I’m So Afraid I Sealed My Fate (Even Statues Crumble If They’re Made to Wait)

Ras Elased Australis

(The Scythe)

An asterism of the Lion; the southern star of the Lion’s head.

Symbolizes endings, the reaping of what has been sown and death stalking quietly. 

Those who stray low may escape the harvest’s blade.

It’s a warm night—too warm for the beginning of October in Scotland, Lily decides. Almost uncomfortably so. 

She looks up to the dark sky, brow crinkling in confusion when she’s met with no stars. Instead, she sees a solid sheet of dull grey hanging above her. Smattered with heavy clouds concealing the moon behind a shroud of fog. 

She glances down next, surprised to find a navy blue dress brushing softly above her knees, a matching cardigan hanging off loosely one shoulder. Her fingers brush the old and familiar knitted thing—soft and warm, with silver stars embroidered at the elbows and small delicate moons stitched onto the pockets. Her chest tightens—she doesn’t remember putting it on. She loved it once, though and yet her stomach turns at the feeling of it against her skin. Briefly, part of her brain contends with the idea that for whatever reason she’s sworn the cardigan all together. 

Her silver flats—ones she’s expertly matched to the ribbon in her hair—pad against the pavement as her feet carry her by their own volition. It’s as if something’s pulling her along, some silent force guiding her. 

“Good evening, Lily.” A voice calls from nearby. 

She turns, eyes scanning over dead grass and crumbling pathways to see Mrs. Hollis—a kind old woman who lived next door to her back in Cokeworth.

A jolt of confusion surges through her, both at the yellow decaying lawn and the sight of a woman she once knew. 

Hogwarts is so green, so lively, and Mrs. Hollis—is she a witch too? 

“Good evening.” Lily calls back politely, her mouth out of sync with her body. 

A chill dances up her spine, the world around her is so familiar but warped. Like she’s watching through a fogged window, like her body is untethered, floating down a road it remembers, but one her mind has long forgotten. 

She stops—though it doesn’t feel like it is her doing—as she feels the small patter of rain against her skin. 

It sets her in motion faster. Each step just constricts her chest more and more. 

Despite Lily’s confusion and uncertainty, something about this all feels so familiar. Like she has lived it before, despite not knowing what it is. 

It’s different from the feelings she has around James—it’s not so otherworldly or promising, it feels dark and oppressing. Like she’s teetering on the edge of something awful. Like walking on the edge of a cliff, knowing she’s about to fall and it is powerless to stop it. 

Something terribly inevitable. 

As her legs begin to pump her forward the sudden movement causes something to continuously knock into her hip. She just now notices the canvas bag slung over her shoulder. It’s heavy and full at her side, when she looks down she can make out green leafy stems of vibrant orange carrots poking out the top, a bundle of green beans, a fat white onion and a few potatoes. Her eyes catch the bottom, a large chunk of marbled red bleeding meat. 

Prime rib—Lily realizes suddenly—bloody and dripping. 

But Lily hates meat. She detests the taste and it’s expensive—too expensive for her family to waste money on. And if that wasn’t enough cause for confusion, Lily’s Mum was adamant on keeping her father off high cholesterol foods, stating he has enough health issues as is. 

In fact, the only time Lily can ever recall it being served at her house was the first time Petunia ever brought Vernon over. She begged their mother for a week to make a prime rib roast, saying it was his favorite. 

Lily’s curiosity soon dwindles when she notices her silver flats clicking up old and crumbling stone steps. 

Looking up, she sees it. Small and old. Thin windows with peeling paint. Shingles astray on the roof. Gutter crooked. 

But this was her house—this was home. 

She doesn’t remember getting here or why she’s even here but she squashes that down as overwhelming happiness floods her veins at the sight of the old thing. 

A dream, she postures. The past five months have been nothing but a dream. 

It makes sense honestly. Witches and wizards. Magic wands and floating trays of food. A hidden castle in the Highlands with babbling portraits and little elves—James. 

She had conjured up the entire thing in her mind as a means of escape from her rather drab and monotonous life Cokeworth. 

It was a nice fantasy for a bit and reality may be cruel—but it’s hers and god has she missed her parents. 

Her Mum’s perfume wafting in the hallway. Her father’s favorite coffee lingering in the kitchen. She missed every single part of them. 

Pushing open her front door with a newfound giddiness, it soon falters when she’s meant by a dark entryway.

It’s dark. Too dark. Her parents always leave a light on for her, they always try to stay up no matter how late Lily’s shift at the pharmacy runs. A quiet, small, but meaningful gesture, that they’re thinking of her. 

And maybe it’s because her sight is dulled so her other senses kick into high gear but she can just barely make out the faint noise of the telly—the news, based on the sound. Her father hates the news, says he lives in Cokeworth he doesn’t need to know just how bleak the world can be. He always turns it off after his trivia show on weeknights and he always flicks the channel before it can even start. 

Her first thought is maybe he fell asleep watching it, it wouldn’t be the first time. But she knows her Mum would never leave him downstairs on his own, he needs help using the chair lift and she wouldn’t have left him to head to bed. 

Maybe she fell asleep too? 

Something uneasy and cold curls up her spine, but she pushes it away. 

“Mum? Dad?” Lily calls out, voice small and trembling as she slips off her metallic flats, leaving her in pristine white socks. Dainty and bright with lace bunting and little bows on them. 

Slowly, she pads toward the sitting room and again—maybe her vision is dull. Maybe she’s on high alert because something just is not sitting right, but she sniffs once, twice. 

The air smells odd. A tangy odor fills her nostrils, something a little sweet mixed with what Lily can only associate with coppery—similar to old bits of pence you find rusted beneath the furniture. 

She walks down the corridor, which suddenly feels too stretched for her little house. She can barely make the ominous glow of the television when her foot lands in something wet. 

It’s thick, almost syrupy and congealed, coloring her white socks a deep shade she can’t quite make out in the darkness. 

She ignores it and keeps walking. 

Her heart stops when she reaches the sitting room. 

She suddenly knows what this is. She’s seen this before. She’s been here—she’s lived it. 

And just like the first time and all the other times her brain has tortured her with this moment she feels nothing. 

Her knees hit the wood with a harsh thunk, her porcelain skin becoming wet and soaked and sticky and stained. Her hands are red as she begins to crawl around. Her throat is straining before it rips with a sob. Guttural and ear piercing screams pass her lips. 

She is alone.

The world crumbles beneath her feet leaving her adrift in a sea of red. It’s drowning her. Warm, vicious and suffocating. It’s everywhere—filling her nose, her ears, her mouth, as she chokes on it. As her lungs burn she almost wishes it would take her, like it’s taken everything else. To finally free her from the pain. 

But then she hears it, a voice, far off and muffled, piercing through the liquid flooding her ears, it calls her name, faint and desperate.

“Lily!” it yells. 

It’s barely evident over her own screams. Mouth opened wide and filling with liquid until it pools in her lungs making them heavy and cumbersome as she sinks deeper and deeper. 

“Lily!” It shouts again, closer than before. 

Her body begins to tremble and then shake roughly. 

Back and forth back and forth. 

The world begins to slip away, the scarlet washing into shades of darkness. Of blacks and whites and a beacon of light twinged blue. 

Color begins to flood her senses vivid and sharp. She looks around for the red—and there is none. Yet, she keeps scratching at her skin, rubbing her arms and hands raw. But her hands stay dry. Her fingers clean. 

“Lily, please.” 

She blinks a few more times, the world becoming a bit clearer through her blur of tears. Though, it’s hard to focus over the shrill sound echoing off the walls. 

An awful scream—only when she clutches her palms to her ears and feels the strain of her jaw and the rattle of her brain does she realize it’s coming from her. 

It dies off into something strangled and garbled leaving her throat feeling utterly torn and destroyed. Her hands fly to her neck next, worried the tendons may have snapped at the force behind her wails. 

“Lily.”

It’s Minerva’s voice, so gentle and familiar. She’s sitting beside Lily, eyes wide, her long and thick grey hair is woven into a braid. Gone are her usual stiff robes and tall hat. Instead, she’s wrapped in a forest green cardigan, concealing a long nightgown printed with tiny sweeping dandelions. 

“It is alright, dear, you’re okay.” Her soft weathered hand reaches to push some of the hair matted to Lily’s forehead back. 

Lily goes to respond—say anything—but her mouth still feels garbled and choked with thick liquid, her throat like sandpaper and stuffed with cotton. 

“Breathe, Lily, please.” McGonagall says next, moving her hand to press to Lily’s heart as it beats frantically against her palm. 

Lily’s own hand lifts, shaking and trembling as it presses against her chest. She can feel her rib cage rattling and crashing against the graze of her fingers. Her heart beats faster than prey when it hears a gunshot ring through a still forest. 

Through the hammering and the shaking, just barely can she feel the coolness of the gold chain laying on her collarbone. It quells the heat rushing through her body, slows the stuttering of her heart and the skips of her breath. Her fingers stop rubbing away the invisible reminders she feels on her skin, ones she feels imprinted in her soul but no longer bared to the outside world. 

Lily’s eyes flicker across the darkened room, illuminated by the tip of McGonagall's wand but even through the blur of tears and dim lighting does she see Anastasia and Delilah exchanging whispers from nearby and Dorcas across the room standing rigidly and looking shaken. 

“Come now, dear,” Minerva murmuring, tone sharpening as she shoots a stern look to the pair lingering beside Lily’s bed. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet.” She finishes softly. 

Minerva gently guides her up as Lily’s own legs shake and nearly give out beneath her weight. The older woman’s firm but guiding hand keeps her upright, leading her out of the dormitory.

She feels like she’s floating as they go down the stairs, like one of the ghosts that haunts the castle. It isn’t until her foot catches against the open portrait hole and the chill from the long stretch of the corridor hits her does her body begin to feel like her own again, but in the worst kind of way. 

Her limbs feel heavy, like someone’s tied anvils to her feet and is asking her to sprint. Each step is a challenge and her head pounds, feeling as if her skull is knocking against her skin and begging to jump out of her body. She opens and closes her hands into fists as they begin to feel sticky once again.

The sensation spreads, crawling over her spine, dancing down her neck, her face, her legs. She stops moving, then—it was too hard, anyway—and begins wringing her hands together ferociously, trying to chase away the feeling. 

Anxiety surges through her and suddenly. It feels like her knees are still scratching against her old hardwood floors and she’s being carried away somewhere she doesn’t want to go.

