[ r ] you gotta spend some time, love [ prower ]

[Lily Evans]

i love you in the same way as
there's a chapel in the hospital

Severus?
“Severus.”

Sev? Where are you?
“Sev, where are you?”

Sev, I’m not playing! If you don’t come out right now, I’m going home.
“I’m not coming back.”

Oh! There you are! I was worried.
“And neither are you.”

I saw the sparks over your house and I was afraid . . .
“I believe in right and wrong.”

I thought maybe you’d been attacked. They’re getting bolder.
“And you?”

No, of course not; I know you wouldn’t get mixed up in things like that.
“I believed in you.”

You’re not, right? I mean, I know Mulciber . . . And Mary said something about you and Lucifer—Malfoy. I mean Malfoy.
“But I guess I should have known I wouldn’t find you here.”

I know. I believe you. You’re my best friend.
“I should know by now.”

In the whole world.
“You can’t go home again.”

I love you.

one foot in your bedroom
and one foot out the door

Lily Evans had grown up.

It was a gradual change—something she hadn’t noticed while it was happening. Sure, there were the birthday candles and the piles of presents that marked the passage of months, days, years. But those were holidays; she didn’t measure time in holidays. She measured presents, things, and haves in holidays. Time was measured in something else; something she had yet to encounter.

She found it there, with her freckled arms spackled with the gray-green shadows of the leaves not-so-high-anymore above her. A long time ago—or not so long ago, she was only just beginning to think in terms of time—it had seemed this grove of trees had been apart from the world. Their branches had been so thick that, sheltered within them, nothing could touch her.

Now there were gaps between the leaves and gaping holes in the walls of her imaginary world. Beyond the trees was a playground, the playground, that had settled so comfortably into the fork in the road that split to go, in one direction, to happy little Oakwood Drive and, in the other, to depressed and depressing Spinner’s End. It had once seemed a whole dimension away; now it penetrated in primary-colored wounds everywhere she looked. She could not escape it.

Their little grove was not an escape anymore.

The little creek—once big enough to swim in, now barely a trickle, unable to sustain aquatic life outside of the mosquito family—relentlessly reflected her face back at her, blinding her eyes with its brilliance, burning the image into her retinas so that it lingered, even when she turned away. The freckles had multiplied; the light in her cat-like penetrating eyes had diminished. Her long red hair was tied into a bun; she never let it hang down in waves and corkscrews and the occasional straight lock anymore. She didn’t recognize the teeth behind her chapped red lips. Only in a grimace had they been exposed recently.

Worse, though her face seemed to be arranged more or less the way it had been a year and a half ago, her body seemed to have done all the growing she had longed for it to undergo years ago in under a year. Her breasts—bra-less, she was a liberated woman—were heavy on her chest, something she had noted occasionally with annoyance, but had never stopped to peer at. She looked, she decided, far more like a woman than the helpless child she felt like. Finally—too late for Severus to notice, the thought was determinedly planted in the front of her mind—her hips had spread and her waist had cinched in. She was no longer a chubby little girl she; she was a curvy—well, she didn’t want to be a woman just yet, but she wasn’t a chubby little girl anymore.

It would have been delightful to note this when Severus was by her side, when she could bat her eyelashes like she’d seen the older girls do and push out her chest and pout her lips. When it would have made a difference in their relationship. When it could have been a source of self-esteem.

Now it just made her self-conscious. Now it was nauseating. For once in her entire life, she had the desire to go out and buy one of those ‘objects of subjugation’ her mother loathed so much. Not because she had any desire to lift them up—they seemed perfectly high to her—but because she wanted to put another layer between her body and the prying eyes of the outside world. Because she wanted to disguise them before she had to go back to school and bear the lecherous gazes of all the boys in her year.

All the boys, that is, except for the one she wouldn’t mind.

But that boy didn’t exist anymore. She didn’t know how long she’d been clinging to his corpse, dragging its lifeless limbs around with her, hoping for a miracle. But he had been gone for a long time. For too long to keep on hoping his dark eyes would be opened again.

Severus Snape was gone. And he was not coming back.

a teenage vow in a parking lot
"'til tonight do us part"

Mrs. Evans was not a small woman. In fact, dressed as she was in her super-chic workout uniform—plum-colored sweats with neon stripes up the legs and down the arms; maroon terrycloth bands around her forehead, wrists, ankles; long red-brown hair secured in a pale blue kerchief—she didn’t look much like any sort of woman. She dominated the Stairmaster as she climbed, panting in time with the groaning of each step beneath her weight. Mr. Evans proudly told anyone who would listen about his “one-hundred-percent original wife” and the joy of living with “a woman liberated from societal conformity.”

Lily secretly sort-of wished her mother would crawl into a hole somewhere. Not forever, necessarily; just long enough to work out a marriage contract that couldn’t be violated by her husband’s sudden realization of what Lily would look like when she hit thirty.

Still, she dressed in the orange-red sweats that clashed so horrendously with her red-red hair, tied said hair up with a rubber band she would later have to cut out of it, and moved to the living room with her mother. For emotional support, she said, unwilling to admit that the past two months spent alone in her room had taken a toll on her. Her skin was crawling with anxiety—typical adolescent wanderlust combined with sheer terror of leaving the house.

It wasn’t safe out there anymore. And though she told her mother she had homework; she didn’t want to run into Sev; she hated the heat; she didn’t need any more freckles, she couldn’t diminish the shadows growing in the back of her mind and the depths of her heart. She didn’t get the Daily Prophet anymore—summer was a holiday and she didn’t want to know about all the ‘mysterious disappearances;’ didn’t want to clench her fists and grind her teeth at the blatant ignorance in the world at large. She would catch up on the atrocities when she returned to school.

But even then she couldn’t escape it. Bridges collapsed; neighbors boarded up their houses and went away; children drowned in their garden hoses; entire buildings went missing in the night—even Muggles not directly touched by the wave of darkness were being driven insane because none of the answers that fit were possible and none of the answers that were possible fit.

Other teenagers would have hidden beneath their bed or in the haze of late nights drinking and dancing. Other teenagers would have been climbing the walls, trapped in a small house with a small family; Lily was scrubbing them. She’d peeled the wallpaper—it had been there since before they moved in—from all the downstairs walls, scrubbed them, and then applied fresh coats of paint in red and white and purple and blue—the color of bones and bruises and blood.

God, but she was getting morbid.

She knelt in her sweats, pressing her freckled nose to the wall as she edged a paintbrush along the baseboards, trying to ignore the puffing and wheezing of her mother and the machine. “You know,” Mrs. Evans said, her tone conversational as she heaved and panted, “you could have used tape.”

Lily stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, balancing the line of paint carefully. “Tape’s not exact.”

Mrs. Evans laughed like Mrs. Claus, but for once it was more annoying than amusing. “What about human error?”

“Mum . . .”

“Oh, right,” still she laughed, patronizingly, affectionately, belittlingly. “My little robot.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re stressing me out, little perfectionist. I can’t focus on my sets. Why don’t you hang the laundry, hmm? Your sister’s having Vernon over again for dinner and I need to cleanse the aura before he gets here.”

“Right. Okay. Don’t touch my border.” Lily stood, wiping the paint from her pinkie finger onto the thigh of her sweatpants in an uncharacteristic gesture of absentmindedness. Humming an unfamiliar tune, she sealed the paint can and walked to the adjoining kitchen to rinse her brushes. “I think I’ll eat in my room tonight.”

