Windfall: My Confessions

godswake

Rating: R
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Lily & James
Book: Lily & James, Books 1 - 5
Published: 31/12/2004
Last Updated: 20/04/2005
Status: in_progress

Lily Evans doesnt know true love until it hits her in the face.

Chapters

1. Prologue

2. A Poem

3. The First Day of the Rest of My Life

4. Cut

5. Mea Culpa

1. Prologue

WINDFALL

My Confessions

By Godswake

*~*~*

-Prologue-

My name, at the point in which I'll begin writing this memoir, used to be Lily Evans. I was an innocent, a maiden fair, who during her teenage years experienced both pain and relief, witnessed both beauty and disaster, and felt the deepest spectrums of love and hate. For such was the drama of my teenage life. The drama, the romance, the adventure, the hilarity, the tragedy… I think back on my younger years now, and view the flashes and colors and still photos and poetry of it all. It's all of it so convoluted, so broken. But its memory holds so much. That is, perhaps, what stirred me to write it all down. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of forgetting my own life. Or myself, even. I want to record it while I'm still young.

I got the letter when I was eleven, as I suppose everyone always has and always will. I was enrolled in a girl's boarding school in south London and the thick epistle from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was very last notice, in addition to being a bit of a shock. My parents were confused, as I was, as to the validity of this place, and it seemed almost a comical idea. Hogwarts? Wizardry? Uh-uh. It was fishy, and I had no objections when my parents ignored the invitation.

But then more letters came. Eventually, the amount had multiplied profusely and they were showing up in the most unlikely of places. (Scores of manila envelopes swept into our living room through the fireplace every evening around six.) Gradually, mine and my family's attitude about them shifted from apathy to curiousness to downright fascination. Eventually, whatever persuasive and intriguing powers these letters held were enough to convince my parents to allow me to go to this “wizarding” school. Sure, it was strange. Hell, it was very strange, but why not, you know?

It was an interesting summer, that one. Little did I know, I wouldn't begin living until I came to Hogwarts. That living was enhanced in its depths when I met the venerable James Potter. My cycle and my whirling relationship with and around and about this boy molded me like the whim of an unseen artist. I was the clay, and somewhere out there, a force was shaping me. And though it would take me years to admit it, I loved James. I loved him and that would carry me through the darkest of times. I admired him so…

But he wasn't the only peer I had that deserved praise. Some others I held in high esteem were Morgana Tudor, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. Morgana was my greatest friend, and there never was a girl more appropriately named than she. She was wickedly powerful in her magical skill, much like her literary counterpart from the Arthurian legend, and with her surname she could trace her lineage directly back to the English monarchy that ended with Elizabeth the first. Though regal and aloof to many, to me, there had never been a kinder, more loyal and beautiful person. She was my mother, sister, friend and confidante all in one delicious package.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin are not to be forgotten. These two young men, both self-proclaimed “marauders”, brilliant and handsome to boot, came to be my rocks, my crutches, my tourniquets in my hour of need. Their wit, charm and sensitivity were impossible not to be drawn to, and I still get lost in their smiles.

These people are so mentioned because I need to stress to you, dear reader, how I was raised. It wasn't my parents (boring, lonely, disinterested muggles who loved me well enough but didn't know or understand me) or my older sister (a wretched girl with a stupid name. Petunia. Ha.) that deserve that credit. It was my friends. Even those who weren't my friends, those I loathed, or those I wasn't quite sure about, defined my person in some way. They all had their place.

From third year on, I came to recognize beauty, wisdom, intelligence, humor, love and life like they were old friends, simply because in those days, those virgin years, all these aforementioned qualities were impossibly frequent. And I hardly ever stopped to appreciate them. One thing's for sure. I appreciate them now.

Before Hogwarts, my memories were virtually nonexistent. They begin only after I started a new life, and then they rear up in Technicolor and just wont quit. I don't even care, though, because those eleven insignificant years lacked that one essential ingredient to make them shine and last: magic.

Magic was what I woke up for every day, and Hogwarts had it. It was everywhere. The air tingled with it, the food tasted like it, and I saw it in all my friends. Magic and its mystery sustained me and my overly self-conscious person from a spiral of drastic tragedy. It was that undetectable scent; that music in the air that saved me from the nightmare of mediocre life. Magic. James…

In my muggle days, I dreamed of greatness. The more I dreamed, the more anxious I grew: would greatness ever come? Perhaps this was impatient of me (I hardly yet qualified as a pre-teen), but as you come to know me you'll see that my soul (painted like a picture for you in this journal) is constantly yearning for some intangible element of success… I'm ambitious, to say the least. And my thirst for achievement would only be quenched when I left my old home and found a new one.

I was a pathetic child. I daydreamed constantly, and found only minute satisfaction in my fantastical lusts for a more meaningful life. At ages ten and eleven, I was reading Shakespeare, Tolkein, Sophocles, Chaucer… if only to get an evanescent taste of my ideal utopia. Every character in these books, plays, and poems may have had hardships. They may have had problems. But they were unordinary. They were original. They were great, and to me, that deserved all levels of respect.

Now I'm thinking back on it, that may have been my initial fascination with James Potter. He was great. He was so full of life and so happy and so revered by all who knew him that he made me just as jealous as I was awe-inspired. Before we even had our first encounter in third year, fierce inner battles had brewed with in me between the side of me that loved James and the side that loathed him.

I hated him from the first moment that I saw him. He was cocky; throwing his weight around like some movie star even when he was only a first year. He was loud, rude and annoying; no one could ever get him to shut up, save for the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, and even he couldn't suppress James's rowdy nature sometimes. I didn't like that everyone I knew worshipped him (with the exception of a few Slytherins). On the contrary, the school's love for him had a counter effect on me, making me wince or shrink whenever I saw a hoard of girls following him around. It made me sick.

But sometimes the good cancels out the bad. From a distance, when I wasn't busy despising James, I was busy falling for him. I couldn't deny he was beautiful, but I also had trouble ignoring his humor and wit, his brilliance, his charm, his general good nature and the way he valued his friends. I really liked that. Sometimes I would even imagine that he and I were an item, but such visions were brushed away quickly, leaving me ashamed. I still hadn't even spoken a word to him yet.

And the way things were going, I probably never would. James was everything I wasn't: popular, attractive, charismatic, outgoing, funny, athletic, smart, brave- why should he ever stoop so low as to say a few words to me? Or at least, that was the rationale that I found myself periodically drilling through my head. James would never even notice me. I was dumb, ugly, obtrusive, fat, ignorant and, worst of all, a mudblood.

I used to have major self-esteem issues when I was young. When I was staying with my parents, I had taken pills for a form of chronic depression that resulted in rather self-destructive behavior. Suicidal thoughts, cutting and deriding myself were commonplace. Fucked up, I know. But what would really set me off was the whole pureblood movement thing. It had been bad enough before, when all I had to deal with was fat vs. skinny, ugly vs. pretty, and stupid vs. smart. Now it was mudblood vs. pureblood. Worthy vs. unworthy. Needless to say, none of it helped my self-image or any prospects of any sort of relationship with Mr. Potter.

If fate, or serendipity, hadn't caused James and I to cross paths that September day in third year, I don't think I ever would have spoken to him. But his medicine, his whole being, would turn out to be exactly what I needed. He would be my sanctuary, my redemption, and my ultimate restoration.

So, welcome to my life. Welcome to the beginnings of a story that will undoubtedly become a saga, even a legend. And as it's the sick and twisted propensity of human nature to take pleasure in others' pain and even more in others' euphoria, you should enjoy this memoir. You have with its pages the very pieces of my soul. Take care of it, and enjoy.

A/N- so there you have it, my first chapter, which is actually more like a prologue. No. It is a prologue. Haha. Anyway, hope you liked it. I'll try and update asap. .

-Godswake.