“Not the Hospital Wing, please don’t take me there, I can’t. Please. Please, don’t—” she pleads with McGonagall, the thought alone more suffocating than her nightmares.

Strong hands clasp over hers, stilling her frantic movements. McGonagall, who has a few inches on Lily ducks her head to catch her glassy emerald eyes. 

“No Hospital Wing. I promise.” 

And even in her haze, Lily doesn’t doubt that she’s telling the truth because Minerva is the only one who knows.

She leads her down the long expanse of corridor, up a winding staircase, she’s leading her god knows where, but at least Lily’s steps begin to become lighter. Less of a struggle once she realizes it’s nowhere near the Hospital Wing. Eventually, she recognizes the door she opens as the one to her office, she watches as her professor mummers a few unrecognizable words and swishes her wand. The stones begin to protrude and rearrange into some sort of archway and had Lily not been so shaken, she would have marveled at such a thing. 

With a gentle and encouraging nod, Lily follows behind Minerva. She’s greeted by a clean but homey space. Books lining dark mahogany shelves, a velvet green couch facing a gaping fireplace. 

Something soft brushes Lily’s bare shins, she jumps in surprise but the feeling is a welcome contrast to the sensation of something disgusting coating her skin. She looks down to find Mim—McGonagall’s beloved grey tabby cat that became quite fond of Lily when she was staying at her house over the summer. 

Lily bends down, gently scratching between her ears as she purrs in pleasure. She continues this way for how long—she can’t say. Eventually, she ends up crisscrossed on the floor, focusing solely on the kitty, her slanted golden eyes and swishing tail muting the horrors swimming in Lily’s own head. 

In fact, she’s so lost in her own world, she doesn’t hear the incantation being spoken beside her as the green velvet couch transforms itself into a full sized bed, packed to the brim with lush pillows, downy sheets and a plush comforter. 

“Lily,” Minerva calls to her, “it’s late, dear, you have lessons in the morning. Try to rest, please?” 

Lily nods, standing on shaking legs as she finally notices the bed, sending her a grateful smile at the gesture. “Could I use the loo before?” She asks quietly. 

McGonagall points to one of the doors off the small, warmly lit kitchenette, with a solemn smile. Lily thanks her quietly and shuffles toward the door. 

It’s dark when she gets in there as her hand deftly reaches for the light switch, only to be meant by the small grooves in the embossed wallpaper. With a sigh, she pulls out her wand and with a shaky breath, casts a lumos charm, something she’s not quite used to still. 

She’s able to prop it against the porcelain sink, casting a glow around the mirror. Lily leans forward and holds up her palms to it, just to be sure her mind isn’t playing tricks. 

Her hands are clean, porcelain, pristine and untouched. She blinks a few times to be sure, even runs them under the water. 

“Lily?” Minerva calls through the door. 

She sighs, grabs her wand and shoves it into her waistband before whispering a “nox,” she tucks her hands back to her side and nudges open the door. 

When she walks back into the comfort of the unfamiliar space, she finds McGonagall seated on the bed beside Mim—who is nestled herself amongst the pillows and falling to the dredges of sleep. 

“Mim here will keep you company, if you need anything I’ll just be in the next room, alright?” The old woman says gently, moving to pull the comforter back. 

Lily slips beneath the covers and nods as her head hits the silky pillow, “thank you.” She says hoarsely. The sentiment carries more weight than a simple thanks for tucking her in. 

“Always, dear.” She says, pushing some of Lily’s hair back with a sad kind of smile before she rises from the mattress and starts to what Lily assumes is her own bedroom. 

Deftly, she reaches her fingers to stroke Mim’s fur beside her, the company a comfort and distraction from the tingling of her fingers. 

Her mind remains a storm—as if every time she closes her eyes she’s back on that winding road, groceries slung over her shoulder, metallic flats clicking as she walks. 

She can still feel her hand on the cool brass door knob, she can hear the creaking of the hinges of the rusty door her father swore to fix before his accident. 

She can still smell the tang in the air. 

Sees the glow from the television reflect red—everywhere. 

She pulls the chain from beneath her cotton t-shirt, as her fingers squeeze the pair of golden bands as if willing them to bring her the comfort she wants. The presence of the owners she so desperately craves. 

But the exhaustion begins to creep in, her body winning the battle against her thoughts, offering what she hopes is a bit of peace or at the very least, a dull, dreamless sleep. 

She presses her hands beneath her cheeks as tears silently dribble down her fingertips. The sensation is startling, just enough for her to peel back her heavy eyelids to look down at them. And before sleep finally sweeps over her, she swears in the darkness, the moon above casts a faint glow on her hands. But they’re not glistening with crystal tears—instead, she sees red, vivid and bright liquid dripping down her hands. Blood staining her palms. 

James slept terribly the night before, though he can’t quite figure out why. It was the strangest thing, really—he kept having this dream of him in an unfamiliar place, walking up and down cobblestone roads looking for something. 

He could feel, deep within his bones, that he was searching for things unknown to him but the tug in his gut was screaming to give up. Something about it—even in sleep—felt deeply unsettling, having roused James multiple times throughout the night. 

The sky above him was vast and dreary. The air suffocating and thick—foul tasting and tinged with something metallic. And yet, he kept moving, each step echoing loudly against the still air. 

His body screamed at him—turn around. Go back. Like, whatever he was searching for wasn’t meant to be found. 

But he kept going, peering at broken houses, ducking into dark alleys. A cold prickling sensation danced up his spine, goosebumps rippled across his skin with each step. 

The dread was all consuming, wrapping around him like dark plumes of smoke. Squeezing him tight and making it harder to breathe as he faced the endless row of unfamiliar houses. 

They were unrecognizable. Dreary and hollow. Something within them felt deeply haunted. Wrong, even. Like he was walking through a life that wasn’t his own, a corrupted and distorted memory. 

He knew he was looking for something—someone—but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what. But he knew this was wrong, all of it. The way the shadows stretched too long, the darkness curling around his ankles and tugging him along. 

It jolted him awake, time and time again. Leaving him restless, trying to shake the feeling, but it just wouldn’t leave. Like it was clinging to his very soul. 

He tried to go back to sleep, but each time, he was back on the crumbling stones, searching for something he’d never find. 

And each time, he’d wake up again, heart racing, skin prickling. Half expecting to find something stained against his skin, something slick and warm and reflecting the palpable dread. 

Eventually, he gave up on sleep, clutching his wand as the tip lit with a soft glow as he skimmed the comic Peter had lent him, something to fill the void until Pride and Prejudice arrived. 

He was excited to read it—a notion he can practically hear Sirius cackling about in the dredges of his mind. He knew it wasn’t so much the idea of the novel itself. He doesn’t find the prospect of courting and love matches particularly interesting but the way Lily’s eyes lit up as she spoke about it was surely a feeling he’d gladly chase for the rest of his days. 

He thinks of her as he lays awake, the way her emerald eyes glittered beneath the vast and endless curtain of stars. The way her skin felt beneath his own, warm and otherworldly. 

He falls asleep, thinking of her. A common occurrence he hasn’t been able to shake since they first met. 

However, not even waves of auburn and beautiful doe-like eyes can divert his unconscious mind to happier thoughts. Because he’s still wandering the dark road. Looking at each dull and drab house for something. 

It feels like time is working against him but in what way—he doesn’t understand. He just feels this heavy, oppressing feeling that something awful is swirling in the bleak and balmy air of his dreamscape. 

“Prongs.” He hears as the cobblestone road fades away and his chest feels a little lighter. 

“James.” It’s Sirius’ voice he knows. 

Slowly, he peels his eyes back, the tossing and turning he did all night evident as purple bags hang beneath them. “What is it?” He croaks, wandering why his mate would be waking him, knowing how much Sirius values his rest. 

His eyes flicker to James’ palms. “You were wringing your hands together like mad, like you were trying to get rid of something. Are you okay?” 

Only when he speaks does James feel his hands rubbing against each other, warm with the continuous friction. He stills then, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose to look down at his palms. 

Nothing. 

He shakes his head, hoping to get rid of the dredges of the dream that still cling to his brain in his morning fog. 

“‘M fine,” he mumbles, “weird dream is all.”

“Alright.” Sirius relents, though his grey eyes linger for a moment. “Up and at ‘em then. I’ve gotta eat soon or I’ll combust. I’m a growing boy, you know.” He grins, his usual lightness returning and easing anxieties James didn’t know he had. 

James lets out a shaky laugh, the sound rough with sleep and a bit hollow. But it begins to ground him back to reality and ease the shadows still looming. With a shaking breath, he pushes back his covers and wills away any thoughts of cobblestones for the rest of the day. 

Once he’s dressed haphazardly in his uniform, having neither the energy or patience to do up his tie properly, he loosely knots the thing around his neck, precariously leaving his top buttons undone and uncaring for his rumpled pants. He just hopes McGonagall won’t notice that he couldn’t be bothered with those stuffy dress shoes today, opting for his converse through his exhaustion. 

He walks to the Great Hall, laces nearly undone. Just barely making out the muffled bickering of Sirius and Peter from beside him. 

“—Sirius I told you a hundred times, I wasn’t farting, I had a bad dream!” James hears Peter’s voice float in exasperatedly as they open the large double doors. 

“Whatever you say, mate. I know what I heard. And smelt.” Sirius retorted. 

And James, who was too tired to pay them any mind, began toward their usual bench, hoping some food might give him so much needed energy. They sit down in relative silence as they begin grabbing at the floating trays and piling their plates high. And with some sustenance in him, James’ mind begins to feel a bit clearer. His eyes become less heavy and oddly enough–his hands don’t feel slick anymore. 

With the lifting of his exhaustion, he realizes suddenly someone’s missing. “No Moony?” James asks between bites of eggs. Remus normally joined them before Transfiguration. 

“Probably with Evans, I reckon.” Peter says casually around a mouthful of toast. “He waits for her after Charms.” He adds. 

And James—who is anything but casual about Lily—knows for a fact that Charms lessons don’t run on Thursdays. 

Something like unease begins to flare within his chest for reasons not known to him. 

And it seems like it hasn’t gone unnoticed by Sirius either, who's grinning from across the table. “Something to say about Sweet Lily, Prongs?” He asks knowingly. 

And before James can do something stupid like recite Lily’s schedule and find himself at the end of Sirius’ teasing for the rest of breakfast, a shrill voice chimes in from beside them.  