“Actually, Vernon ’s staying over for the weekend. I thought we’d bunk him in your room. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I thought,” Lily wrinkled her nose—covered in freckles and slightly pink from the little sunlight she had encountered on her occasional walk to the grocery and back—and pretended to concentrate on removing a particularly stubborn spot of paint from the brush’s handle, “I wasn’t allowed to have boys in my room.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Evans carefully turned her face to the counter on her machine to hide it from her daughter. Lily had inherited her father’s poker face, and with it the ability to lie smoothly, but Mrs. Evans was not so lucky. “We thought you’d sleep with Tuney . . . Unless you wanted to stay over with friends?”

“Mum, I—”

“That nice Lisa Greene. You remember her, dear? She came by when you were scrubbing the toilet and asked if you’d like to have dinner tomorrow evening with her and a few of the girls in the neighborhood. I told her you’d be delighted.”

“But I—”

“Unless you’d rather stay home and visit with your sister and her boyfriend?”

“I’d be delighted. What time should I call?”

now versus then
better off against worse for wear

The car ride took a long time. Too long a time, actually, considering Lisa lived two houses down from the Evanses. The walk that followed took even longer. “I want to go out,” Lisa said, smiling as though Lily were being unreasonable. “You don’t get out enough, Evans.”

She was beginning to sound like a certain group of boys she’d left happily back at Hogwarts. A group of boys she wasn’t looking forward to being reunited with; one she definitely hadn’t planned on spending her summer with. In fact, the more Lisa prattled on about the six years since they’d been friends, the more Lily’s stomach began to churn. Perhaps staying home wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. After all, Petunia was at least predictable. And though he wasn’t much else, Vernon was at least excellent at following a routine. Lisa was . . .

Well, if Lily’s body had expanded and changed and her mind had embraced an entire Wizarding world, Lisa had grown ten times more. The Lisa Lily remembered was pudgy and carefree with thick blonde braids and clear blue eyes. Her mother was a hairstylist at the barber shop down the street—the woman who had first taught Lily to tame her wild hair by sleeking it up into a taught, uncompromising bun. Lisa’s father was a mechanic, the man who had rebuilt the Evans’s old green station wagon when Lily ‘borrowed’ it at fourteen and drove it into a lake. They were a family of miracle makers, good English stock, hard working individuals who’s only daughter should have been . . . Been . . .

Well, not like this.

This new Lisa was sort of startling. Her hair was black with startling blue streaks that matched her eyes—Eyes that now resembled a raccoon more than running water, in more ways than one. Her eyeliner was too thick, glittering in the streetlights, and the expression in those once-crystal pools bordered on rabid. Lily edged closer to the edge of the sidewalk when she thought Lisa wasn’t looking, but the other girl always edged right along with her.

Of course, Lily didn’t exactly have room to talk, she thought as she caught her reflection in one of the broken windows she passed. (Good god! Broken windows! If this was England , it was a part she had never before glimpsed. She had her wand in her pocket and she gripped it so tightly she was afraid it might snap in two.) She didn’t exactly look like her innocent-Head-school-girl self, either.

Her hair was down and—through the miracle of good genes—Lisa had somehow to make all of it into a mass of sexy waves instead of the curly-wavy-straight-and-crooked mass that greeted her from the mirror every morning. Her cat-like green eyes seemed to penetrate the darkness, made all the more startling by the thick mascara coating her pale lashes, the heavy liner that seemed to go all the way down to her cheeks. Stained the red of her hair, her lips ached with chap, but the constant jabbing of Lisa’s elbow had trained her to stop sucking on them. It didn’t help much, anyway.

“Where are we going?” Strange, how timid the voice sounded when it came out of her lips. She didn’t look timid. She looked, to put it blatantly, like a cheep hooker. Lisa had somehow stuffed her into dark-washed jeans that fell just below her hip bones and flared out at her ankles. The borrowed emerald-green Indian-print blouse was as loose as the jeans were tight. It hung off one freckled shoulder and fell just high enough to leave her navel bare.

Lisa shot Lily a glare through her slit-like blue eyes and she dropped the arms she had been hugging herself with. “Not far,” she answered, pushing a strand of her long hair from her eyes as she nodded to the long line that curved around the corner just ahead, illuminated dimly by the buzz of neon lights.

Lily’s platform heels caught in a jagged sidewalk crack—she caught herself, but skinned her hand on the brick wall she used as a balance. By concentrating on the pain that blossomed there, she managed to keep herself from retching in the middle of the street, but just barely.

sometimes we take chances
sometimes we take pills

“Twenty pounds, I tell your future.”

“No thanks.”

“You no drink? Why you no drink?”

“I’ve got lemonade, thanks.”

“Wine. Pretty redhead drink red wine.”

“No, thanks.”

“No drink, no fun. Let me see palm.”

Lily, brooding over an icy glass in the corner of exactly the sort of bar she swore she’d never enter, automatically jerked her hand away from the wrinkled Chinese woman before her. She was dripping in jade and amber, so shriveled she looked as though the stones dragged her down, and grinning as though to split her face in two as she leaned far over the warped and ancient wood. Drooping and shriveled as she was, her reflexes were faster than Lily’s. Lily was too depressed at her general situation to struggle once her hand was clutched between the woman’s talons.

“I see here, you have great happiness in your life. You are not liking the happiness, no? So you are to be pushing people away and sulking. You are not wanting to be here, I see it.” Lily snorted. No, all sorts of people came to bars, ordered lemonade, and sat as far away from the mass as writhing bodies just for fun. “But you are not escaping your destiny. Your destiny is waiting and you are not escaping him.”

Lily’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Let me guess, a tall, dark stranger?”

The old Chinese woman nodded solemnly, “You are having the gift, child. You are knowing he is just behind you?”

Lily whipped around, sure that the bar tender had picked a stranger out of the crowd for cheep tricks. Her heart stopped. He certainly seemed to be coming towards her. His eyes locked on hers. His step was confident. And he was tall. And dark. But he wasn’t a stranger.

“Sev?” Lily gasped, but as soon as the word was out of her mouth she flushed. A single step moved him from the shadows into the light and she saw all the little details the dark had camouflaged. His hair was long and straight but not-quite-black, his eyes were green, his shoulders were stooped with alcohol, not weariness.

“Hey, do I know you?” When he grinned, she had to recoil at the strength of his breath.

“N—No.”

“Can I buy you a drink anyway?”

“N—Sure. Sure.”

It only took one beer, two shots, and a glass of wine before Lily wouldn’t have recognized herself. That is, if Lily was capable of recognizing anyone anymore. Her green eyes had hazed over and her timid little hands had become bold, reaching out to grasp at any sort of human contact she could find. She was desperate, lonely, and liberated by what was to her an excess of liquor.

“Hi,” she breathed into the ear of one boy as she ground her hips, hard, against his. But then she looked into his eyes, saw blue, and pushed him away.

“Come here often?” She grinned in response to cheesy pick-up lines as she swayed with the crowd, keeping her balance the way she would on a ship, using too much effort to keep on her feet to bother keeping with the beat. But she pushed that boy away, too, and the occasional man as well. Their hair was too light. Their eyes were too dull. Their bodies were too strong. Their smiles too pure.

“Sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You’re not who I’m looking for.” Then she threw her arms into the air, laughing cynically and bitterly, as much a release as crying. She spun around and around, too fast for the beat and too slow for Lily’s taste. She spun around and around until she couldn’t spin anymore, until she collided with another victim. Her fingers latched into his arms, providing her an anchor, and when the room stopped spinning she looked up to a face that was surprisingly satisfying.

