Valkyrie

March 1979

Lily Evans wakes up to soft kisses being pressed against her neck, around the curve of her ear, her jaw.

“Mmm.” She hums, letting James work his way up to his temple and her eyebrow. His hair is damp with sweat – James runs incredibly hot while sleeping, perfect for the perpetually cold Lily – and brushes against her forehead lightly. She inhales him in, stretching her arm up over her head, knuckles tapping James’ headboard.

“Morning, love.” James whispers, finally reaching her mouth. Lily savours the kiss hungrily, feeling the dream state slip from her eyes, waking up to her boyfriend beside her.

“How long have you been awake?” Lily murmurs, reaching to entangle her fingers in his hair.

“Not long. You should get up, though. I have the day planned out for us.” James’ eyes twinkle mischievously.

“I’d forgotten how much that look used to scare me back at school.”

“Back when you didn’t know my virtue? I know, Evans. It wounded me terribly.”

Lily pokes her tongue out at him. James, grinning, sits up. The sheet slips down his chest, revealing a distinct lack of shirt. Lily’s mouth starts to water.

“Do we have time—”

“Not now, love.” James leans in to peck at her nose before pulling the covers off himself and padding to the curtain. “We are on a schedule.”

Lily props herself up on one elbow, watching James’ lean, brown torso as he lets the sunlight flow in through the window and walk to the dresser. “What’s the plan, then?”

James presses a finger to his lips, grinning, before marching out to the bathroom down the hall.

Still in bed, Lily blushes ferociously, shakes her head to herself, and finally decides to get up. Fuck it, she’s curious.

~*~

James Potter sort of snuck up on her.

Anybody who knew Lily Evans as a teenager knew about her enduring and unadulterated hatred of James Fleamont Potter.

He was perhaps the antithesis of her entire experience starting at Hogwarts. James: the rich only son of older parents, practically guaranteed a position in wizarding society. Tall and lean, even as a boy, admired by everyone. Barely had to try to get good grades but wasted all his effort on playing stupid pranks. Worst of all, he was cruel to anyone that didn’t fit his strict definition of who was worth being nice too. That was reserved for pureblood boys exclusively, save for that Lupin boy. She wondered sometimes how he wasn’t placed into Slytherin; everything she saw seemed to confirm her confusion.

Lily wasn’t anything like James Potter. Her parents were young, barely adults when they’d had Tuney, living in a mining small town, barely making enough money to put food on the table each night. She worked her ass off to get good grades; even though she was good at it, she needed to prove that she deserved to live in this world. If nobody would stick up for her, then Lily would stick up for herself.

She could never quite understand how somebody with his privilege couldn’t help those beneath him. It went against everything she believed. James Potter, who snorted when she’d said her name on the Hogwarts Express that first time and had told her she’d “have a rough time”.

She was desperate to prove him wrong.

Severus had wanted revenge. She wanted to rise above.

She hated James Potter the more time passed. She hated how he taunted Sev, how he condescended to Mary, how he would shoot off hexes at first years in the halls and laughed. It was cruel, and Lily hated cruelty, so she hated James Potter.

She hated how he treated her, too.

Lily has struggled with her body image since she was a kid. Petunia was always slim, bony faced, much sharper looking. Lily was softer, curvier, her hips and breasts wider sooner. One time, during an argument, Tuney had told her she’d never be liked by a boy because she was fat. Lily had sobbed in front of her mirror for hours.

Severus had tried to convince her it wasn’t true. Of course, in retrospect, Lily can see why he would argue that point. He wasn’t particularly kind about it, though. Nine-year-old boys aren’t exactly known for their tact.

Hogwarts didn’t help. Lily was used to going some nights without food, back at home, depending on the season. Hogwarts provided good food, and comfort, and Lily was happy. The side effect of this was, of course, gaining some weight. Eleven-year-old Lily was not thrilled about this.

The girls in her year didn’t quite look like her, either. Marlene was stick thin for several years, at least until she joined Quidditch and grew into her wiry, well-defined frame. Emmeline never had much in the way of curves. Even Mary, who had breasts and a butt like Lily’s, had a somewhat narrow waist which contributed to her hourglass figure. Lily found all of them beautiful, but with a tinge of sadness.