“Oh it’s just awful about Lily, isn’t it?” Delilah Abernathy inquires, voice smug and dripping with faux concern. 

James feels his heart drop to his shoes. 

“What is?” He asks too tensely and too quickly as he leans toward her. He’s so transparent but can’t find it within himself to care. 

Delilah, who looks far too pleased with herself at gathering James’ attention, slides closer. 

She was a notorious flirt, but also notoriously awful. James is convinced all she knows how to do is gossip and he thinks she may be the only person he’s ever met who admired Rita Skeeter, of all people. 

She is also mildly obsessed with James and absolutely keens at any attention he gives to her—though minimal. 

James once made the terrible mistake back in fifth year of letting her kiss him during a drunken game of spin the bottle after a big Quidditch win and ever since she’s stared at him like a prized piece of meat. He knew he would regret even entertaining whatever she had to say, but this was Lily. 

“Last night, she woke up screaming bloody murder—she was inconsolable. Poor Dorcas was so frightened, ran and got McGonagall. She took Lily away and didn’t come back.” Delilah said, though there didn’t seem to be an ounce of sympathy in her tone. 

James felt his heart begin to gallop and pound against his ribs. 

“Is she still here? In the castle?” He asked urgently, already half standing from the bench. 

“Well, Amos told Mary who told Anastasia who told me that last they saw she was walking around Black Lake with Lupin.” She exclaimed before leaning closer. “They spend a lot of time together, the pair of them. Makes you wonder if—”

James leapt from his spot, effectively cutting her off, “thanks for the help.” He says dryly, voice distant. 

Delilah—clueless as ever—didn’t seem to sense the sarcasm and had the nerve to blush. “Of course, James.” She said with a giggle. 

He didn’t even hear her. Nor did he acknowledge Sirius calling after him as he walked swiftly front the Great Hall. 

He knew something was wrong—deep down, in his gut he just knew. 

That seems to happen a lot with Lily and perhaps if his heart wasn’t aching for her, it might’ve fluttered at the thought that perhaps they may be connected in some way. 

Lily walked silently around the lake. The air was cold and biting, but she had left her cloak behind, welcoming the feeling. It helped ground her, just the slightest bit. She would opt for the cold over the phantom feeling of blood dripping down her skin any day. 

Beside her was Remus, a quiet and steady presence. He had found her first thing this morning, a quiet concern striking his features. Lily soon deduced McGonagall had probably sent him—or it was her roommates, who were likely still whispering about what happened, that sent Remus on his path. 

He didn’t push her to speak about it, hadn’t even mentioned it, or tried to ask questions, something she was immensely grateful for. Instead, with a gentle voice he asked if she wanted to go outside, simply stating fresh air always helps him. And with a hesitant nod she followed him outside. 

She swallowed with difficulty as they began on a stone path Remus had quietly started leading down. McGonagall had offered a cooling charm for her throat this morning, her voice hoarse from screaming the night before. But she declined. 

A sick and twisted part of her likes the pain. Likes the constant physical reminder of all that she’s lost and the ways it still haunts her, in more ways than one. A reminder of who she once was. Who she’s become now. 

It’s why when she opened her small intricately carved wooden box this morning, the bright ribbons mocked her. The array of soft pastels and vibrant shades laughing at her somber mood. 

Her hands still shake from when she wove the black silk into her red hair this morning. A deep contrast from its vibrancy. Something she’s strayed from since the last time she wore it. 

Today, it felt like her only option. 

Lost in her thoughts, she just then notices Remus is leading her to Hagrid’s—the gamekeepers—hut. Leading her toward an open area before Remus lets out a low and well practiced whistle. 

Distantly, she sees a small black blob bounding toward them with an excited yip. As it comes closer Lily notices its big paws and drooping face. Its tongue sticks out in small pants as the dog jumps on his hind legs and begins licking at Remus, who just laughs and pats its large head. 

“This is Fang.” Remus introduces with a grin, ruffling the boarhound’s ears as he speaks. “He’s Hagrid’s. Sit, boy.” Dutifully, Fang does as Remus says, almost submissive to him in some ways, but with a kind of quiet respect Lily has only seen amongst animals. 

Remus crouches, scratching his ears and avoiding Lily’s gaze as he speaks. “The animals—they always calm me after a rough night.” He says gently, the first acknowledgment of what happened. 

Lily’s head snaps to his, expecting to see pity, but she’s shocked to find a withdrawn, silent understanding across his face. The pink scars etched against his skin somehow look deeper as he speaks. 

“I get them too.” He whispers softly. 

And Remus has no idea what haunts Lily. What shadows may plague her in sleep and cling to her waking brain. 

He may not be awoken by his own desperate and chilling screams, but he heard her own. Breaking the dredges of his own sleep and picked up by his wolfish ears. And even so far away, there was an undeniable and raw agony behind the sound.

His own nightmares have gotten better overtime, only now syncing on nights before full moons. When he wakes with a cold sweat clinging to his brow and terrible images of razor sharp teeth ripping into a stag, a dog and a rat like it’s nothing. Until they are nothing but bloodied prey at his feet. 

It’s on those nights his fear is just as strong as he feels Lily’s to be right now. 

“Thank you.” Lily says quietly and sincerely, taken aback and appreciative of his vulnerability. 

She knows how hard it can be. 

Quietly, she kneels beside Remus and sticks her hand out for Fang to sniff. After a moment, he calms and nuzzles against her palm affectionately, an invitation as she strokes his soft fur. A gesture that begins to dull the memories, even just for a little while.  

They stay like that for a while, kneeling in the dirt, petting the massive dog as he contentedly rolls onto his back, legs kicked up happily as he groans for more pets. The simplicity of it all helps her breathe a little easier. 

“Alright, buddy, you’ve had enough.” Remus says with a small smile before turning to Lily. “Just through the forest, there should be some bowtruckles, if you wanted to see?” 

“That would be nice.” She says back, grateful for the distraction. 

Remus moves with a practiced kind of precision into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. He seems unafraid and all knowing as he guides her over twisted roots and fallen branches. There’s a quiet kind of confidence as he navigates them through the thick waves of trees. 

“You know Lily,” he begins softly, “I’m not here as Head Boy or even a fellow Gryffindor. I’m here as your friend. As someone who understands.” 

She stops then, digging her maryjane's into the dirt as she bites her lip. “Understand what?” She asks, voice scratchy and tense. 

Remus sighs, turning to meet her empty eyes, so dull and distant. “How it feels to be in a room with dozens of people—even people who love and care for you—and still feel utterly and entirely alone.” He admitted with an unguarded vulnerability. “I see the look, Lily. It’s the same one I see in myself.” 

And it would be easier—smarter, perhaps—to be offended. Storm off in upheaval, accuse him of not having clue what he’s talking about, about what she’s been through. 

But he’s right. And as Lily stands in the quiet forest and looks into Remus’ golden eyes, it’s like looking into a mirror. 

A tear dribbles down her cheek before she can save it from falling. She’s surprised to find she doesn’t feel embarrassed, instead she feels like maybe here, in this forest, with someone who understands she can feel everything she’s been pushing away. 

Before Remus can speak, there’s a rustling from nearby. The sound of a twig snapping and the patter of something across the otherwise still earth. 

His eyes snap in the direction of the sound easily, suddenly on guard and Lily feeling his presence more than she ever has. Something about him is strong, but dangerous, so unlike the soft openness she’s come to expect from him. Through the blur of Lily’s tears, she makes out a small figure, fumbling on legs that seem entirely too big for its small body. When it steps into the sunlight, it’s unlike anything she’s ever seen.

Fragile. Beautiful. Hauntingly so. 

It’s one of those moments that makes her believe in something greater, in the magic she’s said to possess, because only of magic could something so ethereal be born.

She steps past Remus, who quietly calls after her and seems to still be looking around for any sign of danger. But Lily has a hard time believing such a small creature could be the cause of such alarm. 

She falls to her knees in front of it, not caring if the dirt is staining her socks. 

“Lily, what are you doing?” Remus whispers urgently, voice low and cautious. 

She ignores him, instead offering a hand for the small creature to sniff. 

Its snout wiggles and huffs against her palm before it drops its head and presses its cheek to her smooth skin. A small smile graces her lips at the warmth and fragility of the thing. It’s bones jabbing and jutting against its thin and leathery grey skin. But its wings—thin and gossamer dancing beneath the streaks of golden sun, makes it look otherworldly. 

It whinnies gently beneath her touch and a laugh bubbles past her lips at the horse-like creature's innocence and yearning for attention. She turns to Remus, who still looks alarmed and confused. Though she barely notices, too enamored by the little creature keeling its hooves at her knees. 

“What’s this one, Remus?” She asks softly, as not to startle it. 

His face drops then into something darker. “What’s what, Lily?” He asks, stepping closer, poorly concealing his panic. 

She frowns, shifting her weight to her heels so he can see its small body fully. She pats its head gently and raises her eyebrows as if to say, see?

He shakes his head slowly, a frown slipping onto his face. “Lily,” he starts carefully, holding his hands up like he’s approaching a frightened animal. “There’s nothing there.” 

Lily’s own lips pull into a frown then, not appreciating whatever he was getting at. “Yes, Remus,” she begins, frustrated, standing slowly, and pointing to the creature. “The little grey horse with wings.” She states with an eye roll and cross of her arms. 

Lily watches as Remus looks thoughtfully at the spot, before he begins mumbling her words over and over. Lily briefly catches things like “horse,” and “wings,” as he begins to pace. 

He stops and looks at Lily for a long moment. But, not just at her—like he’s finally seeing her. 

Something washes over his face, realization strikes his eyes and he looks at Lily like he’s seeing her for the first time.  Remus is staring at her like he knows—like suddenly everything makes sense. 

The guarded look in her eyes, the way she’s so withdrawn into herself. How Lily has never once talked about her life before Hogwarts. 

There’s other things too—how she lived with McGonagall all summer, something Remus originally chalked up for easier access given the constant tutelage and catch-up. 

Flashes of Dumbledore’s words echo into his muddled mind, “a change of deed in her family’s home,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. 

“It’s a Thestral,” he says, voice shaking as he steps even closer. “I can’t see them.” 

Lily’s brow furrows at both his words and the sudden shift in the air. “Why can’t you see them?” 