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2. A Poem

WINDFALL

My Confessions

By Godswake

*~*~*

Chapter one: A poem

Chapter song: Sending A Note, Graham Colton Band

Disclaimer: I do not own any ideas/related themes or characters from any of J.K. Rowling's five presently released novels. Any characters, themes or ideas you do not recognize are my work. James's poem courtesy of Sylvia Plath.

In my days at Hogwarts, there was a small open grove of trees that found itself situated on the very outer edge of what was deemed “The Forbidden Forest” by many at the school. This forest was packed with hundreds of races of magical creatures. As most people tended to think that every living thing beyond the forest's borders was dangerous, students were banned from this sizable portion of the grounds. But I didn't see what there was to fear. As long as you never bothered anything in there, you were safe. So I came to look at this small open circle of trees and grass and stream as my own personal sanctuary. I went there to think, to ponder the meaning of life, to cool down when I was sad or pissed off, and to admire the occasional unicorn that came to visit. According to legend, unicorns were attracted to young virgin girls. I was young. I was pretty sure I was a girl. I was defiantly a virgin. I appreciated their company.

On one particular day in mid-September, I had taken it upon myself to wander over to “the grove” as I called it, so I could write in my diary and think. Any normal thirteen year old would have been keen to spend the day with her friends, but at that point in time, I was feeling above idle chatter. I was feeling deep and insightful, and that, my friends, is the perfect time to record your thoughts. (I didn't have many friends anyway.)

It was just the right day for such antics. Late afternoon: the sky was deepening in its deep blue and the breeze smelled like autumn. I loved that. Fall was my favorite season, and the annual feeling in the air when summer was fading and autumn and winter were coming on always made me feel giddy.

I strolled nonchalantly past the young gamekeeper Hagrid's cabin and around the edge of the huge lake that surrounded the grounds, smiling faintly when I spotted the familiar cluster of trees. The prospect of being alone and being able to just… be… if even for a little while, made me happy. It didn't take much to get me happy. Settling myself against a mossy rock, I propped my diary up on my knees, pulled out my quill, and let loose. The sound of an unseen stream nearby seemed almost like encouragement. I wrote. It was a pastime of mine that tended to bring on all of the deep-seated emotional problems that bubbled like a poison inside of me. Letting them seep from my hand and through my quill and onto the parchment was a release. I was draining the sick blood, and it felt marvelous.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but I am sure that nothing could have interrupted me. Except for maybe a group of four boys who came tumbling into the forest like a herd of wild elephants. Breathless, windswept and sweating, they looked like gods. Gods who had no place being in my secret place.

Anyway, after their abrupt entrance, or intrusion, I should say, there followed a series of ejaculations (vocal, you perverts!) due to each party's surprise. I, having been wrenched from my reverie, screamed and bumped my head on a branch, Sirius Black gave out a bark-like laugh and fell on the ground, Remus Lupin shrieked rather effeminately and looked embarrassed afterward, and Peter Pettigrew laughed at him while James Potter looked temporarily dumbstruck.

The absurdity of this scene had blinded me from the way I should have felt (mortally embarrassed) and brought up feelings of frustration.

“Excuse me!” I said, rather harshly as I hurriedly stuffed my journal into my bag.

The four boys all exchanged glances and seemed unable to speak, until Sirius Black, the school's notorious womanizer and smooth-taker, spoke up.

“What do you mean, `excuse me'?” he said, quite lacking in tact as I managed to glare despite his staggering beauty. “Forgive me, but no one informed me that this was your forest. Is it?”

“I like to think that sometimes I've at least got a sort of claim on this little portion of it, yeah,” I rejoindered quickly. Everyone had always admired these four immature boys and regarded them as heroes, including myself, and of all the ways I had envisioned our first meeting might go, this was most defiantly one of the scenarios I had in mind. Go figure.

The next who spoke was Remus Lupin. Remus, of the four (if you really made me choose) was probably my favorite. He always seemed in the shadow of Sirius and James, the more dominating powers of the group. And although he may not have been described as devastatingly handsome, he was defiantly attractive, and the underlying innocence in him shone through his large amber eyes and made him look like a fallen angel.

“We're sorry about this, Lily. We-”

“No we're not!” shouted Sirius huffily. I looked at him, and he suddenly looked ashamed and fell silent. I bit my lip to keep from giggling.

“-Yes, we are. Lily was here first. We'll get going. We honestly are sorry for barging in. Aren't we?” He looked at his friends. Peter and Sirius nodded, but James was still in a stupor. He seemed to be staring at me. No, no. That wasn't it. There was probably something behind me. Or he was on acid. Remus elbowed him hard in the chest. This snapped the ringleader out of his silly-looking gaze.

“Ow! Damn, mate, what was that for?” he rubbed his hand gingerly over his left peck.

“We were just apologizing to Lily,” said Remus patiently.

“Who?”

“Lily, James. Lily,” Remus sighed as he massaged his temples. I laughed. I found it interesting that I was the subject of their conversation, but none of them gave a flying flipping fuck who I was. Sort of ironic.

“Uh- right. But what am I apologizing for?”

Sirius smacked his forehead with his palm.

“You'll have to excuse him. Anyway, we'd better go. Bye Lily.” Remus began ushering the other three boys through the trees and back where they came.

“Bye Lily!” squealed Sirius, waving his hand much too enthusiastically. I glared.

“Bye Lily!” Peter did the exact same thing that Sirius had before his exit. Original. I rolled my eyes.

“Bye Lily.”

I blinked. James had sounded somewhat earnest. As I gathered up my bag and left the grove, my thoughts swirled as I walked back up to the castle, and they all surrounded one question: How did any of them now my name?

As I mused I decided to change my surroundings. I followed my feet back up to the library, which provided dismal, but much more private little nooks that I could hide in without being disturbed. I sat there for… I don't know, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. In perfect silence. Just writing. Just reflecting and bearing my soul to a piece of paper. It was a pastime that required a good deal of self-pity, so you could create an onslaught if it and never cease to be profound.

I became so absorbed in myself that I didn't even notice, not even out of the corner of my concentrated eye, that two people had been trying to get my attention almost the entire time.

As I had been contenting myself moi-meme, Sirius Black and peter Pettigrew were table hopping from one end of the side of the library opposite me to my respective corner, hiding their faces behind books on astrology and anthropology and disturbing the study groups that were scattered about the high-ceilinged room. I only noticed their peculiar antics when they had both taken chairs at my round table and stared suspiciously over the rims of the thick volumes that otherwise covered the rest of their faces. They were idiots, no matter how cute. I sighed and set down my quill.

“Can I help you?”

The two delinquents exchanged glances from behind their masks. Sirius nodded to Peter, and they lowered the books.

“Yes?” I prompted.

Sirius delicately folded his hands in front of him. Peter followed suit. Honestly, the kid was so inanimate. Like a chubby robot, or something. Anyway.

“No,” said Sirius. “But we can help you.”

“I'm sorry?”

“We've brought something for you,” elaborated Peter.

“What's that?”

They didn't say anything else, but Sirius searched in his pocket and pulled out a small, folded up piece of parchment, and set it down in front of me and my journal, which I suddenly noticed was still lying open for both of them to read. I felt naked, but neither of them even stole a glance at it.

As they turned to leave, Sirius winked at me, and then the two of them chorused another cheesy “Bye Lily!' before skipping off (yes, they were skipping) toward the exit. Not quite sure how I felt about this encounter, I noticed my fingers shook a little as I clumsily unfolded the tiny note.

Not easy to state the change you made.

If I'm alive now, then I was dead,

Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,

Staying put according to habit.

You didn't just toe me an inch, no-

Nor leave me to set my small bald eye

Skyward again, without, of course,

Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake

Masked among black rocks as a black rock

In the white hiatus of winter-

Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure

In the million perfectly-chiseled

Cheeks alighting each moment to melt

My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,

Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.

Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.

The first thing I saw was sheer air

And the locked drops rising in a dew

Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay

Dense and expressionless round about.

I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded

To pour myself out like a fluid

Among bird feet and stems of plants.

I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Lily-

Hello. I'd like to get to know you. Would you meet me by the willow at the lakeside tomorrow around six? Hope you enjoyed the poem.

-James

Breathe in, breathe out.

James potter, write to me? No…

That poem was Sylvia Plath. I knew it. I knew and read and loved her work, along with that of several other poets (for example, William Blake, Edgar Allen Poe); the depressed, insightful, brilliant and quiet types with suicidal tendencies. They understood me and I them. I could relate. So how would Potter know that?

And then it came to me. It was a joke. A Marauder's prank. And if I had really taken the bait, there would most likely be something interesting waiting for me beside that tree. And it wouldn't be James Potter.

It made sense the more I thought about it. Boring, ugly, shy bookworm redheads never get attention from boys. Not the kind they might want, anyway. I wanted to beat myself for ever being self-absorbed or slow enough to think that a Marauder would want to talk to me. Ha. I wished. I was nothing more than their latest victim.

Resigned to this fact, my head began to real with overcrowded thoughts as the idea of impending humiliation attacked my self-esteem, which tended to be prone to fast declines if I lost faith in myself. (As I believe I've mentioned before.) At a complete loss for what to do or even what to think about all this randomness, the light bulb took a while to come on. But when it did, I knew my solution was as lucid and as glass and as blatant as a muggle in Diagon Alley. Morgana. Morgana Tudor, my best friend, my love, my light- would know exactly what to do.

~*~*~

“I have no idea what to do,” said Morgana, passing me back the mysterious note after I had explained this afternoon's events to her. So much for plan B.

“Jesus, Morgan, where are your ingenious egg-headed obscure ideas when I need them?” I whined.

“ On vacation.”

“Really, where?”

“Oh, you know, Monaco, Greece, Florence, Paris, Milan…”

“Why weren't you and I invited?”

“Because we're humongous losers.”

“Ah.”

There followed a brief silence that made the air in our girly dorm room seem heavy with concentration.

“How do you know that this note isn't a real attempt to get to know you?” Morgana's words were courteous enough, but her facial expression gave her away. She and I both knew that James Potter would never give any girl a poem. Especially if that girl was nerd extraordinaire, Lily Evans.

I gave her a look, and she said finally: “Look, I'll come down there with you. That way even if they are planning on using you for some stupid prank, and let's face it darling, they probably are-”

Hey. She was honest.

“- I'll go down with you.”

And I loved her.

Finally somewhat at ease after the evening's escapades, I was able to sleep that night, my dreams filled to the brim with almost every possible bad situation I was likely to come by on the morrow.

~*~

A/N- first, I don't even know if any of you will catch this, but I wrote that Remus's eyes are of an amber hue. This is simply because I found nothing on JKR's website and nothing on any other sites that she recommended concerning their real color, so I took an author's license, a small liberty, whatever you want to call it. I figured that amber is an original, pretty color, and also remember that wolves are said to have amber eyes. I wouldn't know from personal experience, but… I talk too much. Anyway, thanks a million for your support. Stick around for the next chapter, and I'd appreciate feedback! See you on the flip-flop!

-Godswake ;)

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3. The First Day of the Rest of My Life

WINDFALL

My Confessions

By Godswake

*~*~*

Chapter two: The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Chapter song: We're Gonna Be Friends, The White Stripes

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all characters, themes, and plot devices in Harry Potter, not I. Will Shakespeare wrote the lovely poem.

Ballet dancers. Morgana. Waterfalls. Faeries. Eyes. These things are beautiful. Stepping out of my morning bath and looking into the foggy mirror that reflected my gangly image- I realized I wasn't. What a revelation. Lily. I sighed and leaned forward, scrutinizing my reflection further. My freckles were too numerous and mingled unpleasantly with my imperfect teenager skin, which I was still getting used to. My nose was too turned up, and my chin wasn't prominent enough. The only things I even sort of liked about myself were my eyes. They were okay. But everything else… bleh.

I was only allowed one more sigh before Morgana began to scream at me. She was always so pissy in the mornings.

“Lily! Are you finished with the bloody lo yet? I don't think I've ever had to take a piss more badly than I do right now…”

“Yes, Morgan. It's all yours.” I said as I walked through the frame as slowly as I could, just to make her a little bit angrier. It was a hobby of mine.

“Walk any slower and I'll take a leak all over your pretty little face!” she spat menacingly.

“Well then, that's incentive enough for me to stand completely still for the next few minutes.”

“Lily!” she growled as a warning.

“Patience is a virtue, Morgana darling,” I cooed, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, the product of what I liked to call MEMFOR. (Morgana's early morning fits of rage.)

I arose unmamed, and merely chuckled lightly to myself to congratulate my mind for having antagonized Moragana so. She was just so funny when she was angry.

Refreshed, slightly more awake and sporting an empty bladder, Morgana Tudor emerged from the bathroom looking much more radiant than any person should at 8:00 am on a Sunday.

“Better?” I asked as I sifted through my trunk, looking for something to wear.

“Better,” Morgana agreed. I settled on a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. It was chilly outside already, and I had never gotten used to wearing robes on the weekends.

“You're not going to wear those… things, are you, Lily? You don't really want to meet James looking like a bum.”

Ugh. I had forgotten about that.

“Morgan, he's probably going to dump me somewhere or throw something all over me, so why the hell would I want to look nice? It's a pretty hopeless aspiration, anyway-”

“Actually,” she interjected. “- I've given the whole thing a bit of thought, and I figure that you have a shot.”

“Yeah, a shot a being tied to a tree and being used as live bait for a hungry oversized dragon.”

“Lily.”

“Morgana.”

“- You know what I meant. At shot at- well, I just don't think that this whole fiasco with the poem was solely intended for subjecting you to utter humiliation. James Potter doesn't even know you, so why do you assume that he and his friends have it in for you?”

I paused and thought about this. Perhaps she was right. The weight of her words had not yet settled in my mind when my duel personality began to play devil's advocate.

“Your philosophy is, then,” I began, slowly, then used a crescendo to increase the effect of quick wit. “That the Marauders don't know me, personally, so why would want to harm me, make fun of me, poke me, throw things at me, etcetera. Correct?”

Morgana's confident expression flickered slightly.

“Correct.”

“- But if they didn't know me, (and they don't)- why would any one of them, especially James Potter, write me a love note?” I finished and waited for Morgana to respond.

“You've got me,” she said finally.

I proceeded to perform an odd series of spasmodic movements. I called it a victory dance, but most of my friends and acquaintances would have attested to the fact that when I “danced”, I looked more like a dying squirrel on Valium. (It's difficult to envision, but true.)

“Stop that,” said Morgan with a grimace.

“Sorry.”

“Listen carefully to me, Lily Evans.”

“Listening.”

“I love you dearly, but you cannot dance. Your dancing looks rather like the mating ritual of an arctic puffin.”

I stopped looking offended and laughed.

“Are you quite familiar with the typical mating rituals of arctic puffins?” I asked giggling.

“I am,” said Morgana, with an entirely strait face.

My giggling ceased.

“You astound me,” I pronounced.

She smiled. “Ditto. I still think you should look presentable, though, when you go down to see James.”

“It's impossible for me to look presentable!” I groaned exasperatedly, flinging my arms around in frustration. “And who says I'm going, anyway? Why would I want to?”

“Because you're impossibly curious about the whole event.”

“Oh, I am not.”

“You are, too.”

“Not.”

“Are.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine.”

