.”
There was something in his eyes that she didn’t like. “When I heard—” He paused, weighing his words carefully. “And that you were still alive—I reached out to Dumbledore.”
She stared up at him, blank, which was probably just the sort of woman that he wanted. An empty page to write his name upon. Did he think that, with James gone, he could switch sides and claim her for himself? Did he think that she would fall into his arms, broken with gratitude over his bringing the war to a close?
And then, a thought. “Was it you?” she asked; they both seemed surprised, by her words, by the fragile quality to her voice. “Did you—”
“No,” he said, quickly, a frown heavy on his brow. “No, Lily—”
“You must know who, though,” she cut him off, and felt as if her breath was coming quicker, now, sharp in her throat. “Or—how, or where, or what happened to his—”
Sirius, at her side, his arm a scaffold round her shoulders: feeling him there was how she realised just how close she’d come to collapse. “C’mon, Evans,” he said; he didn’t even bother glancing in Snape’s direction. “Let’s get you home.”
It was only as they stepped through the door, Sirius’ hand a gentle guide between her shoulder blades, that she knew. She knew, because he was there in every corner, there in every shadow; in the kitchen, where he would make her tea and toast; in the living room, where he would sit tangled in her arms, reading, brow furrowed in thoughtful reflection; in the bedroom, where he would press himself to her, his lips a blazing force down her neck or a soft prayer at her jaw.
She couldn’t stay there anymore.
====
They called her new flat ‘the new flat’ for at least six months, long after the newness had worn away and left behind a lived-in space, a strange home that couldn’t really be home because he wasn’t in it. But it was hers, a place with fewer reminders; a spare bedroom, often occupied by Sirius, or Remus, or Mary. She still felt a lingering guilt in every corner, knowing she would never have been able to afford somewhere like this—its leafy London location, a ground floor flat with its own small patch of garden, close enough to the heart of things to be useful but far enough out to be peaceful—if it wasn’t for the house they’d shared before.
The cottage had been James’, a family heirloom passed down through generations, like the pearl necklace her mother had given her but worth about a thousand times more. She had argued with Sirius for a week about the cottage: he was James’ brother in all but name, he was his family, he should be the one to get the proceeds of the sale. “Shut up, Evans,” had been his reply, much warmer than the words would have implied. “As if you weren’t his family too.”
The past tense verb had cut at her, cut at her resolve. All she could do was deflate, nod, accept that Sirius was not going to rest until she accepted a pile of gold that they surely both knew she didn’t deserve.
The war ended, a month before her twenty-second birthday. She sat in her living room, Mary’s hand on hers, watching the fireplace as if—now that it was over, now that life could begin again—James might step through in a flash of green flames.
He didn’t, but Sirius and Remus did, and together they sat there, drinking to the end of a war that had ripped them all apart.
====
twenty-three
The first time she slept with someone else, she cried.
Fabian Prewett had always fancied her, he’d hardly been subtle about it, and they’d been out at the Leaky Cauldron celebrating someone’s birthday; steadily pickling herself in firewhiskey, it had felt normal to talk with him, to laugh, for his hand to slide onto her thigh under the table.
It had felt normal, until it didn’t.
Fabian hovered over her, his cock buried inside her and his face a mixture of aroused and worried—an expression that would’ve been funny, in other circumstances. “Fuck, Lily, I’m—are you—did I hurt you?”
She clung to his shoulders, tears still slipping down her cheeks, and didn’t know how to express how she felt. He hadn’t hurt her, because she was already hurt. She’d been hurt, now, for four years. A visceral ache, a wound that never closed, just covered with smiles and brushed to the side as if they weren’t there. “No,” she replied, and pushed her hips up to meet his; his groan pulsed out of him against his will. “I’m okay. Don’t stop.”
He looked like he didn’t believe her, but he also looked like he was minutes away from coming, and so she dug her fingernails into his back, pressed her lips to his to push him on. She wouldn’t be able to stop the tears, now that they had started, and although it was uncharitable, unkind to think, the sooner he was done, the sooner he’d be gone.
After, she stared up at the ceiling as he stared at her, laying at her side. A tentative hand brushed against the bare skin of her stomach, and she closed her eyes, because maybe if she fell asleep, she’d wake up and that hand would be—
Fabian left, murmuring his goodbyes. She pulled the covers around her, and sobbed until her throat was raw.
====
Sirius wasn’t really the person to talk to about any of that. She knew he loved her, that he would protect her until his dying breath; she also knew that he was grieving in silence, that James being gone had left him with half of himself missing, and that hearing she’d shagged someone else would only cause pain, no matter how hard he tried to convince her and himself otherwise.