She watches him swallow tightly, sorrow flashing in his eyes. The Thestral nudges into her knees again, desperate for her attention, but something is clearly gnawing at Remus and it’s begun to set her on edge too. 

“Remus?” She prods gently. 

“Only people who’ve seen death can.”

James circles the lake a least a dozen times, eyes frantically searching for the slightest glimpse of Lily. Something heavy and tight sits on his chest as he thinks of Delilah’s words, no matter how much she speculated one thing was abundantly clear—something was wrong. 

After a half hour his hope has dwindled and he’s about to call it quits when he realizes—he’s ten minutes late for Transfiguration. Under normal circumstances, this would be no wish for him, but it strikes him like a bludger, he has Transfiguration with Lily. 

Attentive, studious, six bloody OWLs, Lily. 

With a sudden rush he begins his way back to the castle, cursing himself the whole way there for such an oversight. He enters the classroom in a huff throwing a haphazard apology to McGonagall, who just rolls her eyes as he clambers toward his desk. However, he stops momentarily when he notices not one, but two empty seats. 

His heart clenches painfully at the reality of it. No Remus. No Lily—something is definitely wrong.

Panic flares, sharp and blinding, but he forces himself to breathe. To think, if even for a second. The small—just barely there—rational part of his brain is telling him that if something were really wrong McGonagall would’ve canceled lessons. Especially considering how much she seems to care for Lily. And if Remus is with her, like he thinks, he’ll take care of her and that means she hasn’t left the castle. 

It’s logical, sure, but does little to quell his anxiety. His legs are shaking, his palms sweating and his eyes are constantly darting to the door. Even Sirius asks if he’s okay because his stress is so palpable. 

He says he’s okay, but he’s not, not really. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s being stretched painfully and taut. His senses feel like they’re in overdrive. 

It’s about midway through the lesson that something shifts. It’s like there’s a string tied around the confines of his heart and he feels a pull toward the door in the very same moment McGonagall pauses in her teachings and glances in the same direction. He swivels in his chair before she even speaks, because there in the corridor—a flash of red hair and the familiar silhouette of his best friend’s lanky frame. 

“Read over the passage. I’ll be right back.” McGonagall says, voice deathly serious but with a small unease—a shake to it. 

Whispers break out as everyone begins speaking amongst themselves, but James’ eyes stay trained to the doorway. There’s a moment, small and quick, that he manages to catch Lily’s eyes just before the door shuts. 

She looks different. 

Her face pale, emerald eyes dulled to a lifeless mossy green. There are shadows hanging beneath them and they’re red-rimmed. Swollen, too. She looks like she’s seen a ghost or is about to become one herself. 

Sure, there’s always been that unexplainable something around her. The way her smile never quite meets her eyes, how her shoulders are always curled into herself like she’s invisible. There’s an undeniable air of something profoundly lonely.

He’s felt it before, in the corridor that first day and later walking to Ancient Runes. Even in the most tender of moments when they spoke of the stars—when she herself sounded so heart achingly broken at the thought of the sisters who ran their entire lives. 

That feeling always hung in the air when she was around. It was something James did his best to suppress in his moments with her, hoping he could help it shrink into nothingness and provide just a few moments of calm when he was around. To help her feel like she had someone. 

But here, all the way from his seat, he could feel that loneliness radiating from her tenfold. So real and suffocating, he could choke on it. 

He feels his chest tighten at not only the feeling, but of the brief glance at the look on her face. 

She looks haunted. 

So beautifully and tragically haunted. 

But he has to wonder—what is possibly haunting her?

He feels his throat tighten as he swallows roughly, suddenly feeling like his mouth is stuffed with cotton. 

Sirius’ voice cuts through the grim fog, a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, mate?”

“‘M fine.” He mumbles, swiping a hand across his face, hoping to shake the hazy feeling that’s suddenly come over him. 

Sirius cocks an eyebrow, unconvinced, but before he can question him, McGonagall re-enters. She doesn’t miss a beat, walking to the front, picking up her wand and a piece of chalk as she delves into the complexities of human transfiguration. But it’s the way in which her hand is shaking as she scrapes nonsense onto the board. Her voice duller and eyes dimmer. 

The worry comes back ten-fold then, this time, no rational part of his mind can dredge through the thickness of his worry. 

The lesson drones on like that, suddenly feeling way too long, his body too uneasy and his thoughts a swirling maelstrom threatening to destroy. When they are eventually dismissed, he drags himself to Potions. Not even Sirius’ quips can pull him from the depths of his mind as he walks to his bench with little expectations of seeing Lily and Remus, or getting any answers. 

Yet, something awful is still bubbling within him; he can't seem to just shove the feeling aside like he can with most things. Instead, he sits at the bench, glancing over to Lily’s empty spot every so often as he gnaws at his nails. 

Students file in, chatter buzzing about the room. He can hear Sirius laughing at something—a groan from Peter, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to be present. It isn’t until he hears a voice from beside him does he manage to come back to the room.

“Hi.”

James’s head snaps at neck break speed at the single syllable. Her voice is hoarse and rough, it's quiet too, more so than usual. Like speaking any louder would cause a physical strain. And up close he can see the despair clear as day. Pale cheeks look ruddy and hallowed. Her emerald eyes are framed by dark bags clinging beneath them. They look red and irritated, like she’s been crying. Right after she speaks, she sniffles softly and just James knows.

“Lily—” 

“Alright class,” Slughorn’s voice booms James grits his teeth, frustration boiling in his chest. Of course, now. 

His eyes stay trained on Lily, who has resigned herself to gathering her parchment and quill for the lesson. 

“Today we will finally be brewing Veritaserum. Remember what we discussed, you want it to be clear and odorless. Undetectable. Now, go gather your cauldrons.” He says with a wave of his hand. 

James brightens just a bit, sure he’s fucking awful at Potions but, Lily is his bench partner, after all. Maybe, it’ll allow him a moment to speak to her before the end of the lesson. 

“Oh,” Slughorn says, halting everyone’s movements. “This will be a solo brew today. It’ll help me gather who has been paying attention.” He says with a small smile. 

And of fucking course it is. 

James has half the mind to stamp his feet and groan loudly. Not because it’ll surely drag his marks down—he really couldn’t care less—but because it was his chance to speak with Lily.

He hauls his cauldron slowly to the station beside her. He’s never really been one for rules, so what if he finds his way closer to her. Just as he’s opened his textbook, he’s made his choice. He turns to her, opening his mouth ready to say anything—to ask if she’s alright, to tell her she can talk to him. That’s she’s not alone. 

But he stops. 

Moments ago he was so sure, so confident that this what would calm him, but more importantly what she needed. 

But as he watches her—her brows furrowed slightly and tongue peeking past her lips in concentration as she crushes some moonstone, he silently thanks himself for not being so impulsive for once. 

Because she has this quiet kind of confidence about her, that he so rarely sees. She thrives in Potions and it’s able to give her the kind of solace something like Quidditch is to him and he’d be damned to take that away from her. He knows when things become too heavy sometimes distractions like these are necessary, the physical act of focusing on anything but your thoughts. 

He leaves it for now, taking a breath, his heart settling into the calmest it’s been all day. As bad as he wants to reach out, he can see so clearly she needs the peace, so he gives it to her. There’s always after. He’s not planning on going anywhere anyway. 

Despite deciding to wait until later to speak with her, he can’t really help the way his eyes seem to drift to her actions. The stillness and preciseness of her movements. It has absolutely wrecked his own potion, which sits in front of him, tinted a sickly pale yellow-green, bubbling noisily and smelling like dead grass. 

Lily, however, has created what James is sure is the textbook definition of Veritaserum. It’s clear as glass, he’d think it was empty if he didn’t know any better. There’s no signs of carbonation, even as she stirs her flask around. He’d also bet anything it’s odorless, too. 

He watches her look around with a bit of uncertainty, as she peels off her goggles. He can see her hesitation as she picks up the vile. 

“‘S alright,” James whispers softly, letting her know—it looks perfect, don’t doubt yourself. Go up there. 

Her eyes melt in what he thinks it’s gratitude but her lips remain in the same place, like even today she can’t bring herself to fake a smile. 

Her maryjane's click loudly against the stone as she walks up the row and to Slughorn’s desk, where he’s reading a book. James watches closely and sees Lily say something quietly. He watches the old man grab the flask, bring it to his nose. Then he swishes it around and holds it up to the sunlight. 

“Brilliant, Miss Evans. Superb.” He praises loudly. 

James smiles to himself, for the first time since he’s woken up, his chest isn’t aching with despair but rather, it swells with pride. 

He hears her distant voice whispering something about simmering instead of boiling when Slughorn begins to ask more questions. 

James deftly stirs his own creation, which he’s long given up on as his gaze stays trained on her. From the corner of his eye, he sees another figure making their way up to the front. A Hufflepuff named Daniel Brownsburrow—and if the flask in his hand is anything to go off of, he must somehow be worse at Potions than James is. 

In his glass is a deep red liquid. It looks thick, almost like syrup, as it coagulates under the air of the room. James glances to his own workstation, realizing they didn’t even work with anything remotely red. And yeah—James sucks at this but at least his potion is semi-clear. 

He winces in sympathy as the poor bloke walks up clearly embarrassed and completely lost. 

But before he can reach Slughorn, he trips. 

Whether it’s over a cobblestone, the strap of a bag or even himself, it doesn’t change the inevitable. The shattering sound of glass into hundreds of small pieces echoes off the wall. The liquid splatters everywhere, leaking into the cracks of stones and to James’ absolute horror, all over Lily’s front. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll just—”

But whatever Daniel says next, James doesn’t hear. His focus is solely on Lily whose somber eyes seem to shift to panic. To something far-off, like she’s not really here. 

He watches her hands shake as she runs her fingers over the red liquid that's drenching her pristine white shirt. He sees as she pulls them away, just to look down at them, finding her palms absolutely coated in red. 

A pained sound rips from her throat as tears begin to well in her eyes, frantically searching the room for something—anyone. 

“Miss Evans,” Slughorn begins panicking as he notices the sticky substance staining her uniform and bare skin. 

A tear runs down her face as she bites at her lip. 

James can’t take it anymore, standing abruptly from his seat, but before he can so much as move a flash of grey races past him. 

Remus places his hands atop a devoid looking Lily who seems to have no idea where she is or what’s going as she begins to swipe at her palms, her clothes, her legs—everywhere—like she needs the feeling gone. Like it’s seeping into her very bones and dissolving her into nothingness. 