And then there was James Potter. Eleven-year-old James Potter, with his dishevelled hair and lopsided glasses, James Potter, who thought the world revolved around him and relentlessly bullied her closest friend, would not stop calling after her, demanding her attention. Lily assumed it was a cruel prank, obviously. Those boys were known for that, and Lily must be another of those. Who could love her?

When she was 13, she’d attempted a litany of diet and slimming potions. This resulted in her violently throwing up for days until Mary brought her, shaking and sweating, to Madame Pomfrey to be healed. She’d gotten a stern look and, later, a few Muggle books about body positivity sent to her dormitory. Lily had hidden those at the bottom of her trunk immediately.

Everybody around her seemed to grow into their bodies, like a sapling becoming a tree. Lily stopped looking in mirrors and made sure her robes were oversized enough to cover the outline of her body. She rejected James’ calls and focused on what she could control: her mind.

James loved her body, she now knew. He’d said as much during sex. In those moments, she’d briefly been grateful for her softness, because James treated her skin and curves and fat with such reverence, it nearly made her cry. She’d been doing better with it, lately, but it was hard to reconcile this James with the James of the past, who’d said everything with a taunting smile, never expecting any consequences.

How had he emerged from a cocoon, suddenly gentle and handsome? When had the date proposals turned genuine in her mind?

It is this that Lily hates: the rumination, questioning every little detail. Growing up, it had seemed she had to work to be loved. Now, it was hard to believe somebody just… could, without challenge or difficulty.

James Potter seems to be at the center of all these enigmas.

~*~

These days, there is no world where Lily Evans does not love James Potter. It’s astounding to her that she could not ever feel complete. James completes her, undoubtedly. She wonders if all those years of silent tears were because of the lack she didn’t know was there.

James grew up, and Lily did too. He stopped tormenting first-years in the halls, and she let down her guard a little. After the whole thing with Sev… Lily thought she hated James Potter more than ever, but it seemed to have sobered him a little. That fifth year marked a metamorphosis. James stopped talking to Sirius, started putting his head down to work, left Lily alone finally. It was strange to witness the change. Mary remarked that for the first time in years, there wasn’t a lazy smirk on his face.

Maybe the first time Lily Evans decided she didn’t much mind James Potter was the beginning of sixth year, in Care for Magical Creatures, watching him gently tend to a Kneazle’s matted fur. She watched his face, the soft smile that spread across his lips as he ran a hand down each untangled section. It appeared there was some kindness in him after all.

Lily’s two liasons, Marlene and Remus, agreed that James was not playing an elaborate prank on Lily with respect to his alleged affection for her. She tended only to agree with Remus; Marlene had two very noticeable blind spots in her judgement, and those blind spots were named James Potter and Peter Pettigrew. But Remus… Remus, to an extent, understood how deep James’ flaws ran.

She spent a lot of time that year debating the pros and cons of James Potter, every detail of his that she could see. A good list is Lily’s greatest skill, after all. She wondered what could make him so special, so deserving of love and attention, and why she now felt compelled to give him all of those after years of hatred.

He was observant, certainly. For that year’s Christmas, he’d gotten her a specific pair of muggle earrings she’d been wanting and had only mentioned briefly in conversation. He was caring, in how he looked after Remus during full moons. He was whip-smart, even if he chose not to show it.

She scrutinized every little bit of James and came away with one unfortunate conclusion: Lily had some seriously hopeless feelings for James Potter.

~*~

They spend the morning waltzing around London. James apparates them there, taking her almost immediately to a Parisian restaurant for breakfast. He frowns when she douses her French toast in maple syrup and laughs when she pours some onto his croissant, wiggling his eyebrows impressively as he eats it anyway.

When he holds her hand walking down the street, Lily thrums with joy. Their hands fit so well together, like a broken locket completed, and it feels right. It feels right to love him like this.