Remus was better. She didn’t doubt he was grieving, too, that loss too immeasurable to put into words—but he'd always been more able to compartmentalise his emotions, to set something aside if it meant helping someone he loved.
Still, she didn’t look him in the eye as she told him. Scared, perhaps, to see judgement there, or hurt, or anger.
“Lily,” he murmured, his arm slipping round her shoulders. She brushed away a tear; six months of not crying, and one fuck had undone all her progress. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s stupid,” she said, staring at a bleach stain on her jeans. “I know it is.”
He was quiet for a few moments, a steady presence at her side, and it helped the tears subside. As he spoke again, she managed to lift her gaze, to look him in the eye. “You don’t need to feel guilty,” he told her. “James…he would want you to be happy.”
Lily wondered if it would ever be as easy, as simple as that. If it would ever be less than what it was now, a state of being that she had sunk into and wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to climb back out of. When she replied, her voice shook. “I miss him.”
A sigh, heavy and sad, and he drew her closer; her head on his shoulder, his cheek pressed to her hair. “I know,” he murmured. “I do, too.”
“Is it going to feel like this every time?” she wondered. In all this time, she’d never sounded quite so desolate. “Like I’m…cheating on him?”
Remus paused; he considered the heft of each word before he said it, a habit she’d always appreciated given the act now, think later approach of his closest friends. “It won’t,” he promised, because what else could he say to her? She knew as well as he probably did that this wasn’t the time for the brutal truth—that there wasn’t anything she could do, any experience she could have, that wouldn’t make her think about James. “It will get easier, Lily.”
She didn’t believe him then, but, being Remus, of course, he was right.
====
twenty-four
She’d known Edgar Bones—Ed, to his friends, and most people were—since school, a Ravenclaw in the year above them, a prefect who’d always been unfailingly kind to her. He’d joined the Order on graduating, and she’d always found him a calm presence in meetings, a good counterbalance to the hot heads of her friends, and, sometimes, herself.
He worked at St Mungo’s now, a Healer of some renown, and they’d bumped into each other enough times in the hospital tearoom for a bond to strengthen. “Fancy seeing you here,” he’d say each time, and his smile tugged at something inside her; it gave her warmth where there had been none, like a bolt of sunshine after months of winter.
They were brought together to work on a patient, a puzzling case, a random smattering of symptoms which defied all the usual diagnostic spells and restorative potions. With his experience and skill, and her natural talent and problem-solving abilities, their managers thought them perfect for the task.
Three days, in the patient’s room or in the tiny brewing room off the ward or in his office, throwing ideas out only to see them fail. At one point, her vision blurry and her muscles aching, he hadn’t thought twice about transfiguring the armchair in his office into a bed, and left her alone to get some rest while they waited for updates on their patient. She had lain there, her attention caught by a framed picture on his desk—his sister and her husband, cradling a tiny baby; she slotted this away in her mind with all the other things she’d found out about him now, like his affinity for chocolate hobnobs, or his understanding of muggle methods alongside wizarding practice, or the way he put their patient at ease every time with his gentle jokes and kind smiles. There, next to this collection of things that made up a man: he loved his family.
They solved the mystery after five days, a bit of a medical marvel that they both agreed should be written up for publication, and not just because it was fascinating, but because they wanted to prolong their time spent together, even if neither would admit as much.
When the final word was written, their patient long since cured and returned to their home, they stood together in his office and she felt a strange sort of tightness in her chest, something she hadn’t felt for a very long time. Since—
Maybe he caught the slight change in her expression, or her hesitance to leave, because he gave her one of his soft smiles, the ones that sent her stomach fluttering, and drew her into a hug. “It was great working with you, Lily,” he said.
“With you, too,” she agreed, noting how neatly she fit in his arms; he wasn’t broad, muscled, like—but there was a strength there, and he held her like she was all that was left in the world, even if it was only for a few moments before they both stepped back, a slight stain of pink to their cheeks.
She found herself seeking him out, then; just happening to pass his ward, or aiming to get to the tearoom when she knew he’d likely be there. They would wait in line together to Floo home, drawing out the last chances of conversation for the day, and she would watch him step into the green flames, and found she missed him already.
They were sat together on a bench in another ordinary corridor of St Mungo’s, clutching cardboard cups of tea and trying to make the most of a brief ten-minute break, when he asked her out, at last. His face had been so softly nervous, anticipation like starlight in his eyes, and she hadn’t thought twice before saying yes.
It had been a relief to find that she wouldn’t cry every time she had sex, now; it had been a relief to find herself able to smile, and laugh, and find comfort in someone else’s embrace. A relief, even if sometimes, at night as she lay in his arms and stared out into the darkness, it felt like a betrayal. To be happy. To be…herself, again.
“You can’t betray someone who’s dead,” Mary had told her, as gently as she could.
