Midnight Conversation #6, #7, and #8

November, 1979

Lily waited, but James did not come to the door, even after the third ring. She stood in the corridor, smiling a little warily at the tenants who came and went. One asked her if she’d been locked out; another, a posh-looking middle-aged man with an unpleasant smirk, asked if she cared to wait in his own flat. Lily favoured him with her most withering glare and waited until he and the others had cleared the corridor before Apparating into James’ flat.

He wasn’t asleep, or in the shower. There was no note, but neither was there any sign of something amiss, so she decided not to worry, and went into his bedroom. He’d left his bed unmade, so she did it for him with a brisk wave of her wand, then sat on the duvet and glanced about. In the posters on his walls and ceiling, Quidditch players dived and swooped. Lily watched with mild interest as Dai Llewelyn of the Caerphilly Catapults plummeted an impressive fifty feet, then rolled and soared back upward just in time, the Golden Snitch struggling in his raised fist.

James’ desk was a mess of scrolls, quills, and ink bottles. She wondered what he’d done with the set of ballpoint pens she’d given him two Christmases ago. There’d been five in the set and he’d promised to use them sparingly, not realising she’d bought them for less than a pound at the newsagent down the street from her parents’ house. The memory gave her a curious pang.

There were photographs on the wall above the desk, the wizard kind, which moved. She’d seen all of them before, but she liked to study them each time she was here. There was one of James flanked by his mum and dad, with Hogwarts in the background. She had taken that one herself, on the very last day of school, two summers ago. Lily waved at the small figures in the photograph, and they beamed and waved back. They’d have to cover that one later…

There were pictures from their holiday in the Swiss Alps last January. There was her favourite picture, which she knew James only kept because he knew she loved it. He’d been trying to photograph her posing on the slope, and he’d done a good job of setting up the shot. The light hit Lily’s hair perfectly, making it look as though it were on fire, and the mountains made a lovely backdrop. The only problem (according to James) was that, spaced by intervals of approximately forty seconds, first Sirius, then Remus, then Peter came skiing into the frame, paused to kiss Lily’s cheek, then took off again, before James could hex them. James’ favourite picture from that holiday was the one Remus had taken of the two of them curled up under one quilt by the fireplace, Lily’s head lolling on James’ shoulder. James’ smile in that picture as he glanced from his sleeping girlfriend’s face to the photographer and back, was somewhere between beatific and exceedingly well chuffed.

There were pictures of James and Sirius clowning, and one of Sirius and Remus in New York, brown head bent toward black as they sprawled together on the grass in Central Park. Sirius had taken the picture himself, holding the camera at arm’s length, so it wasn’t the best of shots, but Lily could see why James had chosen it instead of another; they looked genuinely happy and carefree, the two of them, as though they’d managed to forget somehow the growing conflict waiting for them back in wizarding Britain. It came to Lily as no surprise now that James should unhesitatingly hang such a picture for all who entered his room to see, although three years ago she would never have believed it possible. But then, why shouldn’t James accept and support his gay friends when he’d already spent years supporting and protecting his werewolf friend? Lily studied Remus in the picture. He looked tired and rather pale, the summer sunlight softening, but not hiding, the silver hairs at his temple. Because of their separate work for Dumbledore’s Order, Remus and Sirius had had some trouble scheduling their holiday, had finally managed to get away only a few days after July’s full moon.

It had never occurred to Lily to be alarmed by Remus’ condition. She’d read about werewolves in Defence Against the Dark Arts, had written an essay on how to identify and, if necessary, destroy one. But Remus was the first one she’d ever met, and though she knew what he became once a month, in her eyes he could never stop being Remus, with his intelligent brown eyes, self-effacing good humour, and faded robes; not some hairy, frothing beastman from the Muggle cinema. She’d even taken to calling him and Sirius “the pups”--until James, looking decidedly uncomfortable, had begged her to stop.