“I’ll help her, Professor.” Remus says, not bothering to wait for a response, as he pushes a numb Lily up the row. 

She moves listlessly, her limbs look heavy with her movements as her salty tears drip onto her stained hands. 

“To Madame Pomfrey, Mr. Lupin.” Slughorn calls with concern. A standard practice for brewing mishaps, but his affection for Lily is clear. 

Slughorn says it just as she passes James’ bench and it’s as if something in her snaps to life. A horror and dread, a full blown panic takes over her. 

“No, no, no.” She cries out, causing the class to break out in whispers. She turns on her heel, facing Remus. “No hospital. Please, please.” She begs him hoarsely, red hands curled into tight fists. 

And unlike James, whose confusion and anxiety seem to be bubbling by the second, a look of understanding passes over Remus’ face as it softens into something James can’t quite place. Sadness? Empathy? 

“I promise.” He whispers resolutely, moving to guide Lily to the corridor. 

Just as Remus is within James’ grasp, he lightly touches his back. 

“Remus—” he starts, unsure of what to say but he can’t just do nothing. He can’t let Lily fall apart and not even try to help. 

But whatever he was going to come out with is firmly cut off with a piercing glare and a coldness he’s never come to associate with his good friend. 

“James, leave it.” Remus all but growls, before disappearing out the door.

James hadn’t even bothered finishing his Veritaserum. Slughorn didn’t seem to mind much, too caught up in cleaning the disaster Brownsburrow left behind. He evacuated the lab, spending the period casting the proper cleaning charms as to not disrupt any volatile chemicals. 

And despite the worry gnawing at him, the ache in his chest, he just manages to keep his wits enough to grab both Remus and Lily’s bags on the way out. 

It’s a Thursday, so there’s no Defense Against the Dark Arts. James spends the beginning of the would-be period pacing outside of the Hospital Wing. 

Nothing. 

The realization causes his heart to sink in his chest as he makes haste back to his dorm. Once inside, he begins silently ripping apart his mattress in search of the map, desperate for any reassurances. It’s only in the midst of his panic that he remembered—Remus had asked for it last night. 

His mood begins to fester into something sour and almost angry as he prepares for Quidditch practice, though his mind is anywhere but on the pitch. 

Worry for Lily is at the forefront of all his thoughts and nearly consumes him. But between flashes of her haunted eyes and hallowed expression, is Remus. His golden eyes glaring at James—and not just today, either, but anytime Lily was involved. The shortness and brevity in his words, the tensing of his shoulders. 

Sirius was right—it was ridiculous to think Remus liked Lily in a romantic way, he sees now it’s something else. A friendship, yes, but the undeniable fact is that Remus doesn’t seem to trust anyone else around her. Especially James. And he was determined to find out why. Perhaps unraveling that mystery would help him better understand Lily better. Maybe Remus knows something James doesn’t. 

The thought makes him circle right back to where he started—Lily. 

The anxiety and panic ebbing through his brain. Making his heart jump and flip and dip. His ribs tighten and his hands sweaty. His worry is so visceral and so apparent in ways he can’t begin to understand—like watching whatever is eating at her has begun to eat at him, too. 

There’s a quiet, resolute, kind of way about her. Silent, but strong. Even when James thinks she seemed her loneliest, when she seemed lost, he still admired the way she carried herself. Kind and soft. 

But today—today had been different. 

No signs of strength or hope. Just hallow nothingness. Pure, raw fear radiated from her, sadness so suffocating it clung to the air. 

It’s odd to feel something so deeply for someone you barely know, especially when you don’t know it’s going on. He’s noticed it too—everything about her, really—he’s seen it in small glimpses, the way she tenses or how her breath stutters the few times he’s asked her about her life before. The way she never speaks about any family. How she tensed when Sirius asked her about her last school, the same way when James inquired about having a pet rabbit. 

At first he chalked it up to her outward embarrassment at discovering her magic so late—a sentiment completely out of her control and ridiculous, if you ask James. Like everyone bringing up the past reminded her of the years she missed out on. James wonders now, if maybe she was missing something else entirely. 

It’s strange, to find out that maybe a piece of your heart might belong to someone else only when you feel it begin to crack in your chest. Like Lily has parts of him he didn’t even know give—didn’t know they were hers to take. 

And yet.

The vicious cycle continues. Frustration at Remus, subsiding into confusion and blossoming into sadness. It circles, round and round, all throughout practice. 

And unfortunately, it’s his teammates who bear the brunt of their captain's emotional spiral. James groans and yells and throws and hits bludgers more harshly than necessary. He works his teammates to the bone, shouting “again,” even when the plays are near perfect. Everyone notices the change in him, the aggression and anger. And sure, maybe it would be normal if they had a poor performance the last match or had a big one coming up, but they’re playing Ravenclaw on Saturday for merlin's sake. A team who James has described as ‘light work,’ on past numerous occasions. 

He calls practice with a frustrated sigh, after MacDonald nearly falls from her broom and looks pale with exhaustion. 

He stomps back to the castle, not even bothering to stop by his dorm before showering. He lets the scalding water beat down on him, hoping it may wash away some of the bitterness and frustration. When he steps out, he feels more refreshed and a bit calmer. It seems to have doused away the anger, but the worry still lingers. 

With damp hair, he pushes open the door to his dormitory to find Sirius and Peter both lounging on their beds, talking quietly. 

“Where’s Remus?” James interrupts, not caring for pleasantries at the moment. 

“Hi, Sirius. Hi, Peter. How was your day?” Sirius mocks as he rolls over and huffs, clearly put out but James’ abruptness. 

James is unimpressed. Rolling his eyes and tapping his foot impatiently. 

“I’m good, thanks for asking Prongs.” He answered himself. 

“Sirius, I really am not—”

“He went to get some dinner. He should be back soon.” Peter interjects, hoping to diffuse some of the growing tension.

James nods in acknowledgment, moving toward Remus’ desk, seeing if he’s left the map out. Just as he moves to pull open one of the drawers, familiar footsteps sound from behind. 

“Ah, just in time.” Sirius mumbles. 

“What are you doing?” Remus asks, ignoring Sirius and walking to James, voice guarded. 

“The map. I need it.” He responds sternly. 

And there it is—with slanted eyes and crossed arms, Remus looks at James like he’s about to commit some sinful act. 

“What for?” He presses. 

James, who is sick of being the receiving end of this treatment lately, stands firm. “What does it matter? It’s mine just as much as it’s yours.” 

“Oh, boy.” Peter whispers to no one in particular, eyes flicking around nervously. 

In response, all Remus does is lift his brows as to say, ‘I’m waiting,’ and James, not in the mood to waste time, just relents. 

“I have Lily’s bag from Potions, I wanted to make sure it got to her.” 

Briefly something flickers in Remus’ eyes. His brow quivers ever so slightly as he pulls his lips into a thin line. “I’ll get it to her.” Remus says with a finality that makes him think James won’t push back. But James is tired and worried and done dealing with this. 

“No.” 

“No?” Remus repeats, expression hardened. 

“No.” James doubles down. “I’d like to give it to her.” 

Remus takes a step closer, scrutinizing James for some sort of explanation. “And why would you want to do that?” 

Sirius, who suddenly becomes interested in what James has to say next, sits up and crawls to the edge of his bed. 

“Because Lily’s my friend.” He starts, though Remus looks unimpressed. “She’s my friend and I—I care about her. I want to make sure that she’s okay.” He says, voice softer than before. 

For a moment he thinks that Remus will take it. That he’ll hand over the map and that it’ll be done. They’ll continue this weird dance and awkward tension, but he’ll have satisfied Remus just enough to get him to leave it. 

Instead, Remus laughs. A cold, bitter and humorless laugh. “You’re the last thing Lily needs right now, James.” 

A chill rattles in the air—red-hot anger flares in James’s chest.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Voice a low angry growl. 

“It means she’s going through a lot—more than you can imagine,” he starts, tone hardened. “And the last thing she needs is someone pretending to care about her for a snog in a broom closet or a quick shag.” Remus finishes bitterly. 

Sirius, always ready for a quick quip to lighten the mood, goes still at the jab. He knows the guilt James has been carrying, how hard he’s been working to be better. And Sirius knows that Remus does too, that he twisted the knife just where it would hurt. 

James, meanwhile, has a deathly calm, almost scary quality to him. He’s not shouting, not red in the face. His body shakes a little with anger, but other than that he seems composed. 

The accusation hangs in the air a beat longer before James goes rigid and his hands curl into fists. 

“Is that all you think of me?” He asks after a beat, voice strained with sadness. “You know I’m past that. You know I’ve been trying, you told me yourself. Was it all just a lie?” He asks. 

Remus’s face falls suddenly flashing with remorse. “James I—”

“I care about Lily,” he cuts off firm and honest. “I care about her, not because I’m after something else or because of how she looks. I care because she’s my friend.” He swears. “And I’m worried about her and I want to help anyway I can, because she’s my friend.”

And there’s so much more James could say. He could push back. Fight with Remus or even try to show he’s being honest. But he’s done trying to prove himself to someone who’d rather see something else entirely. The furthest thing from the truth. 

Remus’s mouth is flubbing open and shut, clearly trying to find the right words to rectify the situation. Maybe even apologize. 

“I don’t know what I’ve done to you for you to treat me like—like I’m an awful person ever since she came around, but I’m done taking it. I would never hurt Lily and I thought you of all people would know that.” Remus stays silent, but James isn’t finished. “Lily is my friend.” He says strongly and meaningfully. “And I thought you were too.” He finishes, pain bleeding through his anger. 

With that, he turns on his heel, striding to the door. Needing to be anywhere but here. 

“James I didn’t—” Remus pleads as soon James has one foot out the door. 

“Screw you, Remus.” Is all he says before slamming it shut.

James is simmering with anger as he walks out of his dormitory. He takes labored but practiced breaths trying to calm the raging storm within him. But despite all the anger and swell of betrayal in his chest—something else nags at him, louder than the rest. 

Worry for Lily. 

It persists, sharper than the pain of betrayal, deeper than the wound left raw and bloody from Remus’s accusations. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. James had always been there for him—for all of them. When Sirius showed up on his doorstep, broken and lost and nowhere left to go. When Remus revealed his darkest truths and fears about being a werewolf and in turn, James learned to become an Animagus. When Peter had come to him with watering eyes and quivering lips, confessing his deepest fears about feeling small and insignificant. It was after James took extra care in letting his friend know he mattered. 