====
twenty-five
She held onto her wine glass, looking for courage she wasn’t sure she possessed. Sirius was attempting to cook—he’d reached an age, he said, where he couldn’t just subsist on takeaways and booze anymore—and there was no better time, really, to just say it. If she waited until they were eating, she’d have his full attention: an intense force, normally something she could reckon with easily enough. “Sirius,” she said, because it was a pre-cursor, something to soften the landing. “He asked me to marry him.”
The clang of the spoon into the saucepan might have been comical but for the tension clear in his shoulders; he paused, perhaps gathering his facial expression into something neutral, before he turned to meet her gaze. “Yeah?”
She swallowed. “Yeah.” She took a sip of her wine, more to have something else to do than because she wanted it. “I…said I’ll think about it.”
It hadn’t been a surprise, really, when he’d got down on one knee, prying open a small velvet box, letting the candlelight flicker off a single, square-cut diamond nestled against a gold band. The look in his eyes as he’d told her how much he loved her, how their year or so together had been the best time of his life. The pang she’d felt, at those words, because as much as she loved him, she couldn’t say the same. But she’d stopped comparing a long time ago; it was a losing battle, and one that only hurt her, hurt Ed, and benefitted absolutely no one.
He hadn’t even looked surprised, himself, when she asked for time to think about it. He’d known her as James’ girlfriend for far longer than he’d known her as his own. He’d been there, in the headquarters, the day after James went missing—he’d seen her, cold hands clutched in her lap, body rigid as she waited, waited, desperately hoped for something that wouldn’t come. He knew, and he loved her anyway, and gave her the space she needed whenever she asked for it.
He was too good for her, probably.
Sirius leaned back against the kitchen counter. “What is there to think about?” he wondered.
She managed a faint smile, so weak as to be almost translucent. “I’m not sure.”
She watched as he paused, turned back to the oven—gave the sauce a stir, something to do with his hands, probably, giving himself some time. “You shouldn’t feel bad about saying yes.” He spoke his words into the pan, and she fought the urge to get up, to grasp his hand and force him to look at her: to prove that he meant what he said. “If you want to.”
It was always going to be hardest, telling Sirius. She had waited two whole months before she had told him she was even dating Ed, terrified he would think she was forgetting James altogether when he clearly couldn’t. She hadn’t given him enough credit; he was supportive, he always was, even if they both knew he hated every moment of it.
“It feels big,” she said. “Too big to just…jump into, without thinking.”
He glanced back at her, a wry eyebrow raised. “Marriage is pretty big, Evans.”
“I know,” she sighed. “I mean—”
“You love him?”
She blinked at the interruption, but nodded. Felt a prickling of guilt, there, under her skin. “I do.”
“He makes you happy?”
Another nod, and she felt that guilt grow. “He does.”
Sirius turned round again and moved to sit next to her. His face was sombre, his hand warm as he placed it on hers. “You’re allowed to be happy, Lil.”
She gave him a watery smile, and tried to believe him.
====
She had a ring on her finger when he came back into her life.
A party, Sirius’ twenty-sixth birthday; his flat, cluttered with the detritus of a raucous night. She returned the next day (Ed, apologetically, heading for his shift at the hospital), having promised to help tidy up. Sirius was pale, exhausted—still drunk, probably. Remus didn’t look much better, but he assured them that he thought he could probably put bottles in a bin bag between bouts of vomiting.
A patronus, from Dumbledore: he needed to speak with them—all of them—as soon as possible. Four years out from the end of the war, and they still reacted as they always had then. Fear, apprehension; the urge to ask, who was it this time just on the tips of their tongues.
They apparated to Hogsmeade, made the long walk to the school gates through the cold, grey morning. The headmaster waited for them at the steps, his lined face giving nothing away, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could prepare her, or any of them, for the sight that awaited them in his office.
He was sitting by the fire—slumping, really—a glazed look in his eye. His dark hair was longer than she’d ever seen it, his glasses cracked and mended with what looked like muggle masking tape. He was thin, wasted-looking, like he’d barely survived these past seven or so years.
The breath was snatched from her lungs, just at the sight of him.
Remus must have noticed, must have sensed something, because he moved to her side, put a steadying arm around her—perhaps the only thing keeping her upright, in that moment. They all just stared at him, and he stared back, a hunted, haunted look on his face that made her heart hurt.
And then: “Prongs.” Sirius stepped forward. “You’re—”
James’ gaze snapped up, and he didn’t have a moment to consider what the end of his brother’s sentence might have been, because he was hauled out of his chair, pulled into an embrace that seemed to take all his energy. “Hi, Pads,” was all he murmured, and it was those words—simple words, not even directed at her—that made her knees finally buckle.