Peter. There was a picture of him, too. It was a small one, stuck off to the side, as though James had only hung it because he’d felt obligated to do so. Peter was seated at a table in what might have been the Three Broomsticks, a mug of butter beer clutched in one plump hand. He looked nervous, and occasionally lifted a hand as though to wave away the photographer. But then, he didn’t like having his picture taken, she remembered him telling her once. He had a rather nice smile, Lily thought generously, and felt another pang. Poor Peter. It was good of the others to stay friends with him, even if they were sometimes a little mean to him and at times seemed to half-forget his existence. He was sweet, anyway. He tried.

When she’d finished looking at the pictures, Lily went to examine the books on James’ shelves. It was by doing so that she found the ring, and of course that was when the owl from James arrived, informing her he’d be late, he was sorry, he’d explain and they’d get takeaway later, and that under no circumstances was she to set foot in his bedroom.

Lily rolled her eyes, paid the owl messenger a Knut, and as it flew away into the cool autumn air, she pocketed James’ letter and went into the pantry to make herself a cup of tea, and wait.

At half-ten another owl arrived, this one bearing a note that read simply: Crisis averted, calming Padfoot. Home by midnight. Better eat without me. Please don’t leave. Sorry. Love you. --J

Lily binned the note, paid the second owl, and went to retrieve her rucksack, which she’d dropped by the door as she’d entered.

When James showed up almost an hour later there was a pot of hot soup on the stove. On the table was a bowl, a spoon, and a note, which read Eat first, then come find me. That’s an order, Potter. Lily listened as he followed her instructions, resisting the urge to join him. He was well and truly exhausted, she thought, if he was that compliant. She waited until she heard his chair scrape back from the table, until she heard him call, raggedly, “Oi, Lily?” Then she lit the rest of her candles and settled back.

It took a few minutes of stumbling from room to room before he found her. When he did, “Strip and join me,” she said, smiling up at him from the bathtub. For the second time that evening he complied unquestioningly and in a moment was in her arms--limp with fatigue, but warm, slick, heavy, wonderful.

“Lily, Lily, Lily,” he groaned, and lost them some water as he tried to wrap himself around her and kiss her simultaneously. “How did you know?”

She didn’t have to answer. She took off his glasses, which had steamed up the moment he’d climbed into the tub, set them aside carefully, then kissed him back, digging her fingers into his thick hair.

He wasn’t as sleepy as he’d first appeared, she soon discovered to her delight, or if he was, certain parts of him at least were still very much awake.

Afterward, still in the tub, his head on her breast, James said, “I’m sorry, Lils. I wanted tonight to be special.”

“I’m not complaining,” said Lily, as she sponged his chest. “Incidentally, what was the crisis and how was it averted? It couldn’t have been too serious or you wouldn’t have let me seduce you.”

“Shows how much you know,” James snorted. “It’ll be in the Prophet tomorrow. Parts of it, anyway, once they decide how to spin it.”

“Tell me,” she insisted. There was a bitter tinge to his tone that worried her.

James sighed, clenched and unclenched the hand that rested on her bent knee, and said, “There was an attack on Dolores Umbridge this afternoon. Nothing serious,” he said somewhat disappointedly when she started. “Not even an attack, really. Bit of rough jostling as she was leaving the Ministry. She wasn’t badly hurt. Unfortunately. Mostly just shaken up. D’you know who she is?”

“She’s the new head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“Yeah. She started off in the Werewolf Registry and worked her way up. Or down, depending on your point of view, I suppose. Right bitch she is, too. Has a notion her attackers were a gang of werewolves. Says she recognised a few of them. But how, right? She’s being pummelled and, um, propelled in the general direction of oncoming Muggle traffic, and she still thinks she recognises some of them. I ask you.”

“You don’t have to pummel me,” Lily reminded him.

“Sorry,” he muttered and released her knee.

“So, what happened?”

“Started hauling werewolves in for questioning, she did. Reckons Fenn Mac Tíre masterminded the whole thing.”

“Why should he do that? I mean, I’m sure he has every reason to hate her. I read the story last year when it came out. But I thought he was lying low somewhere. No one’s seen him since he managed to slip through the Capture Unit’s fingers last autumn. Oh, the Quibbler prints stories about sightings all the times, but--”

“Have you ever heard the word ‘scapegoat’, Lily?”