James was there. He was always there—steadfast and present. 

Even when he was an egotistical jerk. A player by his own doing. A spoiled prat. Even then, one thing was always true, he was there for his friends. 

He wonders now if that meant anything to Remus. 

The thought stings, but he pushes it aside. His sharp exhales and shoes against the stone are the only sounds ringing through the empty corridor. His feet carry him listlessly to his tiny slice of sanctuary, somewhere he knows no one will come looking for him. 

The cool night air carries from the outside and he’s briefly thankful that in his haste he grabbed his cloak, as he pulls it tighter around himself and prepares for the chill to hit him full force. 

But when he steps onto the small balcony, he’s not struck by a breeze or even overcome by the beauty of the night sky. No—instead he’s met by the very thing he’s been looking for. 

He wonders briefly if that invisible string knotted around his heart and wrapped around her finger is what brought him here.

“Lily.” He breathes, like she’s not real. 

He says it soft and quiet, like if he speaks it any louder it might shatter the delicate image before him. 

She certainly looks ethereal—otherworldly, even. 

For the first time James has known her, she’s outside of her uniform. A thick and knitted cream colored cardigan hangs loosely on her small frame, swallowing her hands. Beneath it, he can see a knee-length deep green colored dress swishing in the wind. It’s her hair that catches his attention though, free of the signature ribbon normally looped around a few strands. And though he’s come to appreciate the small touch, her hair is in shimmering red waves under the moonlight. 

Like a siren sent to lead him to his death. 

She turns instantly at the sound of her name and any prior transfixation of her beauty is soon doused as the anxiety surges through his veins again. 

Her green eyes are sparkling with fat, wet tears. Her porcelain cheeks are blotchy and tear stained. Her lips quivering and hands shaking. “I’m sorry,” she croaks, voice hoarse and choked. “I didn’t think anyone would be here. I’ll just—”

She turns swiftly to flee, but instinctively James’s hand shoots out and gently grasps her wrist. It’s not rough, but a featherlight kind of thing that makes her sad eyes peer into his worried ones, making his heart twist beneath his ribs. 

“You’ve been crying.” The words tumble out before he can stop them. It was stupid and obvious, but all he can think to say.

Her cheeks flush in what James only thinks can be embarrassment as she swipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. 

“I’m cold.” She offers lamely, voice buckling. 

And even her body betrays the lie, as a single crystalline tear dribbles down her cheek. 

Without even thinking, he unclasps his cloak, shucking it off and reaching to pull it over her shoulders. His fingers linger, gently smoothing her hair free from the collar, with a featherlight touch. 

“James…” she trails, biting her lip. 

“Better?” He whispers, low and tender. His fingers still wound in the ends of her silken hair. 

She nods ever so slightly and her eyes are so heartbreakingly sad as tears fall from them like the first fall of snow in winter. Chilling, but somehow still beautiful. 

Tenderly, he moves his hand from her hair to gently slide up the side of her neck, watching as her skin breaks out in goosebumps and a sigh passes her lips. So gently, as if coaxing a scared animal, his thumb rests just under her eye as he wipes away the wetness, making gentle passes back and forth. She melts into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut, wispy lashes sparkling with unshed tears against her cheeks. Her chin tips instinctively upward, trying to feel all of his warmth. For a moment, she seems to melt a little, her body sagging as if his thumb against her skin is all that’s keeping her upright. She had no idea how badly she was longing for such affection until this very moment. 

“I can go, if that’s what you want, love. But not until I know you’ll be okay on your own.” 

And he’s giving her the choice. Lily feels like he has been since she met him. Always checking-in, never pushing her. He’s tentative, but in a sweet kind of way. Something she’s never appreciated more until right now. 

She shakes her head underneath the pressure of his palm. “This is your spot, if anyone should leave it’s me.” 

He huffs out a small laugh, “don’t even worry about that, Trouble.” He reassures softly. “It can be ours, if that’s what you want.” James says a bit more tentatively, like he’s toeing the line of something bigger. 

Her eyes open at his words glittering beneath the curtain of stars. 

“Stay.” It sounds like a plea. 

The look in her eyes tugs something painful in his gut and he nods without a single thought. Moving his hand from her cheek and tangling her trembling fingers between his own. Slowly, he leads her to the stone railing, turning to the vastness of the dark night, hoping the stars might bring her the peace he so desperately craves on her behalf. 

A silence lapses over them. He uncurls his fingers ever so slightly, an invitation for her to let go if she wants. 

She doesn’t. 

She squeezes his fingers every so often, he wonders if she even realizes she’s doing it. Small sniffles sound from beside him, too. Each one making his ribs tighten. He wants to ask what’s wrong, how can he help fix it—but he stays quiet. He can feel the tension in the air, can practically hear the cogs turning in her head as she seems to wrestle with staying silent or sharing her emotions. 

Minutes pass before she finally speaks. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.” She begins, barely audible. James turns his head to look at her but her eyes remain fixed on the stars. “I don’t want you to think I don’t want to. It’s just…”

“Just what?” He coaxes gently. 

A sigh leaves her lips and her fingers tighten in his. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, a silent conflict stirring within her. 

It would be easy to lie. Smarter. Sensible. If Lily wanted to avoid the pain that’s been consuming her then she’d stand on this balcony and tell James she doesn’t want to talk. And James—sweet James—would probably reassure her. She would leave, go to bed. But even in sleep, she knows she would be forever forced to face all the horrors she’s been hiding from for so long.

But how long can she run for?

She’s tired, so so tired. And somehow, with James beside her, it feels a little less impossible to face those things. 

“If I tell you, I’m scared you’ll look at me like everyone else does.” She admits quietly. 

She feels his hand, warm in her own, curl gently into her own. “And how is that?” He asks softly. 

“Like—like you feel sorry for me. Like you pity me.” She says a little bitterly. 

“Lily,” James breathes sadly. 

“No,” she starts, turning to look into his eyes, tears burning in her own. “Everyone looks at me like I’m some sad pathetic thing. Like they all know how much I missed out on. Like I don’t belong.” 

“I don’t think that. I’ve never thought that.” James responds without missing a single beat. 

Lily’s eyes soften briefly because he’s never given her a reason to think otherwise. She huffs a little in frustration. “I know that,” she starts swiping at her under eyes. “But if I—”

“Hey,” he cuts off sliding closer, fingers tightening around hers. “I’d never think that. No matter what.” 

The breath leaves her body because the look in his eyes, the vulnerability. The honesty. She really has no choice but to believe him, which makes what she’s about to do that much more difficult. 

She searches for words. Of how she can articulate the greatest pain of her life to make him understand, but she’s left empty. 

But, his golden eyes are gleaming beneath the stars and she thinks he’s looking into her soul and she knows—to her very bones—whatever she says doesn’t have to be particularly articulate or perfect because it’s James. And for whatever reason, that makes all the difference. 

“Have you ever heard of The Rime or the Ancient Mariner?” She isn’t sure why that’s what tumbles past her lips, but it’s a start, she supposed. 

James looks thoughtful for a second before slowly shaking his head, eyes never leaving Lily’s. He hears her let out a soft sigh from beside him as her eyes drift back to the horizon. 

“It’s a poem—short story, really. My Mum had all sorts of them, she always liked to read. She read to me and my sister all the time when we were younger.” Lily begins. 

It strikes James suddenly, this is the first time he’s ever heard her bring up her family. Her mother. Hell, he had no idea she even had a sister. 

Hundreds of questions pass through his mind—is she older? Younger? Are they close? Where is she now? Why had Lily never spoken about her?

But he bites his tongue, sensing that answers would come. Unbidden and heavy.

“It’s about a sailor,” she starts, voice distant and haunted. “He was known for his good luck, never losing a battle to the sea. But one day, he and his crew were caught by a terrible ice storm. They were certain they’d die, when from the fog a bird—an albatross—guided them to safety.” 

The way she speaks sounds like she’s read it hundreds of times. Though, her eyes are dim, so unlike when she spoke of Pride and Prejudice to him.

“In thanks, the crew praised the bird, fed it, cherished it. But the sailor felt differently. He shot the albatross, straight through its heart. He called it a curse. He said it brought them misfortune. That it hadn’t saved them.” He hears her voice shack, watches as she swallows thickly against the strain. “Soon after, the ice melted, the sea calmed and the air became warm again.”

He watches her shoulders begin to tremble—feels them knocking into his own from beside him. Her fingers begin to twist beneath his own. 

Her voice wavers when she continues, “but as soon as they turned on the albatross, the wind howled—it was merciless as it drove the crew back into dangerous waters.”

Lily thinks of Petunia and the first time their mother told them the story. Lily remembers feeling so terrible for the bird, for the death and violence brought upon it as repayment for a good, selfless deed. And Petunia—thought just as the mariner did. Saw it as a curse. A burden. Something to be rid of. 

She sniffles harshly, hoping to ease her breaths. “The crew blamed the sailor. Says the storm was punishment for his actions. They made him wear the albatross around his neck—a constant burden and physical reminder of the suffering he caused. They’d hope it would be some kind of penance.” 

“And was it?” James asks. 

She shook her head. “Death came for the crew, but it left the mariner. It cursed him to a fate worse than death. He was left alone, watching the life leave their bodies and as everyone else fell, he just couldn’t seem to die. No matter how hungry, thirsty or frail he became.”

A heavy silence fell between them for a moment, James considered breaking it, but he could see she wasn’t finished. Rather, she was looking for the strength to go on.

She seems to get there eventually, though. “He wished for death, day after day. The pain—it was too much and the guilt was eating him alive. A storm came and he thought death was finally being merciful and just when he was sure he was going to die, he woke up. Washed ashore. Because that was his curse. To wander the earth forever, burdened by his sin. Forced to send warnings about the bad luck albatross’ bear.”

James' eyes found her own, an ache behind them like he’s never seen. His own brow furrows in confusion as he considers the tale in full. “But was it really the albatross that brought them bad luck?” He asked. “Or was it the universe punishing him for the senseless killing of an innocent creature?” 

The question hung in the air, with a certain weight to it, before Lily’s broke the tension as a bitter laugh left her lips. “That’s what you’d think right? That’s what I thought, too. I would think as a little girl, how could they blame all their misfortunes on the albatross? How could they so senselessly blame all their misgivings on this one bird?” She begins thickly. “But Petunia… she saw it differently.”