Dark hair, dark eyes, clear skin, crooked grin. Shite. Of all the tall, dark men in the world, she groaned, trying to straighten up. Instinctively, she tangled her fingers in her hair, trying to straighten it. Another hand ran over her face, attempting to arrange that properly, too. “Potter,” she breathed, slowly and shakily backing away. “What are you doing here?”

i sing the blues
and swallow them, too

[James Potter]

How I wish you could see the potential
The potential of you and me

It was the definition of a perfect summer day, the sun glaring down upon any brave soul who ventured outside, the breeze nonexistent, not a single cloud marring the blue sky. Just a year ago, James Potter would have been outside, soaking up as much sunlight as he could. He would have spent hours flying and playing Quidditch, then eventually gone into the nearby town to pick up as many pretty girls as he could find.

Unfortunately, a lot had changed involving James and his hobbies.

It wasn’t that he was completely infatuated with Lily—he really had gotten a lot better. It was only towards the end of his sixth year that he had decided to change his plan of attack. Badgering her constantly to go out with him only further annoyed her. His name had a negative connotation when brought up in a conversation, no matter what was said. He had to change the way she saw him, make her see his good side, or he would never have a chance.

It was around the time that this realization hit him that he left Hogwarts for summer holiday. It was probably a good thing, it gave him plenty of time to practice potential conversations with ‘Lily’ (who was really Peter with a wig) and decide what he should and shouldn’t do around her. But he preferred making up his game plan as he went along. Love wasn’t a Quidditch game and he had very little patience.

In just one short year, he would graduate and move on to Auror training. Lily would… do whatever it was that she was planning to do with her life. He had tried to get Remus to tell him, but apparently he considered that part of their ‘private conversations’, the bugger. It was a high possibility that James would hardly ever see Lily, if ever again.

The world outside of Hogwarts was changing, fading. People were dying everyday, hundreds of them. Voldemort was gaining more followers as he went along, whether by fear or admiration, and it wouldn’t be long before not even Hogwarts could shield everyone James cared about. What would he do if something happened to Lily before she gave in to him?

He didn’t like to think about it.

He had been cooped up in his house for nearly a week, scarcely leaving his room unless it was to get food. Uncharacteristically, he had isolated himself from his three best friends. Even Sirius had no idea what was going on, but James would apologize to them later.

He had subscribed to all sorts of girl magazines, scouring every inch of them as if the dating tips were especially written for him to use to court Lily. He had a large stack of self-help books, most of which made him repeat the same line over and over. I, James Potter, am a good person. I, James Potter, am a good person. As if he needed another ego inflation.

If Sirius ever found out, James knew he would never hear the end of it. But he only had a year left. Not even that long, really. And then it would all be over. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after graduation. Lily would be all too happy to rid herself of the nuisance that James was known as, but he wouldn’t give up, even after that. He would never get over her. How he knew that, he was not sure. Just that he wouldn’t.

It's like a book elegantly bound
but in a language that you can't read—just yet

Sighing, he ignored the persistent knocking on his door as he continued to read the latest issue of Teen Witch. Apparently, he was going about this all wrong. He should be flirtatious, but not obnoxious, with the woman he was trying to woo. He should also give her lots of presents. They liked that, apparently. Why hadn’t anyone told him?

And, more importantly, what was he going to give Lily? He would get her muggle clothing but he didn’t know her size, though he had a sweater of hers from fourth year… she had most definitely grown since then, but maybe she would still want it back. Jewelry might work, but she rarely wore it. Did that mean she didn’t like it or simply didn’t make the effort to put it on? He could buy her a book, but chances are she would have already read it.

Okay, forget the present-giving. That would come later, when he knew what she would prefer.

Turning the page, he grimaced at the interview with the singer of Crup. He was about as attractive as the beast the band was named after, but apparently he was quite swoon-worthy, or at least that was the word that the magazine used. Grimacing, he threw the magazine off of the bed.

“I’m way sexier than he’ll ever be.”

“Who?”

Jumping, James shoved a large stack of books off of his nightstand, watching all of the advice he had gathered fall to the floor. Pushing his glasses up his nose, his eyes flickered to the voice that was suddenly present in his room. Sirius stood in front of his open window, broomstick in hand. Clever.

“Schyler Badgett,” James replied grudgingly.

“Oh, right. He’s the bloke with the nose, isn’t he?”

Sirius sat on James bed, stretching out. He seemed not to notice the large pile of books and magazines strewn across the floor but James knew him too well, he would soon be asking questions. And it would get even worse as he saw his friend’s concern. It wasn’t uncommon for people to be concerned with James’ mental health, but Sirius never second guessed him. Until now, anyway.

And, despite all of his quirks, Sirius had never gone so far as to read stupid books in order to get the girl. He always got her, regardless of whether or not he was interested in her for more than something to pass the time. James wasn’t so lucky. Sure, there were plenty of girls who would have gladly gone out with him. But he wanted more in a relationship than sneaking a snog in a broom cupboard in-between classes . And Lily thought him immature…

“Yeah. The bloke with the nose. The big, fat nose. What do they see in him?” he asked, his tone incredulous.

“Well, James, he’s in a band. That instantly adds sex appeal. And there’s the fact that—Hey! We should start a band. I could be the lead singer and you could be the guitarist and Remus can be bass and Peter can be drums and it’ll be brilliant!”

“Sirius.”

“What?”

“You can’t sing.”

“How do you know?”

“You sing in the shower. Every morning.”

“Oh, right. Well. I guess that would bring in too many birds, anyway. I have so little free time as it is.” Sirius mock-sighed.

You gotta spend some time—love,
you gotta spend some time with me

James rolled his eyes, stepping off of his bed and crossing the room to his trunk—that he had yet to unpack, instead the items of it were strewn across his room—and digging through it until he found a clean set of robes. Tugging them over his head, he bent to grab his quaffle and threw it up in the air --

“Relationships for the impaired wizard?!”

-- and not catching it when it came down.

“BUGGER!”

“What is wrong with you, mate?”

“Quaffle… my head…”

“No, I’m talking about something way more important. I’m worried about you. This whole infatuation with Evans is becoming unhealthy.”

“Unhealthy?! The fact that I can’t see straight is unhealthy, Padfoot.”

“That’ll go away. I don’t know that your obsession will. You really need to get laid. Why don’t we go into town and find you—“

“I don’t want anyone else. I don’t need anyone else.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t even looked at another woman for almost a year!”

“I don’t need to. I know that they aren’t the same. None of them are her.”

“Prongs.”

“You don’t understand. You never have.”

“James.”

“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT LOVE IS.”

Sirius dropped the book, getting off the bed and walking to stand in front of James. James frowned, hazel eyes peering intently at his toes.

“I don’t, do I? Because I’ve never had a real family, have I, James? I’ve never had anyone care about me. I’ve never cared about anyone. It would be frivolous to think that I would ever think about anyone but myself. Isn’t that right, James?”

“Padfoot, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“That you don’t understand. You don’t understand me.”

“You don’t let me understand. You don’t even talk to me anymore.”

“Because you don’t get it. You never have.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“Because you haven’t been in love.”

“Because I can’t.”

“Because you won’t.”

“And why won’t I?”

“You’re afraid of getting hurt. Of them letting you down. Like everyone else has. And maybe they will. But you can’t live forever in fear, Padfoot.”

“I think I can decide that for myself. Thanks for the enlightening discussion, Prongsie.”

“Sirius. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” Sirius grinned. “Selfish? It’s what I am, mate. You should know that by now.”

And I know that you'll find—love,
I will possess your heart

James didn’t realize Sirius was leaving until he was gone, out the window and flying over the trees of Godric Hollow. He turned around, kicking his bed.

“Bloody… fuck.”

Throwing himself facedown on the bed, he pulled the pillow over his head and clenched his eyes closed. It wasn’t like he had never fought with Sirius before. When they were younger, they had argued over everything. They hadn’t had a fight like this, though. There was something about the bitter tone in Sirius’ voice that still echoed painfully in James’ ears. It wasn’t like he had insulted Sirius or anything. Not on purpose. Sirius must have just felt like fighting. He was the one who had initiated it, anyway.