A chair appeared, and Remus helped her sink into it, but the movement drew James’ attention, and he stared at her, blinking fiercely against what must have been tears.
It was Dumbledore who spoke next. “I’m sure we all have a great many questions,” he said, an understatement if ever she heard one. “But I’m afraid that for now, James doesn’t have many answers.”
He had arrived, the headmaster told them, falling through the Floo in a tangle of limbs, bruised and cut and dirty enough that it had taken a few minutes for Dumbledore to even be sure who he was. He had no idea where he had Flooed in from, or what had happened to him in the long stretch of years that had passed. The last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Lily as she lounged on the sofa.
As the headmaster talked, she found it difficult to maintain her focus, her gaze drifting constantly back towards James, as if she expected to find that he wasn’t there after all. It was this distraction that meant she knew the exact moment when he saw the diamond glinting on her finger; the exact moment when he could no longer look her in the eye; the exact moment she knew his heart was broken.
Dumbledore had a plan, of course he did, for reviving those lost memories, for trying to work out what had happened to James—to give him some peace of mind, if it were possible. But in the meantime, he would need somewhere to stay.
Sirius realised the awkwardness a moment after she did. “Stay at mine,” he said, and rested his hand on James’ back, a gesture meant to be comforting. It didn’t seem as if he was capable of taking much comfort, though. “Moony’ll stay too, won’t you Moons? A Marauders sleepover.”
It was painful, seeing the comprehension cross James’ face: of what the ring really meant, of what it meant that he didn’t have his cottage to return to.
She got back to her flat; hung her coat up next to Ed’s winter one, the one he kept saying he needed to replace, because there was a hole in the armpit and it let a draught in. She walked past his books on the bookcase; his teacup, discarded by the sink; his pyjamas, folded neatly on his pillow. She climbed into the bed she shared with her fiancé, pulled the covers up round her chin, and then, finally, allowed it to hit her.
When Ed’s shift finished, he came home to find her sobbing, still. And she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stop.
====
“I don’t blame you, you know.”
Lily looked up, tearing her gaze away from her mug of tea, to meet his gaze. He looked less pale, less broken: solid meals, and a proper bed, and the comfort of his friends’ company had served him well. She wished she could say the same about herself.
“For moving on,” he continued, and she wondered if he realised how thin his words sounded, like any amount of weight, any pressure at all, would shatter them. “You thought—you all thought I was dead.” He tried for a smile. “I might as well have been.”
She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t so sure she had moved on; that every day without him had been a test of endurance, another thing to tuck away so she couldn’t see it, acknowledge it. She wanted to tell him that she had dreamed of him, in some small way or another, every night since he’d disappeared.
But it didn’t seem fair. Not when she wore another man’s ring. “I’m sorry…”
He shook his head. “Sirius told me…how hard it was.” He took a sip of his tea, hands shaking just slightly. They had been, apparently, ever since he’d returned. “So I’m…I’m glad you could find some happiness, again.”
The silence felt raw between them; she wanted nothing more than to hug him, to feel his warmth against her skin again, to hear his heartbeat in his chest. Proof, here, that he was alive. That the past seven years had been some kind of prolonged nightmare and now she was waking up. But she didn’t have the right to do that, not anymore.
It took a lot of strength to keep her hands on her mug. To feel the warmth there, instead.
“Sirius gave you the full update?” she asked. She couldn’t even begin to consider how much he’d missed: how much of it would hurt him, sting like a slap. A twist of the knife.
He nodded. “As much as I could cope with, anyway.” He chewed on his lower lip. “Pete…”
The traitor in their midst. When he’d been caught, killed, quite by coincidence at a Death Eater raid six months after James had vanished, it had nearly finished Sirius off completely. He’d been suspicious of Remus all that time, considering him the spy, when Peter was the one with a foot in both camps, waiting to see which way the pendulum swung. His death—behind a mask, the Dark Mark branded on his arm, anonymous until he was, suddenly, not—had felt like the final death knell of their friendship group, of the innocence of their time at Hogwarts. They had spent a painful few months wondering if it had been Peter, quiet, friendly Peter, who had been behind James’ disappearance. Ultimately, they had to come to terms with the fact that they would never know.
Lily knew that James had always loved Pete, had been his advocate, his protector, his brother. It was a betrayal she wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get past.
She didn’t like to think of her own betrayal. Not when he was so determined to be kind.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, a ridiculous understatement. Quiet words, still landing with a thump, weighted by the depth of feeling on both sides. “It’s—”
She had to stop for a moment, her breath caught in her throat, and he watched as a tear slipped, unacknowledged, down her cheek. Maybe they were both thinking that seven years ago, he would’ve reached out to brush it away. Would have let his hand linger at her jaw. Would have pressed a soft kiss to her lips, taste the tears there, too, and whispered that it was okay to cry.