“Petunia?” James repeated curiously.

Lily cleared her throat, “my sister.” James watches her lip quiver. Feels her hand tremble in his. “She used to call me that all the time. She thought of me as a burden. Some sort of curse sent to ruin her and my family’s lives.” 

James shook his head, his heart breaking at the confession. “That’s not true, Lily. You’re not—that’s not right.” He says searching for the right words and praying his conviction is enough. 

“I used to think so, too. I thought maybe she was just afraid and that was her only answer to what was happening.” 

James knows she’s speaking of her magic. When it was an unknown foreign concept to her and those around her. 

She thinks of the flowers that bloomed from her palms. Sparks flying from her hands when she was excited. Frames banging and crashing to the floor when she was angry. 

Even once when she was only fourteen and Petunia’s boyfriend at the time, three years older than Lily, had tried to kiss her one night after dinner. She remembers pushing him roughly and nothing but fear and anger pouring from her. She watched as dark purple dots began to bloom all over his cheeks, his neck and arms. 

He ran from their house screaming in fear, telling Petunia her sister was a freak. And Petunia refused to hear Lily out—instead, she looked at her like she was some sort of monster. 

After that, Lily can’t remember a time they ever got along again. 

Lily sighs, trying to collect her jumbled thoughts. “But now, I know she was right.” She admits brokenly. 

James acts instantly, turning to her and grabbing her other hand. “Don’t think that, Lily. Don’t ever think that.” He almost begs. 

She shakes her head, the tears blurring his frame as she’s thrust back into the worst night of her life. “My Dad, he—he wasn’t well.” She begins brokenly. “He had an accident at work and he couldn’t walk anymore. Money was always tight, even before. It just got worse when he had to stop working and the medical bills began piling up.” 

It dawns on James this is the first time she’s mentioned her father. It dawns on Lily, too. It feels like a punch to her gut. 

“My Mum,” her voice broke over the syllables, “she worked so hard. She worked morning care for children, taught all day, she did afternoon care, too, before closing up the library a few towns over. And she still found the time to take care of my Dad—of me.” Her eyes clench shut at the thought as she tries to control her breathing and slow her tears. It was to no avail. “I took a job at the local pharmacy, selling candy and snacks, after school. My parents thought it was for a university fund, but I knew I could never go. I used it to pay off bills and buy groceries when my Mum was too busy. I had to be there for them like they always were for me.” 

Two thoughts strike James. The first, is that he’s suddenly grateful for his Muggle Studies education specifically on Muggle medicine and healthcare so he doesn’t interrupt with something dumb like—what’s a pharmacy? 

The second thing—which hits harder than the first—is how big Lily’s heart is. He feels as if he’s seeing it bared for the first time and it’s big and bleeding. Though different, he has some idea of what it’s like to look after your parents, but even then it feels incomparable. Struggling with funds, dealing with health issues. And yet, she persevered. 

“They always left the light on for me,” she whispered, the sentiment clearly holding more weight beneath the surface. “No matter what time it was, no matter how late it became. Even if my Dad felt awful and my Mum was exhausted, they always waited for me to come home.”

And James hasn’t been able to tell where this is going—not really. But the way Lily’s voice seems strained with physical hurt, the increase of the shaking of her hands and the tears dripping onto the balcony, he knows she’s on the precipice of something bigger. Of whatever is causing her hurt. 

“My sister moved out as soon as she could. She met her boyfriend—Vernon—at work, not long after. Even when she left, I knew she still hated me. That she was happy to get away from all the abnormalities I was causing.” 

Lily turns from James, facing the night sky as tears splash down her cheeks and descend into the nothingness beneath them. One hand stays in his own but the other clutches the stone edge like a lifeline. Knuckles white and elbow buckling with force.

“All my parents ever wanted was for us to get along.” She whispered brokenly into the air, like she’s speaking to something greater. 

James shifts then, standing beside her and looking out into the vastness. He doesn’t move beyond that, but lets her know he’s a warm calming presence as she navigates her way through the tangled labyrinth of her emotions.  

“She called on a Thursday night.” Her voice evens out, becoming an empty, hollow thing. “She said she was coming over that Saturday for dinner—with Vernon—and that she had something to tell us. She said that Vernon would like a prime rib and hung up the phone.” He hears her inhale shakily. “And they were so happy—so hopeful. But my Mum, she had taken on an extra shift the next day and my Dad stopped leaving the house all together after his accident. And money—it was tight, so she said she hoped that the chicken would do instead.” She took another deep, stuttering breath. “But I knew—I knew that it would cause a fight. That the night would end before it began if Vernon didn’t have his prime rib and it would somehow become my fault and my parents would be devastated. And I just wanted them to be happy.” 

James can hear the emotion return in the last sentence. Lily’s voice cracking over the words roughly. 

“I wasn’t even supposed to work.” Lily’s voice goes quiet now, something almost bitter and angry. “I wasn’t supposed to—I begged to take someone’s shift the next day. I worked until closing and I was already out late, but I knew we needed the prime rib for dinner or it would be a disaster and I also knew my Mum would’ve tried to stop me if I told her my plan.”

James can feel her shaking beside him. Eyes trained on the landscape with an impenetrable force, despite the fact he knows she can’t see a single thing through the blur of tears. He watches her move her trembling hand from where it clutched the balcony, to beneath the folds of her—his cloak. He watches her fingers knot and loop into a fragile gold chain as if it’s grounding her to reality. He watches them curl and tighten and clutch at it so hard he’s afraid that it may snap. 

And as her fingertips toy at it, brushing the links back and forth methodically, he sees it there—just barely. Under the light of the moon and the twinkle of stars, he sees two golden rings glinting beneath the night sky. 

He looks on curiously, watches as she sticks her fingers into the too wide one and twisting the second one—which seems to fit just right—in a soothing kind of motion. 

“When I got home that night, the lights were off.” She says so quietly, he can just make her out over the breeze tickling his ears. “I knew something was wrong—they never shut the lights off.” 

She turns to him then, a desperate kind of look into her eyes as she tries to make him understand. Like with one fleeting gaze, he may be able to understand the terror she felt in that moment. 

And he does—nestled deep in his chest, in the confines of his heart it’s like he feels everything she’s pouring into him. And it’s painful and a little scary, but he wants to help shoulder her burdens. Lily looks as if she has the weight of the world on her delicate shoulders most of the time—but right now James thinks he can see the world crumbling over her. The ruins laid bare at her feet and he’s left to pick up the pieces. 

“I called their names and they didn’t say anything.” She closes her eyes, as if remembering. “And when I walked into the sitting room…” 

She bites her lip harshly, like some part of her won’t allow herself to say it. Though she’s grappled with the reality for five agonizing months, like speaking it will make it all the more real. Like there is no coming back, something she’s always known deep down but has been unable to accept. 

“Lily.” James whispers so tenderly, it nearly slices through her pain. 

Slowly, she feels something warm dance over her shaking and cold palm. His own presses against hers, mapping out every single indent and vein with his fingers as he silently knits them together, hoping his touch can give her the strength she needs. 

Somehow, it does. Even if just a little. 

“There was blood everywhere—so much blood.” She chokes, squeezing his hand to the point of pain, keeping her eyes downcast to her shoes. “It was everywhere, on the floors, the furniture, the walls, on their—their bodies.” She cried. 

James gasps at the confession, his own throat tightening as grief pours out of her. 

“And I was screaming,” she cries, “I was on my hands and knees covered in their blood and I was screaming. I was just—I was thinking this is some terrible, awful nightmare and I wanted to wake up. I wanted my parents back.” She sobs then a broken and awful thing and James knows he can no longer stand idle as tears prick the back of his eyes as she becomes hysterical beside him. 

Swiftly, he turns, reaching for her and pulling her into a tight  embrace. 

At first, he thinks it was the wrong thing as she continues sobbing stiffly against him. But then, he feels her nose press into his chest, just below his heart. Her hands clutch the front of his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping her grounded. She melts into him, her rigid posture crumbling as one of his arms winds itself around her waist. The other tangles into her hair as his fingers brush the base of her neck, gently scratching at her scalp with soothing strokes.

“My neighbor, Mrs. Hollis, she heard me screaming,” he can hear each word drip with anguish despite begging muffled against the cotton of his shirt. “She called for help, but when they came, I couldn’t move—I couldn’t even speak. And there was so much blood that they took me to the hospital, thinking I had been hurt, too."

“Oh, baby.” The endearment slips out before he can stop it, his lips warm against the crown of her head, breath skimming her hair. 

It should feel strange to call her that—so tender and vulnerable—but for whatever reason it doesn’t. Not now. Not when Lily is falling apart as she relives the worst moment of her life. As she spills unimaginable and unfathomable pain to James on this small balcony under sparkling stars. A setting too beautiful for such a tragic and heartbreaking reality. 

He feels like everything should be bleak. Like the sky should be grey and colorless and the heavens should weep for this girl and her pain. Like the world should still and just be still to give her time to grieve. 

Through the fog and the misery, as his fingers work their way through her soft auburn waves, he briefly recalls her earlier reaction in Potions. The thick, blood-like substance that coated her uniform, her skin. The way she froze and then desperately pleaded to Remus to spare her from The Hospital Wing. 

James also remembers his incessant worry and need for answers but he almost wishes now he never found out. Like somehow his ignorance would have spared her from the pain that’s vibrating through her whole body, making her feel so small and fragile in his embrace. 

“After, they told me—the police, they told me that they were sliced so deeply. Unlike anything they had ever seen before. That even if I had found them sooner, they would’ve never made it because the slashes were so deep.” She explained shakily. “Someone did that to them—someone murdered my parents.” She wails, the sound ripping from her like it’s been clawing at her chest for too long. Begging to be let out. 

James tightens his hold on her, solid and unwavering. He doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? That it’s okay? That everything will be alright? 

How can he? 

How can anything ever be okay again when someone so senselessly and so callously hurts the people you love. When someone kills innocent, good people. People who raised this brilliant, brave and strong girl falling apart in his arms. 

“Breathe, Lily, just breathe.” Is all he can say, as he feels her gasping for air against him. One hand rubs her back soothingly. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.” He whispers. 

He takes purposely airy and deep breaths, hoping the movement and rhythm of his own chest will serve as a guide for her to match.  