They go to see some old movie rerun, and Lily tucks her head into the crook of James’ neck, letting his hands thread through her hair, tilting her chin up to kiss her softly. He traces the shape of her lips, her collarbones. He knows her so well, knows every intricacy of her body, how her hips buck slightly when he ghosts a finger along the back of her ear, how she moans softly when his lips move to her inner thigh. He makes her feel good, he makes her feel beautiful, he makes her feel alive.

Today, they aren’t a teenage witch and wizard in the midst of a war. They are lovesick teenagers, giggling and kissing in a theatre, with no cares in the world.

~*~

James opens the door before Lily even has a chance to knock.

“Nobody’s home,” he says before she can say anything first. Lily stares up into his eyes, big and brown and framed with long dark lashes. He is gentle as a deer in these moments, and she thinks of their joined patronuses back in DADA class, when his cheeks had gone red as his deer pranced around her doe.

Without hesitation, Lily crashes into him, sucking at his lower lip and swiping her tongue across his teeth. He whispers something she doesn’t quite hear, tanging his hands in her hair, cradling her head so tenderly as they move through the house together as one, pressing up against the kitchen counter. Lily moves fervently down his body, licking every ab and pressing her thumb into every divot of his skin as though to memorize it. James doesn’t let her get too far, pushing her back gently to go down on her instead. Lily’s vision explodes into vivid colour.

This is not the first time that summer, nor is it the last. James brings her home, or they hide away in public, desperate for a taste of one another but terrified of being caught. To this day, Lily does not know where the shame came from, but it was there, nonetheless.

The first boy Lily kissed was Tilden Toots, a year above her, on the astronomy deck in third year. His lips were dry and all she could focus on was the way his hands gripped too hard at her back, at her love handles.

It wasn’t immediately easy with James either, but they knew each other well enough by that point to navigate it without judgement. Lily had spent so much time watching James that she knew which fingers he used most, the sensitive spot on his bicep, where exactly to press kisses to make him shiver. Still, it took time to get so comfortable like this, for Lily to stop trying to cover herself when naked.

Lily wants to grow old with James, to have two rocking chairs side by side, watching their grandchildren play in the yard. She wants to trace James’ palm and have it be exactly how she knows it, to be familiar with it even beyond the new wrinkles and scars. She wants to know him inside and out, and to be known inside and out too.

It is strange to admit, but she had thought as a kid that she would end up with Sev one day. Nobody knew her like he did, nobody could reach down into the depths of her soul with a single look, a half-smile. She’d loved him like nobody else, back then.

Except, she’d grown up, and he hadn’t.

James knew what it was like to grow, to mature, to change. Lily knew she and Severus would have been caught in the same patterns, over and over again, the same back and forth of childhood banter and love. That could not be enough to sustain a human relationship, she knew, but it hurt all the same.

James surprises her constantly, and she loves him for it.

~*~

They are walking down a pier. Early march snowflakes still fall around them, sticking in James’ messy hair.

“James, that’s not how televisions work.”

“I’m most certain that’s exactly how they work.” James argues, an arm wrapped protectively around Lily’s shoulders as they walk. “Sirius has one, anyway.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t be surprised if he just had a painting up and thought it was a TV.”

“Hey, insulting my best friend is off-limits, love.”

“I’m serious!”

“No, he’s Sirius.”

Lily glowers at him until his face cracks into a grin. “Didn’t I say no more serious-Sirius jokes?”

“I believe that was only in place when we are together, not just you and me.”

“New rule.” Lily sticks her finger up in the air.

James suddenly stops walking, lifting a hand to stop her.

The sunset, directly in front of them, paints the sky into gorgeous shades of orange, pink, and yellow. Lily stares, jaw open.

“It’s… beautiful.”

“Yeah.” James sounds distracted, but Lily does not take her eyes off the sunset, watching it change and shift before her eyes. Growing up, when Lily thought of magic, she thought of this: the beauty of space and the universe. These days, she still thinks this is the simplest and most enchanting form of magic out there.

“Are you seeing this, James?”

“Lil—”

Lily looks over.

James is kneeling on the pier, looking up at her, holding a box.

Lily’s jaw drops.