Much laughter followed this conversation's end, and if there was one thing I was sure of (if not my looks, my fate or my dancing abilities) it was that Morgana Tudor's friendship was one of the greatest blessings I would ever receive. One day, though I didn't yet know when, I would be showered with great fortune, and even through all those years, a doubt never entered my mind as to who I worshiped most. Morgana one, God zero…

*~*~*

I had little faith at all, in fact, let alone in some impalpable deity. I had been raised under one of the numerous denominations of Christian organized religion. A faith that hardly distinguished itself between the hundreds, possibly thousands that had formed before or after it. This fact in itself contributed to my less enthusiastic opinions about God. The fact that there were so many theories- each follower of each new idea believed so sincerely in the wrongness and inevitable damnation of each contesting theory's practitioners. So if you really thought about it, everyone was gonna end up in Hell, sans doute. I wondered if there was even such a thing as the infamous fiery pit. Not everyone could be right.

And if no one seemed to be hitting the nail on the head, why didn't “God” come down and do something about it? My own philosophical answer to that question was that God did not exist. He never would, and I vowed never to teach my children that he would. Why put you faith in something that either didn't care, didn't exist, or was taking a long nap while humanity carried the weight of its problems?

These were my beliefs. These were the hard facts that I clung to in place of a God. I figured that putting my soul in the hands of the same creature who had sat back and watched slavery, war, the holocaust and AIDS wipe out lives was suicide. I trusted my own judgment and responsibility more. Evolution all the way!

No hell. No heaven. No brimstone. No angels. Nothing to worry about but life and the moment. And that was all I had time for. Living for the moment was such a cliché fantasy, such a far-off ideal, but I really believed in it. Carpe Diem, Seize the Day and all that, were for some reason so wonderful to me, such good maxims to live by. And I suppose it was because I understood, more than most people, that you could kick the bucket any second. I was an old soul.

*~*~*

I had been playing wizard's chess with Morgana in the common room (and beating the hell out of her skinny arse) when she suddenly perked up, broke the silence hanging between the two of us and said in an excited and low tone:

“Lily. It's quarter to six.”

“Okay…” I said slowly, still contemplating my next move.

“No, no, my flower, look at me.” She took both of her dainty hands, leaned over the chessboard, and squished my cheeks together as she lifted up my face. This made me look like a confused fish. “It's nearly six o'clock.”

Silence. And then:

“Oh!” It had dawned on me. “Right, well… I don't want to go.”

“You codfish. You're going.”

“How dare you! I am not a codfish!”

“You are if you don't come down to the willow with me. Now!”

“Morgan!” I whined and stamped my foot. To no avail. Morgana grabbed my wrist and dragged me, dead resistant weight and all, through the portrait hole and down to the grounds. Immediately upon steeping through the threshold of the castle and into the open air, my best friend and I witnessed the tall figures of four boys silhouetted against the setting sun. As the images came clearer into focus, we saw two of these bodies dive behind a nearby bush, leaving James Potter and Sirius Black standing there, trying to look nonchalant as they leaned up against the huge landmark tree.

“Lily Evans,” cooed James, not wasting any time once Morgana and I were within speaking distance.

Sirius followed immediately after his famed best mate. “And Morgana Tudor.”

“How do you know my name?” Asked Morgana, eyeing Sirius suspiciously. His eyes glittered with pleasure.

“I know more than just your name, my lovely,” he continued.

“That's really kind of scary,” said Morgana with her trademark frankness and her hands on her hips.

“Don't be frightened. I have something very special to show you, Morgana.”

“What's that?”

“It's a surprise,” Sirius said quickly, taking her arm. “And it's all the way on the other side of the grounds. Come come.”

And he began leading Morgana away in the other direction, toward the forbidden forest. She looked too taken aback to protest, and merely threw several dejected glances back at me as she allowed herself to be ushered away. After this, I heard what sounded like muffled whispers and giggles fro the bush that was presumably occupied by Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin.

“Oy! Bugger off, you two, will you?” said James, his voice laced with mingled irritation and amusement.

The two buys hopped up, red in the face from laughing, from behind their hiding place. Both saluted James, winked at me and began to walk back up toward the castle.

Thinking quickly, I remembered my last resort against the obvious trap I was letting myself fall into.

“Remus, wait!” I called after the sandy-haired boy. (He was the only one of the four that I sort of knew) He and Peter halted.

“Yes'm?” He asked innocently.

“Help me,” I whispered desperately.

“Oh,” Remus chuckled some more. “No can do this time. Sorry Lily.”

And my last hope bolted toward Hogwarts with his chubby friend breathing hard in his wake. I was doomed.

“So,” began James with a small smirk on his handsome face. His hazel eyes seemed more like a pool of every color in the spectrum, and they were sparkling with what seemed like several secrets that shown from behind them. His messy hair was so black that when the afternoon light reflected on it, it looked blue.

I stopped before I started analyzing his appearance further. Bad Lily, I thought miserably. You're ugly. You're stupid. You're not worthy. You're-

“Why did you right it?” James's eyes glittered. I broke my dazed stare, and with horror realized that he had obviously seen me goggling at him. It was this revelation that distracted me from the nature of the question he had asked in the first place.

“Huh?”

Smooth, Lily. You are so smooth.

“I said, why did you write it?”

I was still lost. “What do you mean?”

James gave me an odd look before reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a small, folded up piece of parchment. After unfolding it, he cleared his throat and read:

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of you desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend,

Nor services to you, till you require.

Look him in the eye.

“'Nor dare I chide that worldwithoutend hour

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of your absence sour

When you have bid your servant once adieu;

No, don't. He'll know you think he's beautiful. Focus just above the brow line…

“'Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught

Save, where you are and how happy you make those.

Don't turn red.

“'So true a fool is love that in your will;

Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.'”

Breathe.

“I didn't write that,” I spat out quickly, ruining the poignancy of the moment.

“No, you didn't. William Shakespeare did. And I'm not finished yet,” said James quietly.

I shut up.

He continued. “'James- I hope you like Shakespeare. Meet me tomorrow at the willow around six.'”

All right. That did it.

“I didn't write a fucking word of that,” I said bluntly. I had quite a mouth for a thirteen-year-old.

“What d'you mean you didn't-”

“-Not a word.”

“Well then why…?”

“-Maybe you can tell me who wrote this.”

I then took out my own note, and read the Sylvia Plath poem and the postscript after it to James.

“I didn't write a fucking word of that,” James swore. He was beat red.

“Okay,” I began calmly, myself turning ghostly pale from humiliation. “Then I guess the question is, who did?”

There was a pause, and then:

“Sirius.”

“Sirius- he… what?” I was trying to follow James's train of thought.

“He did this. He knew that I… and you… he thinks this is funny. I'll kill him!” James heaved.

“Want to fill me in?” I was remaining impossibly calm, to my credit.

James looked at me distractedly, as if he had forgotten I was there. Figures. I was pretty forgettable.

“It doesn't matter,” he said after an awkward pause.

“Well, actually, it does, because I haven't got a clue what you're talking about. What is it you think Sirius Black did, exactly?”

James sighed and shook the note in my face. He was being rather rude, and I felt my visage reflect my feelings as I put on a sour expression. My affections were waning. Not that he would care…

“Who gave this note to you?” he asked impatiently.

“I thought… well, I had thought you did. I mean, how can you blame me, it had your name at the bottom and-”

“No. Who put this note in your possession?”

And then I got it. Of course. Of course! How could I think for a minute that that poem wasn't a joke? I was stupid, ugly…

“Oh,” I said weakly.

“`Oh', is right. Sirius Black, correct?”

Flashes of what had happened in the library taunted me. “Yes,” I mumbled.

“Yeah. Well, ditto. He gave me this piece of parchment and said that Lily Evans gave it to him so he would pass it on to me.”

“And he and Peter came and gave me the note in the library.”

“We've been set up,” James gave me a sideways lopsided smirk.

“So it seems. But I still don't get why. Was it to embarrass you?”