“It’s so good to see you,” she finished.
====
twenty-six
She didn’t see him again until Remus’ birthday. A joint party—something they had always done at Hogwarts, a tradition they didn’t feel too old to let go of just yet—and a crowded house. So many familiar faces, allies from the war or school friends alongside strangers, friends Remus had picked up along the way, too friendly to not gather people around him. James’ side of the guest list might have been shorter. That was what seven years of missing, presumed dead did to one’s social life, Sirius said.
She felt very aware of Ed’s hand in hers as they edged through the mass of people in the living room: laughing, drinking, dancing. They finally found Remus, holding court in the kitchen, and she let go of her fiancé’s hand to pull him into a hug. “Happy birthday,” she murmured, and he gave her a squeeze in reply.
Lily had only decided that she would definitely attend the party the day before, when Remus had convinced her that it would be busy, it would be fine, it wouldn’t be awkward. She was starting to doubt that logic, though, because as she stepped back, as Ed’s arm slipped comfortably around her, hand resting on her hip, she realised that James was there in the kitchen, too.
“Happy birthday, too, I suppose,” she said, and he smiled, an eyebrow raised in question. “Yours isn’t actually for another two weeks,” she pointed out.
“I’m like the Queen,” he replied. “Weeks-long celebrations.”
“Your highness,” she acknowledged with a bob of her head.
His gaze shifted to Ed, standing sentinel at her side. “Eddie. Good to see you.”
Her heart ached for these two men—both, good men, wonderful men who didn’t deserve the shitstorm she’d brought on them. Ed gave James a smile in return, friendly in the face of anything. “You too,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
James laughed, took a pull from his beer bottle. “Finally rediscovering some muscles,” he allowed. “It’s a steady process. Sirius enjoys being my personal trainer.”
“Body By Pads!” came a shout from across the room; James met Lily’s eyes and they shared a grin.
“More like Torture By Pads,” James called in return, a joke close to the bone, given all that Dumbledore had so far managed to find out about his ‘time away’, as James euphemistically called it. When Remus had told her the details, she had sobbed into his shoulder, and had the worst night of sleep she’d had in years. “But at least I feel more like myself again.”
She accepted a bottle of indeterminate alcohol from Sirius, who had wandered over; probably, Lily thought, to act as a support for his friend, given who he was talking to. A long sip, feeling as if all their focus was on Ed’s hand, his fingers drawing soft circles at her hip where her shirt had ridden up. She was imagining it, she was sure, although that sureness faded just a touch as James forced his gaze up, away from her completely.
“How’s the hospital?” Remus asked, a safe topic of conversation, one where they could all find their footing again.
Ed shot Lily a wry smile, which she did her best to return. “A mad house, as per usual,” he replied. “There’s been a spate of dragon pox lately, which means the wards are full to bursting.” He gave Lily another squeeze; she felt, rather than saw, James’ gaze drift, again, for a moment, like a path of fire to her hip. “This one is keeping her team in line, of course. The only Healer in the place who ever looks calm.”
Maybe, she thought, it was because she’d been through so much worse. Been through situations miles more stressful than a bit of overwork. She’d been working there so long by now that the waves of illness that rolled around like clockwork never got to her—it was just more of the same. “Who needs sleep, anyway?” she joked, a feeble thing that didn’t deserve the generous chuckle it got in return.
“I am looking forward to things settling down again, though,” Ed added. “We had to push the wedding back because of how busy work has been.” He paused, perhaps feeling her still, tense, at his side, and dipped his head to dot a tender kiss to her neck. Her cheeks flared red. “Starting to wonder if I’ll ever see you in a white dress, Lil.”
This feeling, like being pulled in two directions—a wrenching, sharp sort of pain that she didn’t think she should have been allowed to feel. Her eyes lifted, finding James without even intending to, and saw the flash of suffering in his gaze, of sadness and heartache that she knew she was causing. And then Ed, there, at her side, who loved her so dearly, loved her so deeply—who had brought a smile back to her life, who had lifted her out of the dark pit she thought she would die inside.
She took the coward’s way out: let her gaze flicker away from James, and her body shift away from Ed, murmuring, “I’m going to find the bathroom,” before she slipped back into the crowd, and away from the men who watched her, all too knowing.
It was Mary who found her, who helped her tidy up her smudged mascara, who hugged her and told her it was going to be okay.
And maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, hearing those words was enough.
====
A benefit for the hospital, something they both didn’t want to attend but knew that they must. After a week of long shifts and little sleep, the last thing she wanted to do was leave the warmth of the flat and be charming for lots of people she didn’t know.