They stay like that for a while, as she hiccups and gasps against him. Her tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt. James remains steadfast. Whispering soft assurances, keeps his hand steady on her back and woven in her hair, hoping it’ll ground her. 

Her tears don’t slow, but luckily, her breath does as she wills herself to finish the horrid tale. “The day that my sister was made executor of the wills, the day that the deed to our house changed to be under her name… that’s when the owl came. I was getting ready for the funeral and there it was—on my window, letter in its mouth.” She peels away from his shirt then, eyes green and bloodshot, looking into his own glasses honey colored ones. “And the worst part?” She starts hollowly, “is that my sister didn’t even look surprised when she saw it. I thought it was some sort of joke—some sick and twisted prank, but she—it was like she knew. And I—I wondered if maybe it was her. If she was why I never got my first one.” 

Anger flares hot and sharp in James’s chest. Anger at her sister, for her cruelty and heartlessness. Not just in the way she’s forced Lily to shoulder and navigate the world on her own after their parent’s death, but in the way such callousness seems to be an overarching theme in their relationship. He swallows down the frustration because this isn’t about his anger. It’s about her pain. 

Instead, he moves the hand from her hair to begin to glide down her face. His thumb working softly to wipe away the tears that fall too quickly for him to catch. She leans into his touch, eyelids fluttering shut and a broken sigh escaping her at the tenderness. 

She sniffles. Once. Twice. Before going on. “It was at the funeral she told me that she was coming over for that Saturday dinner to tell us she was engaged.” Lily whispers throatily. 

Her own hand moves deftly to grip James’ wrist where it lays against her cheek. A silent plea to stay. That it’s his comfort that’s grounding her and giving her strength. 

“She said—she said that she didn’t want me in her life. That it was my fault that they were dead—that it was probably someone coming for me and they paid the price.” She admits brokenly.

He moves to cup her cheeks with both hands, fingers cradling her jaw steadily. He bends his knees, forcing her to meet his eyes. His voice steady and unwavering. ”No, love, this—this is not your fault.” He says with such conviction that for one painfully long moment Lily wants to believe him. 

But then that word—the one that Petunia called her. The last thing she ever said to her begins to rattle loudly. A shrill echo in her ears. 

Albatross, Albatross, Albatross—

“But it is.” She says urgently and desperately, head shaking fervently beneath his palms. “Dumbledore came to me the next day. He explained everything. The letter, the things I couldn’t explain—magic. And I’ve thought every single day since, that maybe if I was there, if I was home. I could’ve stopped it. I could’ve done something.”

And James doesn’t make her say more. He understands what she’s saying. Emotions fuel magic. It doesn’t matter the age or skill. Things like fear, pain, grief—they make for unpredictable and wild reactions. 

“Or they could’ve hurt you, too.” James whispers, voice cracking at the thought alone. 

“At least then… I wouldn’t be a burden to anyone. A curse.” She says back softly, like it’s a fate she’s herself resigned to. 

“Lily—” he pleads painfully. 

“It doesn’t matter.” She whispers as a tear falls beneath the pad of his thumb. “I did the next best thing. I did what my sister wanted. I left her life. I was afraid—so afraid that whoever did it would come for me. The police had no leads. Said whoever it was didn’t leave a single trace behind.” She swallows hard, still feeling the weight of all that is unknown. “Luckily, McGonagall took me in.”

And suddenly everything falls into place. Like broken pieces suddenly jagging themselves into place and forming something. 

The day Lily first arrived, her obvious unease and sadness, something James had thought was a product of the years of robbed magic. 

The way McGonagall was deeply protective of her and made it outwardly obvious. Even after one singular interaction, when she warned them off in the Great Hall, just after the first time James ever saw Lily. 

How she never talked about where she came from. When her body went stiff and eyes panicked when James asked where home was. 

The nightmares. Lily’s horrified face as the blood-like substance splashed over her uniform earlier. 

Even though James was still pissed off—even Remus’ misplaced distrust of James seems more justified. 

And just beneath the rapid thumping of her heart, the two glimmering gold rings. Her parents’ wedding bands. A constant source of comfort as he’s seen her clutch the chain time and time again. 

“And the last thing my sister ever said to me—ever called me was from that stupid story. An albatross.” She says the word like a curse, something forbidden and disgusting as her eyes drop in deviation. 

And James knows that this isn’t something you move on from. This isn’t the kind of wound that time or pretty words or even embraces and gentle touches can heal. You can never undo something like this, it’s something that you can never forget. 

But you can move forward. 

Slowly, tentatively, there are steps forward. 

There will always be days where you look back, but at least you’re still going. You’re not stuck. 

And James will be damned if Lily has to take those steps alone. On the days when the pain is too much and the memories too real, he is determined to be there—steadfast and unwavering.

Because it dawns on him—not for the first time—but with complete and utter certainty that Lily Evans deserves everything good and kind and beautiful that this world has to offer. And it seems all the world has done is taken and destroyed and hurt her. 

And he can’t bring her parents back. Can’t erase the feeling of the blood on her bare skin as they bled out. Or the way she lost her sister so soon after and was thrust into something unknown.

But what he can do, is be there and remind her as often as possible of what he sees when he looks at her and hopes that maybe—just maybe she’ll start to believe it and let it help guide her onward. 

“Wanna know what I took away from that? The story your Mum told you about the sailor?” He began softly, a whisper against the quiet night. 

Lily’s brows knit together, confusion flickers across her face as she feels James’ palms press into her cheeks. His long fingers dancing along her temples. “What?” 

“That it wasn’t the albatross that cursed those sailors—it was their cruelty that was its undoing. And too late did the world realize it needed to repent and punish those responsible.”

He hears her breath hitch at his reverence. He knows Lily understands what he’s saying—but he needs to speak it aloud. Needs her to know with absolute certainty. 

“The world—it was so cruel to you. To someone I see as so kind and so resilient. You deserve so much better.” He whispers softly as his fingers trace the delicate lines of her face. 

His words are so gentle and tender, as is his touch. But it was the way he looked at her that shatters her completely—like he’s really seeing her for the first time. And his gaze is unflinching as he traces every shadow and fracture of her broken soul. Sees everything she’s tried to hide for so long. The endless sadness, the pits of despair, the vast ocean of grief that threatens to drown her everyday. 

But he didn’t look at her in the way she feared. Didn’t seem to pity her or see her as weak, or broken, or even cursed. No—he was looking at her like she was something precious. Something to be protected and cherished until the end of time. 

And it absolutely wrecks her. 

He looks at her like she is the burden he would gladly wear around his neck—just as the sailor did. But he would wear it proudly and he would never hurt her as the sailor did. As the world has. 

And she can’t remember a time when anyone—besides those who have left her, have ever looked at her like that. 

A strangled sob tears from her throat as she throws herself forward, burying herself in his unflinching and endless warmth. Her shaking hands find purchase on his shoulders as she wraps around him best she can, pushing herself onto the tips of her toes, in desperate search of solace. 

He catches her instantly and effortlessly. A reflex. Like holding her was the most natural thing in the world—as if he was made to do it. He coils his arms around her back, rubbing soothing circles as she cries beneath him. His chin resting on the halo of auburn hair.

And she’s shaking something fierce in his arms, but it’s different, like with each cry he can feel the anguish being carried by the winds. Like she’s just learning to breathe again—the first time in months. 

His lips skim the crown of her head and he presses them ever so slightly. A featherlight kiss. “The world has been so cruel to you, baby, so unfair.” He whispers, a silent tear of his own dripping onto her scalp as he speaks. “But not anymore. Not as long as I can help it.” He says it like a sacred oath. 

He feels it then, ever so slightly, her nodding into him like she’s willing to try and believe it. Like she finally has hope. 

Gently he pulls away and turns her around so she’s looking at the stars littering the sky. He presses his chest into her back, one arm wrapped snugly over her shoulders, a steady reassuring presence. His other hand moves to grab her own, intertwining their fingers like they were made to fit. 

He traces their joined hands across the night sky just like he did before, what feels like a lifetime ago now. 

“You see it? Wings.” He whispers, breath lips warm against her ear. 

Her eyes search the stars, voice quiet and fragile when she finally speaks. “A bird?” 

James can hear her thoughts racing, thoughts of that horrible name her sister called her the albatross. The curse. 

“Not just any bird, love.” He starts, causing her to turn in his arms as her hands instinctively find his chest and his rest against her waist. “A dove.” He tells her.  

“A dove?” She repeats curiously, eyes softening ever so slightly. 

He nods, fingers tracing delicate patterns through the fabric of his cloak. “Columba—it comes from a story about the first glimpse of sunlight after a terrible storm. A new beginning.” 

Her eyes soften and a tear falls, but they both know that it’s different. 

“Thank you, James.”

Thank you for listening to me. For seeing me. For looking at me and seeing more than my grief, my pain. For seeing who I really am. Who I could be. 

James softens under her words and gaze. He swears he can feel the invisible string twined between them pulling taut and wrapping tighter around his heart. An ethereal thread binding them together in something unbreakable. He thinks he feels the world shift beneath his feet and something changes in the air. Like the unraveling of something kismet. 

He wonders if he ever even had a chance against fate—not when she’s involved. 

“I promised I’d be here.” He murmurs, dipping so his forehead just barely skims her own, as his own eyes slip shut. “You never have to thank me for that.”

She surges forward wrapping herself around him again, warm and affectionate. Like they were melded and created for one another. Destined to fit perfectly. 

And as Lily feels James’ heart deftly thumping a calm and steady beat against her ear. She thinks for the first time—maybe it isn’t just about having nothing left to lose, but about finding things to gain. To keep. 

And above them, the stars glitter softly, scattered across the sky like delicate shards of light. It feels like a promise. 

A new beginning. 

James looks up briefly, tracing the shape of Columba. His eyes wander to the Seven Sisters next. About how the stars seem to shine tonight just for her. He looks up at Orion, Cygnus, Perseus and Andromeda—of all the constellations still left to teach her. 

He thinks of the rain, too. Of how he told her that the cries of the heavens can grant magic. He wonders then, if it rained the night she was born. If the heavens wept with joy and blessed her with a magic so powerful and otherworldly. One that only seemed to enchant him.

He knows now, as he always has—that she was never a curse. No matter how many times the world had tried to convince her otherwise, no matter what she was made to believe. 

She was a blessing—a celestial reminder that even the albatross, burdened by the weight of the darkest storms, could find its way back to the sunlight.