James was incapable of convincing himself.

He didn’t want to hurt Sirius. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Besides any Slytherin and that one seventh year Ravenclaw who had made Lily giggle and blush when complimenting her studying habits. It was a lucky thing that he had graduated or James would have been forced to break his face. His nose was already crooked, nobody would notice.

Anyway, back to the situation at hand. Sirius was mad at James. Probably feeling very hurt on top of that. James had rubbed salt on his wounds. It was no surprise that he had run off as soon as possible. Sitting up, James glanced out his window. He could easily follow Sirius, he couldn’t have gone too far. But then what would he say? ‘I’m sorry I took my frustration out on you, I know your parents don’t love you but I do!’?

No, he had a much better idea.

Reluctantly removing himself from his bed, he tugged his new robes over his head and dropped himself to the floor, rummaging under his bed for a box. Flipping open the top, he grabbed a pair of dark wash denim jeans and a navy tee shirt with an irrelevant slogan on it. He pulled them on, grabbing a handful of muggle money from the drawer in his nightstand and unlocking his door. He stepped over Peter, who was sprawled in the hallway, and didn’t look at Remus as he walked towards the stairs leading down to the second floor of his house.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I’ll be back later.”

“Prongs. Prongs! James!”

Ignoring Remus, he grabbed his wand from the kitchen counter and stepped outside, closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following him, instead closing his eyes and imagining himself somewhere else. An abandoned alley, near that one place where he went when he really needed to be alone.

Opening his eyes, he wrinkled his nose at the change of scenery. The muggle dump was a lot less attractive than the carefully constructed lawns of Godric Hollow. Eager to leave the alley, he stepped over a rat and smirked when he thought of Peter. James enjoyed being with other deer when he was in his animagus form but, he couldn’t imagine being with the other rats. Did Peter actually like crawling through sewers? He probably did not want to know.

He only had a few blocks to walk, but the air was slightly brisk for the summer. He wished he had thought to bring a jacket, but that was just one more thing to keep track of when his mind was inevitably muddled by alcohol. It was probably better that he hadn’t. Muggle clothes could be expensive and he wasn’t interested in wasting even more of his parent’s money.

I long for this mirrored perspective
when we'll be lovers, lovers at last

It didn’t take him long for him to reach his destination, a small bar with a catchy one-word name that was completely unimportant to James. He sat at the bar, and not one of the very attractive-looking tables lurking in a corner, requesting a shot of whiskey. It didn’t take long for him to forget how many he had downed. The bartender told him eight but it seemed like more than that. He had plenty more to go before he was drunk, but there was currently a minor nuisance distracting him from his drinking.

At some point, a scantily-clad blonde girl (or perhaps woman, James couldn’t tell) had positioned herself under James arm, her lips on his ear, his throat, his shoulder. He twitched, sliding off of the booth and dropping a couple of bills on the table and wiping the slobber off of his neck in one fluid motion.

“Sorry love, it’s really not your night.”

He stumbled out of the bar, not waiting until he got far enough into the next alley to cloak himself before disappearing with a crack!

It was better, here, in the bigger bar. There were masses of bodies pulsing together to the music, the lights flashing in all the colors that James couldn’t remember the names of. It probably wasn’t that big of a place, but it seemed massive to someone who abruptly felt so small. He pushed through the crowd, demanding a gin and tonic and slapping the bill on the counter before downing the drink in a matter of minutes and ‘swaggering’ to the dance floor.

He was dancing, grinding, swaying to the music, to the beat in his head, to the angry pound in his ears. He didn’t care who it was that he was clenching onto so hard that he imagined he would leave bruises; it only lasted for a few minutes before he moved to the next. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t the same. They were too strong, too fragile, too happy, too pure.

And she was spinning. He could see her, her body swaying to a rhythm that had yet to be played over the loud speakers. She was so intangible that he felt that he could breathe her in, swallow her whole, and then she would be nothing at all, everything he needed, wanted, wished for. She would fill him up inside and he wouldn’t ever hurt again.

And then she wasn’t intangible anymore, she was there before him, her hands on his arms, her eyes on his face, her scent everywhere. She was there.

He couldn’t help the smile that made its way to his lips, the relieved sigh a whisper on his lips. It felt as if she had taken every ounce of his happiness with her, locked it away inside her green eyes, her waves of hair, her rosy lips. It wasn’t fair, but she never had been. He couldn’t find the anger that he should feel, because it was all back again. He lifted a hand, his fingers inches from her cheek when she spoke.

His face fell.

“Evans,” he acknowledged evenly. “I could ask you the same thing. Do they have a library behind the bar?” he inquired, cringing inwardly. He could have said anything but that. Even a cheesy pick-up line would have been better. But he, James Potter, was inebriated. And so very, very stupid.

You gotta spend some time—love
you gotta spend some time with me

[Lily Evans]

The battles only halfway done
I might look young

“Oomph,” Lily muttered under her breath. She’d been flying on the dance floor, rebounding from body to body and spinning so fast she felt she might self-combust. Now sensibility and rationality and a little bit of terror caught up with her, collided with her liquor-bottle body hard enough to send her staggering. One hand detangled itself from her no-longer-sexy-but-still-very-tousled-and-now-also-tangled scarlet locks to grip the electric-shock searing skin of James’s forearm as an anchor, holding her steady as she swayed with the force of her self-to-self collision.

She was dizzy, Lily was now able to assess, and her body had swelled in the heat so that no matter which way she swayed—her return to her senses apparently didn’t coincide with a return of her self-control; she couldn’t seem to keep herself from saying—she was colliding too hard with somebody else, somebody else who was different each time and yet always pushed her right back into James Potter. The beer that poured from her pores in the form of sweat seemed to plaster her there and the more diligently she fought to extract herself the more determinedly she was pressed to him again. The rest of her stupidity puddled in her stomach, wine and beer and vodka shots cooperating as they awaited another, more violent and gravity-defying exit. She wanted to put a hand over her stomach, but the one that was not gripping James was determined to pull her hair into some semblance of order and the one that was gripping him was the only thing keeping her grounded.

One minute, her father’s memory reminded her. One instant of not paying attention and your whole life could fall apart. The fear behind that sentiment was the driving force behind her every decision. Every paper she turned in on time, every curfew she upheld, every late-night spent studying instead of sleeping over—because if she didn’t, if she pulled one single straw from the roof, the entire house would come falling down and she would be trapped beneath the pile of brick’s she’d fought so hard to put up.

And now what? Lily had been thrown off kilter by a boy—of all things, it had to be a boy, it had to be cliché, because this type of stupidity didn’t even deserve originality—for a breath, she’d tossed away a single night and her entire life, her career at school, her reputation, her shell of superiority that had kept her out of harm’s way—everything was in flames for a boy and a bottle of beer.

Of course, this sort of despair was located exactly in the center of her chest, one of those vital two organs that did not seem to be connected to the rest of her body. Her hand continued to hold on to its anchor, her body continued to sway to an unheard beat, and her mouth set out to defend her, entirely unguided by her brain, “JAMES POTTER, HAVE YOU BEEN DRINKING?”

But I'm no less defeated
How's the weather up there?

[James Potter]

You reject my advances
and desperate pleas

It would have been a good idea to speak.

Instead, James chose to watch Lily as she attempted to stay steady on her own two feet, her body swaying and swirling and her fingers clenching his arm so tightly that he could have cried out in pain had it not been for the fact that she was touching him. He was unable to keep his eyes on one thing for more than a few seconds, her rather messy hair, her smudged makeup, her interesting choice in clothing, her hand on his arm, her lips that seemed unable to find the words that she wanted to say.