“Uh- I don't know. Sirius has an interesting sense of humor. You'd have to ask him. Anyway… change of subject. We may as well have a bit of chat before Sirius and your friend get back… Why haven't you ever spoken to me before, Lily Evans?”

I tried to collect myself, but it was nearly impossible. What do you say to that? What do you say when James Potter asks you a question like that? Oh God, oh God…

“You've never spoken to me, either,” I breathed.

“Touché, ” James laughed. “Well, I guess not. But we can always change that.”

He held out his hand and shook mine. I never decided whether it was just the shock of his touch, or… something else… but for a moment my vision blurred, my stomach flipped and I forgot about balance as I seemed to float. Reeling, I shook it off as he pulled his hand back. Sometimes I imagine things.

“Hi. I'm James Potter. It's nice to meet you, Miss…”

“-Evans. Lily Evans,” I gave a small smile.

“Fabulous. Now we've been officially introduced, and you can tell me more about yourself.”

He then proceeded to sit and make himself comfortable as he leaned against the trunk of the looming willow tree and looked up at me, apparently waiting for me to commence spilling the contents of my soul. I laughed openly at his eagerness. I couldn't really tell whether or not he was kidding.

“Do you really have that much extra time on your hands?”

James shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”

I sat down next to him. “Okay…”

“Just start with your age,” he said encouragingly.

“I'm thirteen.”

“Born?”

“August 20th, 1960, in an insignificant suburb outside London.”

“Called?”

“Waltonmore.”

“Ah. Height?”

“Around 5'3”, last I checked.”

“You're quite small, then. Muggle-born, Half-blood or Pure-blood?”

“Muggle-born.”

“Siblings?”

“Nope.”

“Parents?”

“I've got two.”

“That's lucky.”

“- Both muggles, both real estate agents. Both really annoying.”

“Favorite food?”

“Fettuccine Alfredo. Ice cream, too. And bread. I love bread.”

“What about vegetables?”

“Blech.”

“Then how are you so skinny?”

“Dunno. Just lucky, I guess.”

“What are some of your good personality traits?”

“Uh, I dunno… I don't really have any…”

“I'll figure that out on my own, then, I guess. I know you have them. You're just not comfortable enough to tell me. Vices?”

“I'm picky. I'm boring. I read too much. I cant dance…”

“-Stop. Everyone's picky, you're not boring, one can never read too much, and I myself will teach you to dance.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“You're welcome. What do you like to read?”

“The classics. Poe, Shakespeare, Blake, Plath, Stoker, Dickens, Chaucer, Vidal…”

“You're a nerd.”

“I know.”

“Favourite band?”

“The Rolling Stones.”

“The Who?”

“No, the Rolling Stones, I don't like The Who.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“I'm confused.”

“Lie down before you hurt yourself, then. Suffice it to say that the Rolling Stones are a muggle band. Next question.”

“Right. Got any problems?”

“Quite a few. But I'd rather not list them right now.”

“I see. You're guarded.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. Favourite sexual position?”

“Uncalled for.”

“Hehehe.”

“Shut up laughing.”

“Sorry.”

“I think it's my turn to ask questions now.”

“Shoot,” said James happily.

“Give three positive words that describe you.”

“Handsome, intelligent, brave.”

“Come off it. Now three bad.”

“Uh… I can't think of anything.”

I gave him a look.

“Fine. Lazy, clumsy, any pretty damned conceited, actually.”

“That's better. Are you religious?”

“In my own right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to.”

“Uh-huh. Name one thing you believe in.”

“Beauty.”

I paused for a second. “Yeah,” I said finally. “Me too.”

That night, I sat up in bed, too excited and too flabbergasted to sleep. I was elated and utterly euphoric, and I needed some time to think before I started to dream. As I listened to Morgana breathe (she crashed as soon as we'd gotten back up to the castle- apparently she'd had an interesting little romp with Sirius), I reflected on the events of that evening, and vowed that I would never let that be the last conversation I had with James Potter. I felt uncharacteristically confident, and as I finally closed my eyes and smiled to myself, I thought I knew it wouldn't be.

~*~

A/N- There you have it. Be sure to tell me what you thought of this! Oh! And happy New Year and all that jazz. Ciao!

-Godswake ;).

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4. Cut

WINDFALL

My Confessions

By Godswake

*~*~*

Chapter three: Cut

Chapter song: Witness, Sarah McLachlan

Disclaimer: JKR owns all characters, themes and ideas in the Harry Potter series, which is merely an implement of inspiration and tool to play with on my part. Sylvia Plath gets the poem credit again. (What can I say? I'm a fan.)

Okay, an A/N- first, to address the updating factor: I hope that I don't lose reviewers this way, but I'm afraid that updating every week or so is going to be nearly impossible for me, at least until the rest of the school year is finished. I'm so sorry about this, but I'm trying, and I hope you'll understand, as well as be able to accept an update about once a month. Okay. That said. With this chapter comes one of the many reasons that I decided to give it an R rating. There's some violence in here, and, I don't know, I just thought I'd tell those of you who are squeamish or really religious or something. In fact, if you are one of those ppl, this story may not be the one for you. Thirdly, and I will put this in bold print: LISTEN TO WITNESS. It really gives the spirit of the chapter and it's beautiful and poignant and sad. This note was not nearly concise enough, but oh well. Enjoy, everyone, and I'll probably talk to you again in a month, approx. Ta!

The beauty Ophelia staggered dreamily amongst the King and his few consorts, held up by her grieving brother, Laertes.

“Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?”

I sat leaning over a spring in the Forbidden Forest, observing my rippling reflection. I had returned to my sanctuary. To “the grove” as I'd called it.

Eyes unfocused, she sang of flowers and of early deaths.

I took out a sack full of sharp objects: razor blades, needles, knives and forks I had nicked from the Great Hall- and made my selection.

“Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

You promised me to wed.

So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,

And thou hadst not come to my bed.”

“How long hath she been thus?”

I held out my left forearm out over the lily-padded pond, and exhaled deeply as my pale skin broke and let forth a rush of live-giving, deep-red liquid. I watched as it trickled down my veiny wrist and rolled off the tips of my fingers, rippling in the clear water and ironically dotting the large white lily flowers that lay in the pool. I was darkening heaven-on-earth with sin. I smiled.

“You must sing, a-down, a-down, and you call him a-down-a. O; how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.”

“This nothing's more than matter.”

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.”

“A document is madness- thoughts and remembrance fitted.”

“There's fennel for you, and columbines: - there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays; - O, you must wear your rue with a difference. -there's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered away…for bonny sweet robin is all my joy-”

I replayed the famous mad-scene in my mind, hardly aware of my impending state of weakness from loss of blood. But you can't blame me for being lost in thought. How tragic, how beautiful- how fascinating is the sight of a good girl gone mad.

Lily and Ophelia were peas in a pod.

Despair, in its countless shapes and forms, is notorious for making its way into someone's life when that person wants it the least. Unexpected deaths, sudden boughts of madness, broken hearts… these are a few of the unheralded events that tend to plague human virility and step on dreams, clouding minds and hearts as our souls wander desperately and try to remember what it was to be happy.

But I had no such good reason for my unhappiness. I was merely on another familiar downward spiral, spinning and spinning, unable to stop. It would happen every once and a while for as long as I could remember: a cloud would dampen my being and the clean piercing on my scarred, translucent skin was the only way to prove I was still alive. It was a dramatic way of checking my pulse. Draining the sick blood…

The thrill was brief, though- rushed, evanescent. A few moments were enough. I winced as I let the cool spring water wash my new wounds, then lay on my back for some time, letting the elixir clot and dry.

Slowly, I allowed my mind to slip back into a more conscious state, and it didn't take long for me to realize that Morgana would be wondering where I was. I gingerly slipped an old gray sweatshirt over my head, trying not to let the cotton brush too harshly against my open skin. I wouldn't be able to bare my arms for a couple of weeks. People would wonder.