James smiles sheepishly and bites his lip to keep from fully grinning. “Lilyflower—”

“Pause.” Lily says, reaching to cup his cheek with her palm, wiping at her own wet cheeks with the other. “Please. Just let me live in this for a moment.”

James Potter, the first boy to smile at her at the Sorting.

James Potter, who soared after the Snitch with determined passion, even as his eyes flitted to her for just a moment during the chase.

James Potter, sneaking a hand down her shirt, murmuring how beautiful she is.

James Potter, hiding a smile from across the common room when they met eyes.

James Potter, who gave her a home, who gave her a family, who gave her nothing but endless love.

“Okay,” Lily says, nodding through her tears. “Go ahead.”

James can do nothing to hide his giant smile as readjusts his position on his knee and looks back up into her eyes. “Lilyflower, from the moment I saw you on that train that very first time, I knew I would marry you… even if I was an idiot back then.” Lily laughs wetly. “I saw how intelligent you are, how kind and caring, how loyal and brave, how wonderful you are, and I knew I would do everything in my power to make myself deserving of your love, because you deserve nothing but the best. You have challenged me, and pushed me, and given me your total heart and soul, and I am the luckiest man in the world.” James’ eyes glitter with unshed tears. “I love you, Lily Evans, and it would be my greatest honour if you would agree to marry me.” He holds the ring up higher. “Will you marry me?”

Lily cannot explain the bursting of her heart inside her chest. “James Potter, I will marry you.”

James laughs, a bright and vibrant sound, and shakily takes the ring, sliding it up onto Lily’s finger. His hands are on her face, in her hair, on her neck, kissing and whispering and thanking her. Lily cannot stop laughing and crying, holding him so tightly, listening to their heartbeats sync up in their chests, beating a single word: love, love, love.

~*~

Mary keeps a journal filled with letters she’ll never send.

Most of them are to Nico or Lily, a few here and there to Rafe and Ana, or to her parents. In all of these, though, there is an element missing, something excluded. No mention of magic here, no talk of home there.

That leaves several letters, growing in number, that Mary addresses to “You”. This is the only person who knows the truth of Mary’s identities, who knows her as well as anyone can.

“You” isn’t around right now, and Mary will never send her these letters anyway.

She writes about everything she remembers and misses. She writes about the softness of her bed at home, the smell of her father’s laundry detergent, the way Rafe used to whisper her name so she’d pick him up.

She writes about sharing a bed with Marlene and Lily during first year when Mary got homesick, about the time that Peter hugged her silently outside the third-floor girl’s washroom when she got her first period.

She writes about Remus and the apple, Marlene teaching her to fly, Sirius spinning her around at a Gryffindor party. She writes about leaving home, about Euphemia pressing a hand to Mary’s head with affection.

She writes about Milton Mulciber, where the hesitation with her wrists comes from. “You” already knows the story, but Mary tells it again anyway, trying to rid herself of the poison.

She does not write about the two of them. “You” remembers, and Mary remembers, and she does not want to put it to paper.

She does not write about seventh year together. That is off-limits.

Mary wants something so badly that her chest aches constantly. She does not know what it is that she wants, but it hurts regardless. That’s all she does these days: hurt.

Was it any easier back then? Hurting and bleeding so openly within safe walls, surrounded by love? The walls are still safe now, and the people she loves are still here, but it is all different. Everything has changed, and Mary cannot go back.

Everything has changed, and Mary will never be able to go back.

~*~

Pandora Rosier knows that she will die.

Of course, everybody knows that they will die, unless you are Nicholas Flamel, in which case, kudos.

But Pandora knows how, and why, and even roughly when. She knows her daughter will witness her death, too. That bit is harder to chew on.

Even though some part of her wishes she didn’t know, that doesn’t really matter. It’s her responsibility to hold onto the knowledge, and maybe to do some good with it. The ending is set in stone, but the in-between can be changed.

The war will end, Pandora will live for a while before she dies, and the world will go on.

Sybill does not know how to control what she sees, and she has fits in the dorm room where she says things she doesn’t remember. Benjy Fenwick, for all that he pretends, sees something too. As far as she can tell, Pandora is the only one who knows the end destination.