And then she was speaking, though she still seemed disoriented, and all James could do was gaze at her, in awe. His tongue darted out of his mouth, only slightly less dry than the chapped lips that he tried to give moisture to. His head was still fuzzy with the alcohol, the harsh substance settling rather viciously in his stomach. He probably should have eaten breakfast. Or lunch. Maybe even dinner. Cauldron cakes weren’t very nutritional.

He lifted his arm, the one not being clung to, and lifted his hand to further tousle his hair. Mentally cringing, he raked his fingers through it instead in an attempt to tame it. Giving up after realizing that the better part of his hair was sticking out from his head in odd angles, he instead focused on the threads in his jeans, pulling at them absentmindedly.

“That’s generally what people come to bars for, Evans. Have you?” he inquired, a black eyebrow raised. It was very obvious that she had been drinking, that she didn’t know her limit, or didn’t care what it was. He had a feeling that she was just ignorant, and not careless, as she had never seemed the sort to willingly inebriate herself. She preferred writing essays on obscure potions to getting drunk and waking up next to someone she didn’t recognize. He knew her well enough to know that.

“What are you doing here? It doesn’t seem… like your sort of place.”

He glanced around, teeth worrying his lower lip. She would probably take that the wrong way. He might as well have called her a goody two-shoes, not that he hadn’t before, but still. It was the first time he had seen her in… well, since he had locked himself in his room, and he didn’t want to enrage her. Not yet, anyway.

“Because everyone in here looks extremely unintelligent. I thought that bloke was Crabbe over there,” he added tentatively, flashing a lopsided grin.

I won’t let you let me down, so easily
So easily

[Lily Evans]

I've already given up on myself twice
Third time is the charm

Lily was rapidly flying to pieces. Nothing about her was remotely connected; none of it made any sense. She was eight thousand puzzle pieces of twelve thousand different girls in different countries and none of them were Lily Evans and none of them were where she wanted to be, which was most definitely not in the place where all these puzzle-piece girls could be spread so easily on the floor and kicked apart like maybe they would never fit together again.

Her left hand was wound so tightly in her angry hair that her scalp was crying out in pain, tongues of it like flames fell into her glazed-green eyes, none of it went up in the bun that was imagined for an instant and then fell apart in hair-like-a-train-wreck all around her clothed shoulder, leaving the bare one cold in the breathless, crowded room. Her back was drenched in a drink that she didn’t think was hers; her bottom kept warm in the cradle of a palm that most certainly wasn’t. But she didn’t care, couldn’t care. Lily’s consciousness was locked away somewhere so massive she could reach and reach and reach and never touch a single soul. She felt the pain on her scalp, in the hand that seared a mark into Potter’s forearm, knew that somewhere far away her feet were aching to sit down and her responsibility was aching to find Lisa and drag her home before they were all too wasted to drive home, but all of it was so far away removed from where Lily was she might have been dreaming.

It took everything she had to formulate a response to Potter’s aggravation-interrogation that when she managed to move her mouth—again delayed, the signals got mixed up and for a moment she found herself reaching out with the hand that had balanced her upon him to grope the man groping her—her eyelids drooped in a wired sort of neon-light exhaustion. “No,” she announced, so firmly it almost sounded like sarcasm. Or a lie.

It was most definitely a lie.

The idea had been so slow in coming ‘round she might never have gotten it, and then it just slipped off her tongue like Lily Evans bluffed her way through every encounter with familiar men in strange bars. It probably wasn’t the brightest course of action, but it was a solid plan. Now that she had it, Lily clung to it.

“I’m driving,” she shouted over the music, so cool for an instant that she almost believed it. Then the alcohol flipped her stomach over, returned her to the present, and her face paled. “My friends—my boyfriend’s friends,” she added, since she was already blaspheming pretty much everything that was Lily Evans, “wanted to come and—“ she trailed off, dangling the keys she’d insisted on taking from Lisa when they’d entered the bar before his distracting hazel eyes.

Which would have been a typically superior Lily Evans gesture if she’d had her ordinary coordination. As it was, the keys clattering to the floor between her too-high platforms and his I-don’t-need-heels-to-be-taller-than-you sneakers sent exactly the wrong sort of signal about her sobriety.

“Oops.”

threw caution to the wind
but I've got a lousy arm

[James Potter]

Don’t suppose I’ll ever know
what it means to be a man

He almost believed her. Really, he did. If she hadn’t continued to sway, and grope rather than slap the man behind her, he would have been entirely convinced. And not believing something that Lily said—when he was so desperate to hang on her every word—proved that Lily was a terrible liar. Especially when she was shitfaced.

He frowned, taking a step back in a subtle effort to pull her away from the other man. Even if she was drunk, he would not allow her to give her attention to anyone else. He was her future husband—he couldn’t have her even thinking about another man. It was borderline infidelity.

Wait—did she just say boyfriend?

Shaking himself rather roughly, he curled the fingers of his free hand around Lily’s wrist, glancing down to make sure that her other hand was safely clenching his. His fingertips were starting to go numb but that was the least of his worries. She certainly was strong—though he knew that from the time he made he really angry and she punched him in the face rather than hexing him. Damn her muggle roots. Only not really, because that would probably upset her.

“Boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend? Who is your boyfriend? Is he a muggle? Do I know him? What’s his name? Why is he—whosaidyoucouldhaveaboyfriend?”

He pulled his hand from her grip, raking his fingers through his hair, his eyebrows pulled together in an expression of dismay. He wasn’t ready for this whole boyfriend thing. Lily hadn’t ever really dated. James was fairly skilled at scaring away any competition he had what with gluing future prospects to toilets in obscure hallways and tying their shoelaces together—mature, manly things, he did.

He removed his hand from his hair, grabbing Lily’s other wrist and locking his fingers around it as if he was chaining her to him—his fingers the manacles. Not that he would ever go that far. No, he preferred constantly stalking her to actually forcing her to stay with him. At least she could lock herself in a room if she really wanted to get away. Though that advantage was definitely not one that James favored.

“Evans. You don’t—you don’t really have a boyfriend, do you?”

And he wasn’t angry or disoriented or cocky anymore. The corners of his lips turned down, his eyes so wide that he looked more doe-like than should be possible. He forced himself to loosen his hold on Lily, but not let go. He couldn’t let go. Not then, not ever. Even if she did have a boyfriend. Even if she would never love him. Because he didn’t have anything else to hold onto.

Something I can’t change
I’ll live around it

[Lily Evans]

traced your shadows on the wall

Everything was slowed here, like they were moving through water instead of music. The bass line was thud, thud, thudding so loud in her ears she could have sworn it was her own heartbeat that sped up when he spoke, escalated to a wailing pitch and then died back into the roaring sort of fury that usually bubbled just beneath her freckled skin. Lily Evans may not have inherited her father’s Scottish tolerance, but she’d sure as hell inherited his Scottish temperament. Her face reddened beneath the glow of the blue neon lights overhead, fury and liquor fusing until her face had turned an unattractive shade of purple that might have had just the slightest hint of a green undertone.

“JAMES POTTER!” she screeched, because it was a reflex. Because no one else in the entire world could make her as blind with rage as James Potter. Because the one person who had had deserved to be punctured by that name like a train through the chest, tearing into him and splattering his insides in his dark, open eyes. Vulnerable, just for an instant, and then harsh and cold and hissing forth a thousand curses in languages she didn’t know yet, didn’t know but had to learn in the dreamy-nightmare state she was forced into by those foul goodbyes. Because they echoed, over and over and over in her head, forcing her to breathe in ammonia and peroxide and eighty-proof vodka just to dull the way they banged around in her empty mind. And even now that she was screaming over the hailstorm of notes and nicotine that hung thick in the air, they were still there and she couldn’t get rid of them.