“Oh.”

“Right,” he said heavily. “So, the bitch is calling in all these werewolves for questioning. And naturally she calls--”

“Oh, no.”

“Our Moony, right. Who is, rather suspiciously, no where to be found.” He sounded angry and frustrated. Lily wondered whether she should try to soothe him now or let him go until he ran out of steam; he couldn’t have very much left. “Anyway,” he fumed on, “in comes Padfoot in a tearing rage. Into the bitch’s office he stomps and--you haven’t heard our Sirius when he’s truly hacked off.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No, believe me, love, you have not and don’t want to. It’s a messy business. And it’s obvious he’s stalling for time. Which only makes things worse for Remus when they finally find him and bring him in.”

“When you say ‘bring him in’ d’you mean--”

“Not in chains. They weren’t that stupid. But they threatened to, until Padfoot told them he and Remus have two-way mirrors. So, they contacted him and he came in via Floo.”

“Where was he?”

“With Peter, he said, researching something or other in Cambridge. So they call Peter in, and fortunately, he backs up everything Remus says. Thank Merlin for our Wormtail. Next to worthless half the time, he is, but he comes through for his mates. Ow,” he complained when she clouted his shoulder, “that was a compliment.”

“Yes, it really sounded like one,” said Lily archly.

“Sorry,” James grumbled. “Anyway, when did you become his nanny?”

“How is Remus?” she asked, adroitly changing the conversation’s direction.

“Well enough, I guess. Wasn’t overjoyed to be summoned to the Ministry, but you know him. Wouldn’t forget his manners if he were facing down ten bloody Death Eaters. He should be home by now. With Sirius. And not too mad.”

“At…Sirius?”

“Padfoot’s not exactly known for his discretion.”

“Right. So…he’s not in any real trouble? Remus, I mean?”

“No,” said James shortly, and she drew a deep breath of relief. “Oh, Lils--” He sagged against her and gazed despondently at the ceiling. “This is getting out of my hands. Maybe it’s because we all live far away from each other now, or maybe it’s the war. Probably it’s both,” he realised ruefully. “I just feel like-- D’you understand me, Lily? I feel like I’m trying to keep everything together in one place, and every time I think I’ve got people where they’re supposed to be, someone moves. Or like once I think I’ve gotten Padfoot figured out, Moony goes and does something unexpected. Or Wormtail. Did you know he’s shagging that Sandra? Because I didn’t, and neither did Pads, and we’re his best mates. Wormtail is getting his oats, finally. When did he start? Lils, I don’t even know. Not that I really give a toss, but…” He gestured helplessly. “I feel like I’m trying to hold onto something and it’s just getting bigger and I can’t control it. There’s nothing I can do. It’s just going to burst and make a big, sticky mess--”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” said Lily, hugging him.

“Bollocks,” muttered James.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m about ready for another go…” She ran a hand down over his chest and felt the shiver pass through him as her fingertips grazed his taut belly.

“Lily…”

“Mmm?” she inquired as he arched against her, then attempted to roll over. She loved this control, loved him, loved the fact that he was so very, very hers.

“I’m knackered, Lily,” he groaned, kissing her clumsily on the throat. “I’m--”

“What?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and made him look at her.

“I buggered up,” he said, dark brows drawn together miserably. “Tonight was supposed to be special.”

“It is.”

“I mean a different kind of special.”

“It still can be,” Lily said.

“How?”

“Well…” She bit her lip.

“You went into my room?” It was a mark of how tired he truly was that he could not muster even mild exasperation.

“Sort of,” she admitted. “Your first owl came late.”

He swore softly and ducked his head. “Had a look around, did you?”

“I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you mean. The only lacy pants I found were the ones I’d left here the last time, so if you’re bonking some slag, your secret’s still safe.”

“There’s no slag, Lily,” he said, lifting his head, hazel eyes earnest and only slightly unfocussed. “Only you.”

“I’m your only slag?”