It was at the home of some rich benefactor, although home was a mild word for it: the place was palatial, sprawling grounds with manicured lawns, and inside, an entrance hall roughly the same size as their flat. Ed could sense her discomfort: kept his hand at her back, the warmth of his palm a soothing sensation through the fabric of her dress.
They made a striking couple, she knew. He had that pureblood breeding, the ability to wear dress robes but still look youthful, vigorous; the deep charcoal brought out the blue in his eyes, and maybe he was tired, and overworked, but he still caught the attention of just about every woman in the room. For her part, she had knotted her hair at the nape of her neck, exposing the pale column of her throat; navy silk skimmed her body, cut with just enough skin to be arresting but not so much as to be inappropriate. He had given her delicate silver and pearl drop earrings for their anniversary last year, and she knew he loved that she had worn them: a statement, of some kind, even if it was all inference rather than implication.
As the evening passed, they did the rounds, touted by the hospital board members as prime evidence of the future of the hospital and the future of medicine—young, published, creative and dynamic in their approach. It was odd to hear herself spoken about by others, like listening to someone describe a stranger. She reached the point where she felt the need to excuse herself, brushing a soft kiss to Ed’s cheek in silent apology, before making her way outside into the cool of the night.
“You’re popular.”
She looked around, spotting Sirius leaning against a short wall, cigarette in hand and eyebrow raised. “I didn’t realise you’d be here,” she said, moving closer.
“Euphemia and Fleamont were big benefactors,” he explained. “And left a legacy in their will. The board wanted us here.”
Us. She tried not to let the single word change how her breath moved in her lungs. “James is here too?”
Sirius nodded, pausing to take a drag of his cigarette. The smoke billowed, a haze between them for a few moments before it drifted away. “He got caught up talking to some of the bods from the memory damage ward.” He smirked slightly, sadly. “He’s their favourite patient, I think.”
“I’m sure,” she agreed. She suddenly felt a strange sort of distance between them, a feeling she hated. Sirius had been her saviour, after—after everything. Now she wasn’t sure when the last time they’d been alone together was. Probably before James had returned. “I should go back in, rescue Ed.”
Another nod, and she turned, making her way back to the door. “You look fit, Evans,” he called after her; she paused in the doorway, glancing back at him with a small smile. “Just in case you were wondering.”
“So do you, Black,” she told him; they shared a smile, a moment stretched out between them, soothing somehow. “But I’m sure you weren’t wondering.”
His laughter followed her back inside, and Ed found her, holding out his hand with a fond smile of his own. “It’s about time we stop talking to boring people and dance, don’t you think?”
She let him lead the way to the dancefloor, stepped into his embrace, as easy as it ever had been. Her head on his chest, his hand holding hers to cover his heart, the other resting at the small of her back; she closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, and found comfort there, as she always could.
The music swelled around them, and she knew, with a startling clarity, that he was a good man—a great man, a man she had fallen in love with, a man who would never hurt her, even though she knew she was hurting him. Hurting him in ways he didn’t even know, yet; hurting him, and hurting herself, a spinning top out of control and with no direction.
Staying clear of James wasn’t fixing anything; even hearing that he was in this room, somewhere, had felt like a knife at her throat.
Staying there in Ed’s arms wasn’t fixing anything; he was waiting, for her to choose a wedding date, for her to step fully into this thing they shared, just as he had. He might wait forever, if she let him.
It felt as if it was her that needed fixing: that somewhere along the way, back when she was nineteen, she’d been broken into pieces and no one knew how they fit back together again, least of all her. That all along, when she’d thought that life was brightening again, she was just pasting over the cracks, a shoddy repair job on something that, perhaps, couldn’t be repaired.
The song ended; they went home; they made love, her with eyes tightly closed, gasping and loving and hating each burst of pleasure—another score against her, as she lay in her fiancé’s arms, listening to his sleep-heavy breath, and wondered what would change. If anything ever would.
====
twenty-seven
Autumn turned to winter turned to spring, and yet the cold stayed, seeped into her bones; outside, relentless rain, something which seemed to match her state of mind. And she sat across from Ed at the kitchen table, tears running down her cheeks like the rain that fell against the window, as he told her—so gently, so sweetly, that you almost wouldn’t know it was his heart that was breaking—that he didn’t think she wanted to get married after all, and that maybe they should face up to that fact sooner rather than later, when it would be too costly, monetarily and emotionally, to do anything about it.
“I know you love me,” he said, his hand on hers. “I know you do. But…”
She looked at him, an outline of a man she loved blurred with tears, and found she had never hated herself more than she did at that moment. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He nodded, and leaned forward, dotting a gentle kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay,” he said, voice soft, but breaking, breaking to pieces and they both knew it. “I understand.”