Is it lonesome? She doesn’t think so. Sure, people think she’s weird and crazy, but in their defense, she is weird and crazy. Pandora isn’t hurt when people tease or mock her, because they are just reacting how kids do. And Pandora is kind in return, because that’s what Pandora does.

Kindness doesn’t bring people back. It won’t make Evan nice or happy again, and that stings. But Pandora still loves him.

It is hard for regular people to understand the truth of prophecy. Most people laugh when she makes off-handed comments. Not Xeno. When she plopped down next to him during dinner in first year and stated that because they’re going to marry one day, they’re basically engaged and should get to know each other, Xeno had blinked, shrugged and smiled.

Xenophilius Malfoy. Pandora suspects that her soul was cleaved in half at birth and given to him. Her heart is half-Evan, her soul half-Xeno. She would find him anywhere, among the stars or beneath the earth. Pandora Eurydice Rosier and Xenophilius Orpheus Malfoy, intertwined like honeysuckle around a hazel tree, meant to be.

If she were someone else, maybe it would be difficult to know the future before it comes true. Pandora likes to think of it as a little extra time she gets. There is no need to rush, nothing to fear. Pandora can rest her head on Xeno’s chest and know that she is right on time.

~*~

“Do you want to know a secret?” Pandora asks, tilting her face upwards into the sun, squinting in the light.

Xeno, head in Pandora’s lap, fiddles with a dandelion crown. “Always.”

“Our daughter’s name is Luna.”

“Do you name her or do I?”

Pandora deliberates. “Undecided.”

Xeno’s pale lashes catch the sunlight. “Since you said her first name, I think I should pick her middle name.”

“That seems fair.” Wordlessly, they lift a hand to shake on it.

“Do you know it already? Her middle name?”

Pandora shakes her head, running her thumb absent-mindedly over Xeno’s eyebrow. “No. I think we like it, though.”

“Certainly.” Xeno drops the crown on his stomach, fingers tapping the air as he hums along softly to a inaudible song. His fingers stall suddenly. “Do you know more than you’re letting on right now?”

“Mmhm.”

Xeno shrugs and goes back to tapping. “Alright. All in due time.”

“All in due time.” Pandora echoes, settling her thumb in the crease between his eyebrows, where it fits perfectly.

~*~

Lightning will signal the end of the war.

What sort of lightning, Pandora isn’t sure. Maybe Lord Voldemort strikes on a stormy night.

She feels a sort of sadness for Lily Potter—Lily Evans, she is now. She was always kind to Pandora, and she looks a bit like an angel: cherubic and good. When they still went to school together, Pandora used to leave her flowers around the school, charmed so Lily would be drawn over to find them. She wanted Lily to know she had somebody who cared for her, even if they didn’t speak.

Pandora can’t imagine dying without being known she is loved, and so she is that person for others.

Barty Crouch Jr. doesn’t realize he is loved. She can see it in his eyes, the blankness. When he and Evan were still friends, he was civil to her. When he came crawling back, fifteen and bags under his eyes, kicked to the curb, Pandora extended him a hand without hesitation.

He’s a broken boy, and he is misguided. Pandora thinks his father has lived in his head longer than he himself has. Despite it all, Pandora loves him. She holds him upright between herself and Xeno at dinner and plucks the cigarettes from his lips and tries her very best to keep him from hurting others or himself.

Sometimes, all you can do is love someone, regardless of what will happen. His path is bad, she knows that even without knowing the future: a gut feeling, like falling off a cliff.

She felt that way about Evan since they were little, that thin little boy with a purple bruise on his cheekbone, holding up a rock for her to see. Those years of just the two of them, together in the meadow, catching frogs and climbing trees, when there was no war to be fought.

When their mother left, the bundle that was Pandora’s baby brother in her arms, she didn’t see it coming. She was eight, already burdened with the future but not quite understanding what it all meant. When she left, the light went out of Evan’s eyes. He stopped protecting Pandora from the blows, started attending those top-secret meetings with their father.

Pandora was never brought to those meetings. Her father used to spit in her eye, calling her a freak, a disgrace. He leaves her alone these days, because he has realized she will not change. Evan, the perfect Rosier heir.