“Yeah. No. I mean--it’s just you. Only you. Always. I hope. I mean, it’s always been you. That stupidness with Angie Turpin was just to get you to notice me, and the complete idiocy with Lucy Hutchens was just to try to forget you.”

“And the lunacy with Sirius?”

“How in hell did you find out about that?” He flashed her a grin when she gasped. “Taking the mickey out of you, love,” he said to her now-frowning face. “He’s a gorgeous bloke, Padfoot, but in case you’re still in doubt on the matter, you’re the one I’ve fancied since I was bloody thirteen years old. So really, I’ve been a hopeless case for quite some time. It’s always going to be you. You found the ring, I take it?” When she nodded, he sighed and said, “Fine. I’m not mad or anything. I just wanted it to be a surprise. I didn’t plan on getting back this late. We were supposed to go out. When we got back I was going to drag out this-- Wait,” he said, and his eyes narrowed. “You found the ring, okay. Was that all you found?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Was there--?”

She never got to finish. With a terrific splash that doused most of her candles, he was out of the tub, snatching up his glasses, and jogging, nude, out of the bathroom, dripping water and calling over his shoulder, “Just wait! Don’t follow me! Wait!”

She waited, bewildered, for about three minutes. Then she smelled the incense, wafting in over the steam, and she heard the music. Impatient and curious, she rose from the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and padded softly to the bedroom.

James was there, kneeling, wand in hand, on the floor by a Muggle record player.

“I didn’t see that, before,” said Lily.

“Nah, you wouldn’t have,” James said smugly, “unless you’d looked under the bed. Well?” He rose slowly to his feet--the wobbling of his knees betrayed his fatigue--and looked at her, eyebrows raised hopefully.

“Not bad for a flat with no plugs. That’s my favourite song,” said Lily.

“Yeah, I remember overhearing you hum it in the shower, three or four or twenty times in the past few years.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It was a dignified gesture, incongruous with his delightful nudity and arousal. He held out a hand. “Get over here, Evans, and for Merlin’s sake, lose the rag.”

She lost her towel some time during the short walk from the doorway to his arms, and that was just fine, because his skin felt so good against hers, and with his fingers stroking the small of her back, and the music, and the Precious Chandan incense in her mouth and nostrils it was like swaying in the middle of a giant flower. This is how magic feels, she thought as she laid her head on his shoulder. This is how it feels to be a spell.

James murmured, along with the LP, “ ‘But lovers and friends I still can recall I know I’ll often stop and think about them / In my life I love you more.’ I love you,” he said, breaking with the music for a moment. “More than anything. You have dominion over me, Evans, body and soul. I would die for you.”

How had they come to this?, she wondered dazedly. He’d been her demon for so long, the impish voice in her head, mocking her and challenging her. Then somehow he’d become her secret friend, a sympathetic ear when she’d most needed one. A friend, she’d thought, and never anything more. To fall for him? Out of the question. Fall for the bigheaded Quidditch star? Not she. Not she, the high-minded, outspoken Muggle-born. But then he’d grown up a bit, and his swollen head had shrunk a bit. What was she supposed to do then? Her great plan had not taken into account the possibility of change. Kissing him that first time, that crazy summer night when she’d been mad at everyone and desperate for something stupid and reckless, an escape… It had been like finding her very own wand again, the way she had at eleven--the one that had been made for her and lain in wait for her for years and years without her knowledge. It had felt so very right, and oh yes, there had been sparks…

Pulling back slightly, she smiled up at him. Now there were tears in his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were curved upward slightly, in a smile that she knew mirrored her own. “You want me to marry you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Will you? Come on, Lils,” he wheedled when she appeared to hesitate. “It’ll be fun.”

“You make it sound,” Lily said, trying to sniff back her own tears, “like you’re asking me to be your accomplice in some elaborate bit of mischief. All right Potter, I’ll give you a go. I love you,” she added, from the very core of her heart. “More than anything else in the world. Who would ever have thought?”

There was nothing more to be said, not that night, anyway. There was only dancing, and kissing, and later, as they lay in bed together, simply holding through the night’s long hours.

They would talk more tomorrow. She’d tell him then about the baby. Tonight was theirs alone.