She wished that she did.
He moved out of the flat that night, her ring tucked away in his pocket. She looked around at the empty spaces he’d left behind and felt that she had gone back in time—heartbroken, bereft, grieving again. But this was worse, somehow; compounded by guilt, and the sense that she had had it all, and she couldn’t keep it in her grip, twice over.
She took a leave of absence from work; she shut herself away, and waited for it to start to make some kind of sense.
====
It was Remus who broke her out of herself. He arrived—by the door, not the Floo, ever the respectful friend—one evening, saw her bare hand and the bare patches in the space around her, and enveloped her in a hug that she wasn’t sure she deserved. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, something he’d said to her so many times over the years; something that shouldn’t have been comforting, and yet, strangely, still was. “I’m so sorry, Lil…”
She cried, and they drank wine, and the whole sad story came tumbling out of her: how she felt like she was in love with two men; how grief had left her feeling like an incomplete person; how she hated herself more with each passing day, knowing that she had hurt, so deeply, two of the most wonderful men she’d ever known.
“You didn’t set out to hurt anyone,” he reminded her, a looseness in his gestures eased there by the alcohol. “You were hurting, too.”
She drew in a breath that seemed to rattle in her chest. “I feel lost, Rem.” She tipped her head back, letting it sink into the cushioned sofa. Closed her eyes. “I am lost.”
He took her hand, and they sat there a while; outside, the rain was starting to ease. When he left, he hugged her again, and she brushed yet more tears from her eyes.
“You’ll be okay,” he promised quietly. And she wanted to believe him.
====
Another Tuesday, sunny, at least, not that much of the daylight reached inside the hospital. There was a space on the top floor with a domed skylight, a space she’d been drawn to lately—less chance of bumping into Ed, with his kind, sad eyes—because up there, it was a different quality of quiet, nothing but the whitewashed walls and the stretch of sky through the glass.
She clutched a mug of coffee, a bid to stay alert, as she climbed the last few stairs to the top floor; coffee that almost spilled when she stopped short, because there ahead of her, sitting on the bench she usually sat on, was James.
His head was tilted back, his gaze following the meandering path of the few clouds that studded the blue sky. He looked relaxed, an ease in his shoulders that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. Which—she couldn’t even remember when it had been. Another reason to feel guilty.
She moved forward, and he glanced round, surprised to hear footsteps and even more surprised, it seemed, to see her. He gave her a smile that was uninhibited, at first, anyway; then, as if remembering himself, it became more guarded. He sat up a little. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she echoed. She paused. “I’ve never seen anyone else up here before.”
He raised his eyebrows, a familiar grin tugging at his reserve. “I’m up here all the time, Evans.”
She hesitated, then moved to sit at the other end of the bench; he watched her movements, and looked away once she was settled. “All the time?”
“I usually have a break in between treatments,” he explained, lifting his arm to show a flash of the purple wristband there—the memory ward. “They don’t want to overwhelm my head.”
“Surely that doesn’t give them much scope,” she said, and then froze, because when was the last time they joked together?
He just laughed. “That’s what Sirius said, too.” He shook his head. “Nothing like the support of your friends.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “How’s it all going?” she asked. “The treatment, I mean.”
“I’ve recovered quite a lot of memories,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Some…I’d rather not remember, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.” He shot her a glance. “Most of the picture is there, now, of my time…away.”
She was sure that he would be able to hear the erratic beat of her heart; be able to see the way her hands trembled, even just at the mention of those seven long years. “Obliviate?”
Another nod. “It seems that, until the end of the war, I was…” He trailed off, looking for the right words. “Evidently I had my uses. And then—they removed my memories, and they just…kept me there.” He shifted in his seat, his discomfort clear. “I don’t remember as much of that period. I think probably, there’s not as much to remember. Then, there was a Ministry raid planned; they found out about it, and decided they’d get in more trouble if Aurors found a wizard chained up in the cellar, so…one last obliviate, and they shoved me through the Floo to Dumbledore.”
She wished she knew what to say. All she could think was that he’d been out there, the whole time, and she’d left him—not searched, high and low, every inch of the country until she’d found him. Like he would have done, for her.
He seemed to sense the direction her thoughts were going. “They made it impossible for me to be found,” he said. “Sirius spent a long time beating himself up over it, but…there wasn’t anything any of you could have done.”
She tilted her head back, staring up at the sky and blinking away the familiar build-up of tears. “I’m still sorry,” she said, so softly that her words might have just floated away with the clouds.
“So am I,” he offered quietly, and she looked over at him then. “Aren’t we all? And what good does it do us?”