In order to avoid suspicion, I also took the liberty of hiding my life-giving implements behind an old tree, because my sack of blades, I had a feeling, was not welcome in the third year girl's dormitory of Gryffindor Tower. It would disrupt the normalcy and the dreaded perfection that I had come to dread so much, and that had come to be associated with Gryffindor House. Gryffindor's students were the strongest and the bravest, the smartest and the funniest, the most attractive and the most athletically sought after. They were the most talented in all their magical pursuits and endeavors, and it was they who had the brightest futures. How awful of me to pollute such an environment! What was I doing in Gryffindor House? I would have made a better Hufflepuff. The house for the rejected, the mudblooded, the unoriginal… the people who were shunted aside to let the extraordinary shine through. A community that housed those kinds of people sounded more like my calling.

At this moment and during those similar to it, when I questioned my own virtues, some of the most confusing and complicated issues swirled in my young, brooding brain. It is comforting to reflect on those times now and to know that they wouldn't plague my life forever. I just hadn't yet found a way to counteract the despair.

I let the grayish morning sky be my mirror on that day as I wandered in a half-dazed state on my way back up to the castle. The earth was sympathizing with me. Nature buzzed and tingled with the slightest implication of misery, letting me know that if it didn't have to keep humming to keep life from dying, it would sit down and have a good cry with me. I smiled comfortably and smelled the air. At least somebody knew I was hurting.

~*~*~

I heard it before I saw it- people arguing and shouting at each other. As I turned a corner and the frontal image of Hogwarts came into my sight, I saw them, circling and throwing their arms about on the edge of the lake. Remus and Peter had their arms on either of Sirius's upper arms, doing a fair job of keeping him back as he struggled resolutely against their grips, gray eyes fixed menacingly on the people standing a few yards away. James Potter was footed a few feet ahead of them, holding his wand out steadily. Facing this group was a typically loathsome group of Slytherins: Lucious Malfoy, who also had his wand out, though his was held lazily at his side, a beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed girl with a quiet smirk on her face and her hand on the blond boy's shoulder, the greasy and sneaky Severus Snape, and, slightly apart from the other three, a pale, scared-looking boy that I had never seen before.

I stopped wondering where I was. If I kept moving, they would all see me, and, in addition to being annoyed at my interruption of the scene, they may wonder why I was coming from that section of the Forbidden Forest. And as there seemed no visible way of sneaking by unnoticed, I backed up, hid my frame behind a nearby tree on the Forest's edge, and decided to wait it out. They couldn't possibly go on for too long…

Though I did make an effort to distract myself from watching the brewing battle before me, it was extremely difficult to try and interest myself with anything else without listening to the fight. I finally decided that there would be no harm in watching, as they would never know I was there, an that at least if they had intended their meeting to be private, they would have gone somewhere else anyway. I supposed I was nosy… I made a mental note to add that to my list of vices and tried not to dwell on it.

“Yes, you'd better hold him back, boys. He may hurt himself if he tries to go after me,” Luscious Malfoy drawled in a lazy, stately voice. The girl beside him laughed derisively. I shivered.

“I'll tear up the first one of you I can get to,” Sirius snarled.

“Ooh, a muggle duel? Tsk, tsk, Black. That seems a bit barbaric, even for you. Though I suppose you must be a bit frightened of what we can all do with our wands. Understandable. I would be as well, if I were you…”

“Don't doubt our talents, Malfoy. It could get you into trouble,” said James coolly. His round, deep-set amber eyes never left Malfoy's cold gray ones.

“Oh, let him, James. Let him find out the hard way,” growled Sirius.

“You know what, Black?” snapped Lucious, rounding on him. “I don't think we need to fight you. How about some group therapy, hm? My guess would be that your hostilities stem from the fact that your family hates you. You disgrace their bloodline by running around and fraternizing with halfbloods and mudbloods, you get yourself landed in the wrong house, and you have to live with the fact that your brother is much more worthwhile than you are. Your mother loathes the very air you breathe, and you feel rejected. This hurts your self-esteem. Is that right? Or is everything your darling brother and cousin have so considerately confided to us been a web of falsities?”

In the instant before Sirius cracked, his enemies, including the pale boy standing off to the side, all broke into clean, malevolent grins. They were all soaking up the small victory, thinking they had gained something in light Lucious's ridiculous eloquence. They didn't see it coming.

Sirius lunged into the direction of his opponents. But instead of getting his angry hands on Lucious, his tormentor, he jumped and pounced on the lone, black-haired and nameless boy, punching him senseless until the pretty blood ran freely all over grass and skin.

It was a site. In his rage, Sirius seemed to have forgotten about reason. (It was ironic how often these two feelings could be substituted for each other.) He was an ambidextrous fighter, hitting one side of the jaw, and then the other, each time letting out a grunt of fury and exasperation, completely deaf to his victim's cries of pain.

In the meantime, James had set himself upon Lucious, in order to distract the blond-headed boy from cursing Sirius off of his quiet accomplice. Remus and Peter had intervened to keep the dark-eyed girl and Snape from doing the same. Soon, an all-out duel had begun. Wands whirred, shouts and incantations permeated the air and more blood was drawn as each party's knowledge of the dark arts and of battle was put to the test.

I became conscious of the fact that my feet had begun to move themselves toward the scene, and stopped myself not a moment too soon. Right after I had hidden behind a tree, the girl had paused mid-scuffle with Remus to shoot a look in my direction.

The thirty seconds that followed seemed o take an age. I saw with exactitude every extension of limb, every placement of each foot, every shape made by every pair of lips as the group shouted and breathed and let forth magic. Colors like fireworks blurred my vision as speedy wand work released jets of rainbow. Sirius was panting and sweating, and wiping his shiny forehead with the back of his hand. The boy who he'd nearly killed was groaning and rolling onto his stomach, and then up to all fours to vomit and let the earth soak up the results of his injuries. I shut my eyes and closed my ears to the sound of the liquid hitting the ground.

When I dared to reopen them, the scene had shifted. Sirius was halfway up to the castle, his gate almost nonchalant, as if he hadn't just lost complete control of himself. Behind him, James, Peter and Remus had leapt forward to keep the Narcissistic Lucious from attacking from behind.

“No more, Lucious. It's done,” said Remus warily. The three boys had formed a wall of protection for their friend, blocking Lucious's clear wand path to Sirius.

“Oh, it's done when you say it is, is it?” spat the brown-eyed girl menacingly. “Look at what he's done to him!”

“He'll be fine,” said James indifferently. “Anyway, Sirius is your cousin. Don't you care about him?” She spat on the ground. Apparently he was lacking in tack.

Before my hero had time to even turn away, there was a flash of light, an incantation, and a huge bloody gash appeared on James's face, courtesy of Lucious's wand. Snape gave a disgusting whoop of exhilaration, joyful at the comfort lost at James's expense. I felt my heart pounding fast. That was dark magic. I sensed it, I knew it, and I hated it. For a moment, Peter, Remus and James all looked furious, and I anticipated a second violent outburst. But no. James slowly lifted his thumb to his face, winced, and observed how the red had discolored his skin. Then, with a last glance at the four Slytherins, he turned and followed Sirius in his path leading toward the castle. Peter and Remus stood still a few seconds more, as if to make sure they would not be attacked again. But after James had resigned to leave, it seemed, the fervor was gone. The girl, Snape and Malfoy had gone to check on their comrade, and the two remaining Gryffindors finally decided to follow in their friend's wake.

***

After the Slytherins had cleared out, I left my hiding spot for the castle. My mind was spinning again, but this time, it wasn't because of my emotional problems. I had no time to be depressed, and I had forgotten all about them somewhere in the midst of the scene I had just witnessed.

But was I a witness?