“James Potter!” she shrieked again, less vehemently now, because there was really nothing else for her mouth left to say.

She needed flesh again, needed something hard and firm against her because his presence was breaking the spell and she was breaking apart. Her hands wrenched themselves away from him, more firmly than was necessary, and then flung towards him for an instant as though shaking free of his essence. Jostled by the motion, her feet stumbled, led her fumbling back into the crowd where, somewhere not-Severus and not-Lily’s-Lisa were peeling back layers of skin because they’d run out of clothing and still couldn’t connect.

Lily needed that.

And then, maybe, her mouth did have something left to say because it just kept moving without Lily telling it to. She was just as captive an audience as anyone else, asking her body to please stop of its own accord as her mouth moved of its, turning her head back to James just to see what he’d say, what he’d think of the words she wasn’t thinking and maybe wasn’t even saying, was just listening to through a pair of ears she wasn’t connected to.

“No, Potter. I don’t really have a boyfriend, but if you give me a minute, I’ll find someone to pretend.”

Before she said it, she hadn’t realized how deeply she’d needed to hurt him. But now that it was out, a strange sense of relief washed over her, sickening her lips until they twisted into a mockery of a smile, refusing to take it back.

Then she turned, disengaged herself from him and pressed forward into the swell of bodies, going against the tide as she tried to work her way upstream in a downhill flood of hormones and emotions, hands groping blindly for anything that felt like skin.

now I kiss them
whenever I'm down

[James Potter]

You’re cynical and beautiful
you always make a scene

It didn’t feel like his heart was breaking.

It felt rather like it was missing, gone on holiday until he could find some reason for it to come back. It was rather ironic that not even his heart could stand to be around him. He reminded himself of the argument with Sirius, the reason that he had been drinking himself into oblivion in the first place, and cringed.

He watched Lily walk away, his face wiped of all the vulnerability he had grown accustomed to hiding. He didn’t even remember why she didn’t like him, or why he loved her, for that matter. It was probably something that he had done, in a stage so early in his life that he really shouldn’t be held accountable for his actions. He had been young, so very young, and she had been his elder even then, her childhood pushed away to make room for old age and intellect.

Why did she always get to run away, leaving him standing there with his muggle shoes glued to the ground and his mouth hanging open? Figuratively, of course. And he knew it was because he would never, ever run away from her. He couldn’t, wouldn’t leave her side even if she didn’t want him there. He couldn’t help but hope that one day she would, and she wouldn’t have to look far to find him.

He shivered, though the shared body heat in the room was enough to make him perspire. He was tired of contemplating what action would anger her most, to follow her or not to. There were times when he felt like she ran away just to make sure that he still had the willpower to chase her. That wasn’t fair at all, but supposedly men always fell for the meanest woman they could find. He was probably a masochist.

And what was he doing, anyway? What if she really didn’t like him? And never would. What if this was just him, wasting his life, on someone who would never feel more passionately about him than she already did? He wasn’t looking for hate. He was sort of like the lost puppy, wandering after people in the hope that someone, anyone, would have the heart to take care of him. Because he really couldn’t take care of himself. But what if Lily wasn’t that person; never could be? What would he do then?

It took him several moments to realize that Lily was gone, her body melting into the crowd as she began her search for someone, anyone to pretend to be her boyfriend. It didn’t matter as long as James was gone, away from her. And he wanted to be, if that was what she wished. But he wasn’t going to leave. He didn’t have the motivation.

“Evans,” he muttered, though he knew she wouldn’t hear him.

He waited for another moment, and then flung himself at the crowd; pushing and shoving in a way that made the dance floor seem more like a mosh pit than a circle of dry sex. He found her, but she melted into a woman with an excess of glittering blue eyes shadow who, responding to his touch, pressed her too-red lips to James’ ear. He shoved her back, nose wrinkled at the strawberry blonde hair and brown eyes and wiping his face and neck with his arm as if that would scrub away her saliva. It didn’t, but it made him feel a little better.

“Evans!” James called again, his brow creasing as he tried to imagine her sitting in a corner, alone, doing her best to avoid him. And perhaps that was what she would do, were she not completely and totally intoxicated. She was more likely to be attached to some guy, her arms clinging to him the way she had been clinging to James not very long ago.

And there she was, her tangled hair still thrown over her clothed shoulder, the bare one beckoning to James as he grabbed it to pull her to face him. “Evans,” he repeated, his chest heaving though he hadn’t been exerting himself very much and his heart racing though he certainly did not remember running a marathon any time recently.

“You… need to go home.” And he didn’t mean to say that, there were so many other things for him to say, but after the words had left his lips he resigned himself to the long walk to wherever she was staying. He would enjoy it, inevitably.

You’re monochrome, delirious
you’re nothing that you seem

[Lily Evans]

I’ve loved everything about you that hurts
so let me see your moves

He was tall. He was dark haired. He had dark eyes. A hopeless face. The sallow sort of skin that meant a lack of nutrition and an absence of care. Clothes that hung too loose. Shoes that fit too tight. A body that wouldn’t move to the rhythm. Lanky arms. Lanky legs. Less flesh stretched tight over more bone.

But he wasn’t Severus, this stranger, nor that one over there. He wasn’t her only or her best friend at all. There was nothing comforting in the shallows of his misery. His wallowing did not extend to hers. The rhythm-less non-dance was asking for a partner, not embracing her, not already having her, not pushing her away so desperately that she had no choice but to cling on and hope he got through it on his own, because there was no helping him.

Because, maybe, she was a sucker for that kind of pain.

Maybe there was no helping her, either.

Lily anchored her nails in the fatty flesh of a man—or maybe it was a woman, she couldn’t tell. The hair was long, the mascara thick, the lips curled in that sort of permanent scowl she could have grown to love if the teeth behind it had been more jagged, less clean. If he—or maybe she, couldn’t have gone home and washed off the misery with the make-up, Lily would have been lost in a single glance.

But there was something too calm in the desperation, something already full in the hunger, and she had to cling on hard, press all of her against all of him to make the illusion stretch and pull her under. She squeezed her eyes closed hard, imagined the familiar scent that had once clung to her hair and her clothing so desperately after sneaking out into summer nights.

And she knew she was wallowing, knew that she and Severus could no longer be friends, could never be lovers, because she had spent so long keeping him safe. He wouldn’t know how to protect her in return. And it didn’t matter, anyway, because she wasn’t that kind of girl anymore. She couldn’t be the elitist who turned up her nose at Slytherin and Gryffindor alike. Her world was too big to be reduced to ashes and blinding trust.

But she wished it wasn’t.

Her nails drew blood, she knew, clipped and filed though they were at Lisa’s hands. She could feel the way the flesh gave way beneath her fingers, felt the opening and had the sickening urge to crawl inside just to feel real. Because, she realized with all the clarity granted by layers of illusion and unreality, that was what she was really missing. The way Severus’s eyes saw her and nobody else. The way he made her feel alive. Four dimensional. Not the fairytale her parents thought she was. Not the monster reflecting out of her sister’s eyes.

Real.

But she was spinning, jerking, moving around like some sort of fair ride she couldn’t control and couldn’t even name, so dizzied by the insistent tugging that for a moment she couldn’t see the face beyond the hands. But she spat his name in a low hiss, carried under the wave of the pounding music anyway, because she knew the way he gripped her as if he owned her. Almost like her S—but, no, not quite. James Potter held her like she was sturdy; he had held her like she was going to fly apart.