A sad sort of smile, then, and she gave herself a moment to lift her mug to her lips—a sip of coffee, to calm her nerves. His gaze caught on her hand, and for a second she wasn’t sure why. Then, it hit her; the lack of a ring, the odd lightness of her fingers these past five months or so. The look on his face told her that Remus—kind, protective Remus, a friend through and through—hadn’t told James the news. He looked shell-shocked, even if it was just a flash of it, before his features rearranged themselves into something more neutral.
She had to say something, but words felt useless, no way to express whatever tangled feeling resided in the pit of her stomach. “How much longer will you be having the treatments?”
“A few more months,” he replied; they were both experts, it would seem, in not addressing the elephant in the room. “They say I’m making good progress, but they don’t want to rush anything.” He smiled, a wry thing that made his eyes twinkle. “Don’t want to mess up my brain any more than it already is, I think.”
She’d finished her coffee; she needed to get back to her patients. As she stood up, it felt like she was tearing herself away from the first sense of peace she’d felt in a long time. “Well,” she said, and he held her gaze easily. “Maybe I’ll see you up here again, then.”
“Maybe you will,” he agreed.
And they did.
====
New Year’s Eve, the cluster of them in Sirius’ garden; mugs of hot chocolate, or hot cider, or mulled wine, all spiked liberally with firewhiskey because, in Sirius’ words, “what’s the point otherwise?” From there, they could see the fireworks lighting up the sky across the city, and she found she didn’t even mind the cold, because her plastic folding chair was close to James’, his knee was pressed against hers, and it all felt like being free. Being alive.
“Look!” He grabbed her hand, pointing up to the sky to the south: a burst of colour, light raining down on the familiar silhouette of St Paul’s. “Maybe they don’t turn into dancing dragons or a fleet of broomsticks, but muggles do still know how to do fireworks.”
She laughed, a breathless sort of sound. “This is going to be a long night,” she teased.
He shot her a grin, a knowing look that managed to make her toes curl, her whole body warm even in the frigid night air. “I can still possess a boy-like wonder, you know,” he told her, “when I see something beautiful.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, trying to tamp down her smile—failing, happily. “I fully support your boy-like wonder.”
At some point, Sirius dragged his record player to the open window of his living room—a convenient excuse for him to wrap his arms around Mary, who accepted his embrace with enthusiasm, her fingers slipping into the long dark locks of his hair as they danced around the patio to The Smiths and The Cure.
It was closer to midnight when James reached out for her hand, drew her up out of her seat. With or Without You was playing, Mary buried in Sirius’ arms, both long lost to the other’s lips; Remus and Emmeline were deep in quiet conversation on the back steps, and she noticed his gaze drift briefly to track their movement as James led her to the patio, and then close up against the warmth of his body.
Maybe it was like no time had passed at all; maybe they both felt the expanse of the years that had vanished, but crossed that chasm together, anyway, because what was the alternative? His hand found its place at her waist, and her arms slipped round his neck like they were made to be there, a soft symphony of movement. At first, they couldn’t seem to look each other in the eye: too much, all at once. Then, his finger found her chin; gently, he lifted her gaze to his, and she saw something there that she knew must have been a reflection of her own eyes—awe, and the steady, pulsing sort of love that had never gone away, had just had to take new forms for a while, shifting and reshaping as the world changed around them.
“I know I didn’t remember much,” he murmured, only just audible over the music; she leaned in even closer, if it were possible, desperate to catch each word, to collect it, store it deep inside. “But I always remembered you.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and her breath stilled as he brushed it away, all tender care, an ocean of unsaid words in one simple touch. “I could never forget you,” she whispered. “James—”
He shook his head. “Don’t say sorry,” he told her, that gentleness enough to make her want to cry all over again. “You don’t need to say sorry, Lil.”
It was like a dream, a dream she’d had so many times: to be there, back in his arms, to be the subject of his stare, the heat of his body against hers, the electricity a constant force between them. And, just like in the dreams, he lowered his face to hers—but, she didn’t wake up, because she was already awake, this was real, and his lips brushed against hers, a sensation she’d never let go of, not in all the long years that had passed since she last felt it. She was crying, again, here in his arms, but not from grief, or pain, or hopelessness: it was the surprise, in her, at how right it felt, at the love that was communicated with every slant of his lips; warmth, there, radiating from deep inside.
More fireworks erupted, closer to the garden this time, and they pulled apart just a little to both tilt their heads up, to catch the sight of golden streaks across the inky sky. Then she was aware that his gaze had returned to her, and she met his eyes, her hand lingering at his jaw. “Boy-like wonder at something beautiful,” he murmured, and kissed her again—kissed away any lingering tears, kissed away the darkness that had been clustered there around her heart—kissed her until she saw stars, fireworks of their own behind her eyelids.
A new year, then.