Had I haphazardly stumbled upon the occurrence, or was I just too sneaky to pry my eyes away? Either way, I'd seen what I'd seen, and it had disturbed me. I mechanically followed the path to Gryffindor tower, eager to confide in Morgana and to decode and interpret what I had seen with her. I knew we could make some sense out of it together, once I explained it all.

But Morgana wasn't anywhere to be found. Not in the bedroom or the common room. So I tried to bottle and confine my pensive energy as I sat down by a window to wait and to sort out the morning's events.

How bizarre. There were so many unanswered questions that were nagging me. How did the fight get started? Where had Lucious Malfoy and his cronies gotten so skilled in the Dark Arts? Who was the pale boy Sirius had nearly taken the life of? Had the girl seen me when she'd looked in my direction? How could people come to loathe each other so much? Was James all right? His cut had been so deep. It had bled freely…

These mysteries and more clouded my brain, and soon my head began to ache. I felt early pangs of hunger. It was almost dinnertime- I would go down in an hour or so. I finally turned from the window to go up to the dorm for a nap or something (I was wide awake), and found myself standing uncomfortably close to the oh-so-venerable James Potter.

“Lily. Hello.” He said softly, teasingly. He mad me feel so awkward.

“Hello,” I said, stepping back. The day, apparently, would just keep getting weirder. The twilight zone played briefly in my mind.

“How's life?” He slumped down into the nearest chair and bit into a huge apple, which had been lingering conspicuously in his left hand. A bandage now adorned the place where I knew he had been hurt.

“Weird, boring, and slightly depressing,” I coughed. “But there you are. What happened to your face?” I added innocently.

“Oh, ummm…fell in a bush.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Another bite from the apple.

“How'd you manage that?”

“Don't you remember? I'd told you I was clumsy,” James shrugged. I didn't press any further.

A pause. I felt compelled to say something. Anything. “Why do you chew so loudly?”

“Why are you picking on me?”

“I'm not.”

“Because I want everyone to know how delicious this apple is.” He grinned. A thought occurred to me.

“Where did you get that, anyway? The Great Hall doesn't open until 6:00. It's only 5:00 now.”

“Oh. I, uh… got it…” He got off his chair and came closer to me, tossing the apple's core into the fireplace. “…From the kitchens,” he said softly.

“What kitchens?”

“The kitchens. The ones under the Great Hall.”

“Oohh! Those kitchens. How did you get in there?” I spoke in a whisper. I could hardly suppress the excitement I felt. A marauder was about to tell me a secret…

James suddenly drew his thirteen-year-old self impressively and held out his hand.

“Mademoiselle Lily Evans,” his voice had changed dramatically as well. It was now deeper, and a thousand times more mature.

“Prepare to be liberated from a life of weirdness, depression, and that dreaded symptom of boredom. I am Sir James Potter. My solemn duty is to rescue such damsels as yourselves from the dreary confines of their present duties.” He bowed gallantly, and I laughed and took his hand. I found it surprisingly sweaty and clammy. Since when did the Potter boy get sweaty hands? He took me by the waist, and my heart leapt into my throat.

“We're going to get something to eat.” He stated after a moment.

“From where?”

“Who cares? It's food. Food is food is food. Doesn't matter where it comes from.”

“Sometimes it does.”

He turned to look at me while we walked.

“My dearest Lily, if you hadn't have told me just now, I'dve never known.” He offered me a lopsided grin. One of the many he could have selected from the innumerable different types of smiles I would come to recognize. “Besides, you need an adventure.”

“I don't know you very well at all,” I said.

“Likewise,” was his response. So breezy. So familiar. It was strange that I felt like I'd known him for eons. This was probably why I voiced an opposing sentiment. Then; when I was younger, I used to think that saying the opposite of what you thought would keep your secrets hidden. But that theory didn't hold true with James Potter. He was so good at discovering my secrets away. And I didn't mind…

“So why do you want to take me, of all people, on one of your adventures? How do you know what I need?” I was at a loss. James bounded a few paces ahead of me and shot the following from over his shoulder as his gate became quicker and more resolute:

“Stop wondering, Lily. Just seize the moment, and ask questions later. Procrastinate. Carpe Diem. Revel.”

I said nothing. It took too long for me to process these words, and then to try and understand them, to think of a rejoinder that would make me sound clever. Silence prevailed for a couple of minutes as we strolled; him taking long strides and looking ahead and me wandering timidly with my arms crossed, taking in all the dimly-lit surroundings.

Suddenly: “Aha!”

“What?” I came up behind him and we found ourselves staring directly at a huge still life painting of a bowl of fruit. James reached out a finger and tickled a pear on the canvas. It giggled and writhed for a second before morphing into a giant green door handle. James opened the door.

“After you.”

I passed through the threshold, and was suddenly standing amidst an immense expanse of brass pots, food and swarms of tiny, ugly dwarf-things that all goggled at me when I came in. So these were the Hogwarts kitchens.

“Impressive.” I said blankly.

“This,” said James as he came up beside me. “Is where I got that apple.”

The expressions on the odd faces of the little people in sacks which all bore the Hogwarts crest softened at the sight of James, who evidently was a regular customer.

“Mr. Potter, sir!” squeaked one of the creatures.

“You have come back, sir, and with a friend, I see. What can I do for you sir, and you friend? Name you request, James Potter, name it! Anything!” Its gleeful voice was like that of a child on helium.

“We'll have a couple of picnic baskets to go, please.”

Scores of the things scampered around to follow the order. I leaned over and whispered in James's ear.

“What are those things?”

“House elves.” He whispered back.

“Oh!” It finally made sense. These were the bizarre creatures that made our food and cleaned our dormitories. Apparently they stayed hidden, but I had heard tell about the school's peculiar institution.

Within seconds, the house elves had assembled themselves at our feet, two of them holding up stereotypically Dorothy-like picnic baskets and the rest staring at James and I.

“Thank very much!”

Smoothly, he took the two baskets, waved goodbye, and led us back out the way we came.

“Do you do that often?” I asked when we emerged on the other side of the fruit painting, feeling that I probably already knew that answer.

“All the time.” He offered me my basket and a sly grin- the type of smile that's supposed to make girls swoon. But I was suddenly feeling uncharacteristically confident and in control. Swoon, I did not.

He resumed that same planned-out, quick-paced speed as before, and I followed him.

“Where are we going now?” I tried, after some moments had passed.

“Again with the questions,” he groaned in mock-exasperation. The smiling hazel eyes gave the joke away. “A few years back, there used to be astronomy classes held at the top of a flat eastern tower, on the roof of the castle, But they've closed it off to students and stopped having classes there since…” he broke off.

“Since what?” I persisted.

He slowed his pace. “Well, I don't want to scare you, but I think someone died up there. I don't know why.”

I hesitated.

“Don't worry! I wouldn't take you anywhere that wasn't safe.”

“Pah!”

“Okay. Safe to a degree. But come on. It's beautiful up there, I can promise you that much.” He took my free hand with his, and we jogged up several flights of stairs. When we couldn't go up any higher, we were on a landing with a door on the east side. James pushed it open. It was night outside. People were probably having dinner in the Great Hall by now. But for the evening, James's dining place and mine would be this lovely balcony amid the castle's innumerable highest turrets and towers. It was another sanctuary, and James had not lied. It was beautiful. The panoramic, idyllic view of the stars (which seemed close enough to touch) was perfect for an astronomy class. Or a nighttime picnic.

James must have seen the pleasure in my countenance, for he grinned in a satisfactory way as he took both of our baskets and laid their contents on the stone floor. The first thing he went for was the bottle of pumpkin juice and two glasses. He uncorked the bottle, handed me a glass, then walked to the edge of the balcony.

“For the gods,” he breathed. A few ounces of the juice he poured out of the bottle and over the edge of the wall.

After he had filled up his cup and taken a sip, I took the bottle in my own frail hands, still carefully remembering to keep hidden the discrete wounds just past my wrists, and repeated the gesture.