“Let go of me!” Lily screeched, flailing helplessly, and it tasted a lie like everything else tonight. Because his bruising gentleness wasn’t trying to make her into someone she wasn’t. Because there was recognition behind the haze in his hazel eyes. Because he saw her, and she was so addicted to that feeling that she couldn’t bring herself to spout any of the thousand words she knew would send him away. She fought weakly, pathetically. She couldn’t respect herself if she didn’t struggle, but she couldn’t bear to have him go.

“What is your problem, Potter? I told you, I’m here with my friends. I’m not just going to leave.”

let me see your moves

[James Potter]

I’m drowning in your vanity
your laugh is a disease

Eyes moving to slightly above Lily’s head to locate the man whom she had been clinging to. He was definitely unattractive and after a moment filled with envy, James allowed his gaze to focus back on Lily. He wasn’t her type, anyway.

He cocked his head to one side, squinting slightly behind his glasses. She was certainly drunk, which made her seem to have very little reasoning. He hadn’t seen anyone who she hung out with here, though why she would bring her friends from school to a muggle bar, he did not know. Perhaps her ‘friends’ were muggles. Regardless, if they were the sort of person that should be friends with Lily, they would be watching her to make sure she didn’t make a fool of herself.

He sighed, fingers moving from her shoulder to her hair, gently moving a strand that was sticking out to lay with the rest. It still looked very unkempt, but he had tried. Frowning, he pushed his glasses further up on his nose. He had to angle his head rather far to look at Lily—was it possible that he had grown in such a short amount of time? Perhaps it was just that he had not had the chance to talk to her so closely in quite a time. She had expressed her abhorrence more freely the past year.

“If you’re here with your friends, where are they? And why are you clinging to some fat fuck instead of hanging out with them? If they were your friends, they wouldn’t have brought you here. And they wouldn’t let you run wild, with so many people who have the opportunity to harm you. How hard would it be for me to take advantage of you right now, Evans?”

And he crushed himself against her, one hand in her hair and one around her waist, tugging her so tightly against him that it hurt. He pulled her face into his chest, burying his nose in her hair and nearly moaning aloud when he was hit with the aroma of her shampoo. This really wasn’t healthy.

It didn’t take him long to realize that it would only be a few moments before Lily was slapping him, punching him, doing whatever she could to punish him for actually touching her. She would flee, go home and try to forget that this had ever happened. And then, when they got back to school, she would completely and totally ignore him. She would never talk to him again, unless vehemently professing her hatred.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He should have pushed her away. He should have held her at arms length, apologizing in every way that he knew how. That would have been the logical course. But Teen Witch was already out the window and he was beginning to grow addicted to the fumes.

And so he didn’t.

You’re dirty and you’re sweet
you know you’re everything I need

[Lily Evans]

things aren’t the same anymore
some nights it gets so bad

Lily was so desperate to keep from falling apart. The disguise Lisa had so cleverly spelled over her had reached its limit; it pooled in a puddle of beer-sweat around her denim-covered ankles. The clothes were still there, though now they looked pathetic and hollow, like they were hung from a mannequin. There was no sex appeal in the slope of her Styrofoam curvature; there was nothing erotic in the way her collar bone slipped from the neck of her Indian-print blouse. Her eyes were wide and their bright depths were dark with childlike loneliness.

For a moment, she had neither the strength nor the desire to push him away.

Lily Evans held James Potter like he was the only life jacket in a sinking, burning ship. She dug her broken nails into his t-shirt and clung like a starfish prying the insides from its prey. Her teeth found purchase in his shoulder, not to send him reeling away, but to hold onto him in the most primitive way. Lily Evans held James Potter like she loved him, and their bodies fit together like pieces of the most gruesome sort of puzzle, the type that was never meant to be broken apart.

Then something brushed against the back of her neck, startling her with a fresh jolt of fear, and she realized just how terrible this would be, ending her night like this. Clinging to James Potter when she ought to have been hexing him into oblivion, forcing friendship between his head and every surface in the bar until she found something thicker than his skull. Doing some sort of permanent damage that would make him forget the way Lily looked tonight.

She pushed against him, struggling weakly against herself as much as against him. One foot landed on one of his. The teeth in his shoulder became more insistent, gnawing instead of gashing a hold. “Potter, let go of me!” she snarled, twisting and swaying uncomfortably in his grip. Her hair fell into her eyes, completely abandoning any semblance of order, and in the stage lights she sort of looked like her head was aflame.

“What is the matter with you? Are you trying to get yourself killed? When my . . . When I get my wand . . . Bloody—You are taking advantage of me, you self-centered ass.” She twisted, but it only brought her face closer to his chest. She had never been familiar with his scent, had never gotten close enough to catch it, but now she found herself desperately searching for it beneath the layers of alcohol, coming up with only soap and fabric softener and none of the grass-leather-Quaffle-spice she would have expected.

“If you are trying to prove a point, you are failing! . . . Potter, this is not how you take advantage of someone. I could kill you, right now . . . I am going to kill you, in fact, just as soon as I . . .” she wriggled, reaching for her wand in the pocket of her jeans— “get . . . my . . .”

--and coming up empty.

“Bugger.”

I almost pick up the phone
trade baby-blues for wide-eyed browns

[James Potter]

Everything you are
falls from the sky like a star

James was a prick.

He had been an arrogant, cocky, sarcastic person since he was a child. It was cute, back then, and now it was beginning to become obnoxious. But that was who he was, so much a part of his being that he couldn’t deny it even if he tried. And he had tried, time and again, to get rid of the part of himself that Lily despised the most. If she didn’t like it, didn’t like him, it wasn’t because she was coldhearted. It was because there was something wrong with him. Like he was defective or something.

But he would never, ever take advantage of her. She had to know that as well as he did. Or maybe she still thought that he was just trying to get her to go out with him so that he could prove a point—that he really could get whatever he wanted. And, maybe, it had been like that in the beginning. It was amusing, to his friends, to watch him stumble after a girl who would have nothing to do with the boy that nearly anyone in the school was willing to date.

But it had grown, over time. He didn’t care who admired him because he finally made Lily care about him. All that mattered was that she was his. He wanted to be the one to protect her, make her feel safe, hold her when she felt like she was going to fall apart. He didn’t want her to ever want anything because he wanted to make her so happy that she didn’t need anything else. And if she did, all she would have to do was ask.

He seemed not to notice that she was gnawing on his shoulder, clawing his flesh, standing on his foot. All that really mattered was that she was in his arms, where she belonged. She just didn’t know it yet. He was certain that she soon would.

“I’m not taking advantage of you. I’m hugging you. That’s a lot less than all the others have done. What were you thinking going out without your wand, especially when you’re as…vulnerable as you are right now?” he inquired, his voice slightly muffled.

Perhaps vulnerable wasn’t quite the right word to use, but he seemed to not be concerned with his words or actions. He was really good at this whole ‘making her like him’ thing. He was acting worse than usual. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or the music pulsing so loud that his ears ached. Whatever it was, he wanted more.

He allowed her to move back slightly, though only enough for him to see her face. Moving his hand from the back of her head, he brushed her hair away, succeeding in making it look significantly worse but he could see her eyes. Ah, her eyes. He loved how clever they were. When she was in a good mood, they crinkled at the edges as if she was constantly on the verge of laughter. When she was angry, her stare was so constant that it seemed as if he was completely transparent under her gaze.

Actually, he pretty much loved everything about her. That was probably a bad thing.