Evan will die, and their father will be imprisoned for life, and her mother will never come home, and baby Felix will never quite understand it all.

All of this is the future. Pandora holds it tightly so nobody can corrupt it, even when it burns her hands.

~*~

When she was ten, it was decided that she would marry Regulus Arcturus Black.

Regulus, the cousin of her cousins, thin and pointed, face carefully painted blank. Pandora watched him from across the room, at the way his eyes flicked to hers and away again, curiosity dulled either intentionally or without effort.

Pandora will not marry Regulus Black. That is simply a fact, one that she was well aware of at the time. And yet, she knows that they will work together in some way, somehow.

Barty says Regulus is strange, indifferent, incapable of kindness or empathy. Pandora watches him closely, the choreography of his movements, everything meticulous and perfect for the new Black heir.

He is gone these days, absent from the halls. Xeno confirms Regulus got the dark mark, based on what he heard from his cousin Lucius. He could go on to be the greatest Death Eater in the history of the wizarding world.

Except, Pandora knows something: Regulus will betray the Dark Lord, and he will use her help.

And so, she loves him too, in a way. She was kind to him always, even when his arched brow communicated nothing but contempt. She smiled at him as he walked away with Evan and Barty, and knew that it didn’t much matter what he felt, because he could come around one day.

~*~

She creates spells sometimes, her and Xeno. Rosiers are known for their proficiency with spell-making, something about keeping everyone on their toes. Evan was never that good at it, he lacked creativity. Pandora imagines worlds that could never exist, and sparks fizzle from her fingertips.

Regulus has noticed, she knows. She finds pages tucked into library books, cursive scribbled in every blank space, calculations and symbols and bits of spells here and there. She takes them out of the library, perfects the calculations, gives the book back with the pages in there. It’s like a game, a matching of wits. Much more engaging than gobstones, that’s for sure. A part of her likes the challenge, likes opening books to a chapter on horcruxes, and trying to understand what clue this is.

Pandora is strange, peculiar, odd, but she also knows how to play the game. A pureblood instinct, she presumes. All of the pureblood families stuck in a constant game of chess, and Pandora suspects that she and Regulus Black are aligned in their movements.

Xeno has never really been a Malfoy. He is much too mild-mannered, for one, lacking in conviction or passion for the cause. He is bizarre, awkward, none of the charm or ease characteristic of his family. Even Xanthe, his younger sibling, knows how to play a crowd better.

She senses his disconnect, holds him close to her, but she does not pretend she understands how he feels. Because sure, the Rosiers have splintered long ago, and they are a broken, rotten bunch. But Pandora is too, isn’t she? She is a Rosier down to her very core: an innovator, an observer, only risking her neck if there’s a reason to. Unlike Evan, Pandora has a reason not to get involved. All she can do is make sure the future goes on as it should. That means not fighting, only steering from the sidelines.

If she had to make a decision, true free will, Pandora doesn’t know what she would do.

~*~

Once, Pandora couldn’t tell the difference between dreams and the future.

That was mostly wishful thinking, waking up in the dorm with visions of a complete, happy family, feeling it wash away like the tide on a beach.

The future exists alongside the present, simultaneous, both existing all at once. She can see her death as she spoons bananas onto her plate, because both are happening right now.

Dreams are like pieces of porcelain Pandora can only hold so long before it begins to cut into her skin and draw blood. Dreams are not worth indulging, like believing Mother will come home or Evan will hold her again. It’s simply not real, and it never will be.

It is easiest to look onto the other side of her vision, at the crooked house on the top of a hill, with a broken fence, where her pale-haired daughter will chase Nargles and her husband will make her coffee and she will finally be happy and complete. There is no war, no violence for Pandora to concern herself with. Just a quiet, happy life.

Until then, though, the work is not finished.

Pandora is seventeen, and there is still time. There is time to hold Xeno close, to push the hair from Barty’s face, to remember her brother, to continue creating spells and learning all she can.

There is still time, she knows. Time, endless and sprawling, is all Pandora knows.

And so, she lives.