Everything you are
whatever you are

[Lily Evans]

“Cross my heart and hope to die
Splinter from the headboard in my eye”

Lily stopped struggling; he didn’t seem to notice anyway. He was preoccupied with . . . something else. Her hair, maybe, she thought, watching dumbly as he moved it from her face once again. It was the tender sort of gesture that should have melted her heart. She wasn’t sure that it did, but she let him do it anyway. It seemed to make him content, something she would have been less keen on if his raised voice hadn’t grated so roughly over her drum-numbed ears.

“I don’t want to hug you, Potter!”

Lily frowned. That was the truth, she was nearly positive. But the way the burning had dried out her throat made it come out in a pathetic sort of croak that sounded more like a lie than anything else. Of course, dense James Potter wouldn’t catch it, but it was a troubling thought for Lily, whose mind was already so boggled by the lighting that anything beyond that was sensory overload. The feel of him, the smell of him all around her—it was driving her insane. Her eyes were transfixed on the dark corners in the distance, but still her mind moved so sluggishly that everything she said came out just a half a second too late.

“Maybe . . . Maybe I want to be vulnerable, okay?”

Now they were back to the lies, but lying took so much less creativity than truth that she couldn’t complain. Speaking at all was so draining it sapped her of the ability to struggle at the same time. Instead she stood half-limp in his embrace, allowing him to support her while she spoke so that she could struggle again when it was her turn to listen.

“Maybe I wanted them to do more. Did you ever think that maybe this is what I’m like over the summers? Maybe when you’re not around to scare everyone away, I’m really a slut for large men with red faces and no glasses and no stupid black hair.”

Spurred by this sudden burst of anger, directed at Severus more than Potter, though he would never know that, she found the strength to break out of his tender embrace and back stubbornly into the crowd. It pained her, the loss of him, but that fact alone served as motivation enough to wade desperately into the pulsing bodies beneath the pulsing lights. She found a man, didn’t care for the girl he danced with, and latched herself onto his form as if she were just another layer of clothing to be torn away.

Bad idea, that—as it turned out, other girls were not exactly sympathetic to strangers attempting to seduce their boyfriends. In fact, they took it kind of hard. A fist—or maybe a foot, maybe a jet plane—collided with the side of Lily’s head. Her vision went white. She stumbled backwards, careless of the bodies she used to stabilize herself, breaking through one wave and then another in a slow progression towards the ground.

If she’d been coherent, Lily might have reminded herself never to do that again. As it was, she just hoped she didn’t vomit before hit the floor.

photo-proofed kisses
I remember so well

[James Potter]

I wanna kick at the machine
that made you piss away your dreams

Had it been so cold just a few minutes ago?

James frowned, looking down at his feet, now that he could see them. There was a dazzling absence of Lily in his arms and he didn’t like it at all. He looked up, trying to locate her within the crowd but she had already moved to someone without stupid black hair.

What was so stupid about it, anyway? It wasn’t like he chose his hair color. And that one time Sirius dyed it pink, Lily didn’t seem to like it any better. Women… they never knew what they really wanted.

He sighed, walking in the direction that he had seen Lily stumble towards, eyes keen for flaming hair. He absentmindedly ruffled his hair, the corners of his mouth still turned down. And there she was, dancing with another man. She really was persistent with this, wasn’t she? He was quite thankful that they weren’t at Hogwarts; both of their reputations would be ruined.

Oh.

Apparently the bloke’s girlfriend was not pleased that Lily had stolen him. Probably because she couldn’t get anyone else with that nose. Right. Back to Lily. He followed her as she stumbled through the crowd, her body tilting towards the ground. It was all that he could do to keep up as she traversed the maze of grinding and swaying people.

“Evans, you…” he trailed off, incapable of actually calling her anything. Even though he cared about his friends, he didn’t mind calling them names. But Lily probably would object to ‘bloody idiot’ more than Sirius, who actually was one.

He finally reached her, his arms wrapping around her waist. He felt himself sway as she lurched in several different directions, all at once it seemed, but his feet remained on solid ground. “I think it’s time to go, Evans,” he informed her, half-leading, half-dragging her to the door. He figured he might as well act quickly during her moment of vertigo before she had a chance to protest.

“You know, you really aren’t a lot of fun when you’re drunk. You probably shouldn’t go to parties.” James grinned widely. “Personally, I’m a seasoned alcoholic. Which you probably know. Sirius and I used to drink a bottle of firewhiskey every night… but that was quite an expensive habit, so,” he trailed off, shrugging.

He glanced at her warily, hoping that she wouldn’t hit him again. She was being uncharacteristically compliant and he didn’t think that that would last for very long. He really did know how to get himself in bad situations.

Gnawing his lower lip until he felt the taste of rusted iron in his mouth, he strategically focused his gaze on his feet, concentrating solely on tugging Lily’s body towards the door. He didn’t really care if she was with here with someone, they were obviously stupid and irresponsible if they had left Lily under her own supervision—wandless, no less. He felt anger abruptly fill him, simmering under the lid that he was trying so desperately to keep closed.

All he needed was to punch someone Lily thought she liked in the face. That really would not be good.

And tear at your defenses
until there’s nothing left but me

[Lily Evans]

Lips pressed close to mine—true blue
But the prince of any failing empire knows

There was safety, somehow, in the fall to the floor. The stagnant air felt like strong arms surrounding her, holding her, hugging her to the ground’s broad chest and keeping her safe there. Like nothing could harm her, somehow—and it was softer, too, than she had imagined a surface so trampled and trod-on could be. It dragged her backwards-forwards away from the crowd, moving always just one step ahead of being trampled.

No, wait. That wasn’t right. There was safety, somehow, in the arms of—James Potter, she thought, but that couldn’t be right, either. Firstly, of course, because Lily Evans would never be caught alive in the arms of James Potter, but also because if she was he would have jostled and tossed her, hoisted her into the air like a trophy and then dropped her again, distracted by a flash of golden leg or golden snitch, whichever came first.

There was absolutely no safety in the arms of James Potter, but Lily Evans was pissed and the stupid bloke had saved her from a fall that would have probably knocked her unconscious, so she couldn’t exactly complain. The arm around her waist was almost strong, almost comfortable and right, as it hugged her to his chest. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her mouth, concentrating on not vomiting on the floor—as rubbish-laden as it was, she could almost pretend that beautiful, wonderful arm belonged to someone whom she actually wanted to be with. Someone who really was her safety. Someone who really would keep anything from harming her. Someone who was not fat-headed or cold-hearted.

Someone, in short, who was not James Potter.

The chill of night air hit her harder than she would have expected. She shivered, almost resenting the way she wrenched herself out of Potter’s arm because it only made her colder, but not quite. Longer-than-ordinary, pale, freckled arms wrapped themselves around her waist, squeezing inward as it contorted in a gross imitation of the movement inside. Pale pink, her tongue shot out to lick at her dry lips—the stain had worn off, now, anyway. She hoped there was nothing green or sickly beneath the scattering of sand-spots on her face. Or, if there was, she hoped he couldn’t see it in the sudden loss of light.

“Bugger off, Potter!” she snapped, only half as pathetically as she felt. True, her voice scratched her throat on its way out, producing yet another one of those unfortunate croaking sounds she’d been trying so desperately to hide, but it did sound a bit louder than she’d been expecting, and entirely pissed off—as though she would never forgive him for catching her before the floor could. “I am not drunk!”

For an instant she stood stock-still, staring at a point just past his head, and then she made her way to the edge of the sidewalk with a lack of grace that did not exactly argue her point. Her face grew increasingly pale until, unable to control herself, she began to wretch onto the side of the road. Her hair hung over one shoulder, swinging loosely with the involuntary motion, but she didn’t have the strength to care for it. Not Potter, she clung tightly to the strange opacity of that thought. Dear God, please don’t let me puke on James Potter.

That everybody wants to drive on through the night
If it’s the drive back home