“For my soul,” was my toast, and we seated ourselves amongst our small feast, letting minutes pass by in contented silence, nothing breaking it but the sounds of cutlery.

I had grown too comfortable after a while. Too lax. Too passive. I reached for something by James, and before I knew what had happened, I felt his fingers enclose on my arm in a gentle but firm manner.

“What are you doing?” My voice echoed strangely and I felt almost rude to be piercing the quiet air with such obtrusive volume. He pulled back to my sleeve and I felt his sweet eyes dart to my tender skin. Dark though it was, he saw. The blood was too fresh.

“I knew it,” he said quietly, calmly.

“Let go.”

“You are amazingly unhappy.”

“Oh, aren't you clever. A girl who cuts herself is unhappy? How deductive. That's really a brilliant observation. Let go!” I wrenched back my arm and pulled down the sleeve.

“Why do you do that to yourself?”

“You know, for someone who doesn't like answering questions, you sure like asking them,” I spat bitterly.

James ignored the comment. “I don't know you, but I want to. I don't want to creep you out or anything, but you really fascinate me. It seems like everyone at this school is always competing for a place in the sun, a taste of popularity. But not you. You're always… one step out of step, sort of. It's what makes you stand out.” He paused for a minute. I said nothing. “And your red hair doesn't hurt,” he added, and smiled. He was trying to make me laugh. I would not. I said nothing. “That's why I think you're interesting.”

“You wouldn't understand why I did it. You're to perfect. You just prance around and worship yourself and your friends. You defend your honor. You live for stupid things like that fight this afternoon, and you-”

“What did you say?” He whispered.

I had felt it escape from my lips too late. It had slipped. Now I had to come up with a lie, and fast.

“I… I saw you come from the other side of the lake. By the front of the castle.” I held my breath. There was a pause.

“No you didn't.” he said it so simply, so dismissively. I wanted to cry.

“We didn't see anyone around there. No one was outside. Too gray for play. We checked. But I guess we missed a person.” A corner-of-the-mouth smile was his white flag. His way of letting me know he wasn't angry.

“I had been in the forest,” I admitted after a few long seconds had passed.

He laughed jovially. “The Forbidden Forest is a… is an original hideout.”

I took the opportunity of his turn from solemn to laughing to both distract him from my emotional problems and to ask a burning question.

“Why were you fighting those people? I mean, I know they're awful, but… I mean why did Sirius jump at that boy? He was the only one who wasn't…” I broke off and let the end of my sentence trail off into the darkness. I had been watching James's expression, and it had grown grave again.

“That was Sirius's brother, Regulus Black. The dark-haired girl was his cousin, Bellatrix. They're both terrible people. Pureblooded bigots. They refuse to associate with anyone whose family magical line isn't pure and doesn't date back at least a couple hundred years. They consider Sirius a disgrace, because he's a Gryffindor, and being a pureblood isn't a pre-requisite for being his friend. Those grease balls, Lucious and Snape, do nothing but egg Bella and Regulus on whenever they can. Sirius… he just has a hard time coping. He snapped. We had to… we had to back him up. It's hard for him. His mother hates him, as well. Treats him like an animal.”

After the long-winded defensive explanation for his friend, several strong emotions swept over me. I felt awful. I had a sudden, surprising empathy for Sirius. He had always seemed so happy. I admired him for being able to fool everyone into thinking that he was. He wore a mask all the time. He could pretend. I wished I could do the same. Although, it was likely that even if I could wear a mask, some kind of disguise to hide myself from the prying eyes of society, such a defense would likely boil over fast. I had been that way for Sirius. He hadn't been able to control it. I regretted ever feeling sorry for his bleeding brother.

“I never would have guessed, I…”

“It's alright,” he said curtly. “Just… I mean it is really bad for him. I'd appreciate it if you never said anything to anyone. Even Morgana. It was really personal, what I just…”

“Of course,” I said, a bit too hastily. I barely realized I was promising my silence to a near stranger. I had never before kept anything from Morgana.

There followed a really long, awkward silence; the kind I hated. But I couldn't think of anything else to say. After a few minutes, James relieved me.

“You never answered my question. Why do you hurt yourself? I don't understand. Enlighten me.”

This was not something I had either wanted or expected to hear. The shock of it sent ears to my eyes, which made me more frustrated. I wiped them away and tried to turn my head, but decided it was a lost cause. James knew I was crying. James Potter was watching me cry, Jesus Christ.

“I do it… I do it because it leaves me feeling clean. I do it because it assures me that I do live, draw breath, bleed. I do it because I can,” A single tear trickled down my cheek. I didn't dry it. “I'm sick. My head is sick. I always feel like screaming, and I done know why. I'm angry at nothing.”

James looked unsure of what to do, but only for a split second. The expression flickered and died so fast that I doubted later whether I had seen it at all in the first place. Before I'd known what was happening, he'd pulled me into an embrace. I felt dizzy. When he'd pulled back, he held my shoulders and stared me down.

“If you ever need to know you're still living, come and ask me I'll tell you. I can do my best to make you feel better. But you have to promise me something.”

I sniffed. “What?”

“Never let a blade open your skin again. Stop cutting. Promise me.”

“I wouldn't know how to stop.”

Find a way. Find a way and promise me.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me.” More firmly this time.

“I promise.”

James smiled.

“I'll clear this up for you,” he gestured to the food. “Go ahead to the dorms, before it gets to late.”

I offered him a weak smile of thanks, and went for the door. I knew the way back.

~*~*~

But I didn't go back to Gryffindor Tower. I went straight outside to the grounds. To the place where I had left my weapons of self-destruction, and unearthed them from behind a large tree.

In the dark, I found the Hogwarts Lake, which looked to me at that moment like one huge, shimmering black opal. I dumped the bag that was in my hands at me feet. It had harbored various razors, cutlery, knives, blades, and a single folded up piece of paper. I unfolded it, and squinted my eyes in the moonlight to read a poem that once inspired me.

Cut

What a thrill ---
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ---

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ---
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

It was such a painful and sad conglomeration of words. It would serve another purpose at the bottom the great black lake with the sharp implements that had once given me solace. I watched them sink until I couldn't make out their shadowy forms, thinking of my new friend, James.

-->

5. Mea Culpa

WINDFALL

My Confessions

By Godswake

*~*~*

Chapter four: Mea Culpa

Chapter song: Bad Habit, the Dresden Dolls

Disclaimer: Harry Potter's image and the story that came along with it strolled into JK Rowling's head, not mine. The day I think up something as brilliant, I'll write about it.

Three days, eleven hours, seventeen minutes and counting.

This is how long it had been since I'd cut.

I didn't know whether to be proud or not. I had stopped for a period, yes. I was healing. But that wasn't thanks to my own self-discipline or perseverance. No. It was all because of a boy. A silly boy who had made me promise something that hung over my head constantly- like my own shadow on the walls. I couldn't figure out why I had suddenly stopped. I only knew that any contemplation of renewing the morbid ritual would later make me feel a heavy stab of Catholic-like guilt. Mea culpa, mea culpa. It was worse than the will to pick up a new blade.

But it had only been three days.

I hadn't told Morgana about what happened in the tower with James. She had been working on her apprenticeship with Madame Pomfrey that night and still didn't even know that I ever left the common room. She probably would have taken it the wrong way anyway. What she didn't know couldn't hurt her, as the cliché saying went. So I supposed that what she did know would.

I was waiting for her just then. I had finished lessons about an hour ago and Morgana was due to be let out of the Hospital Wing just in time for dinner. I stood in the frame of the doorway, watching my lovely friend bustle around after the efficient school nurse, finishing up an afternoon's work and displaying a natural skill and ease in the trade. Morgana was to be a healer one day, and with Madame Pomfrey's blessing. We would live together and support one another… though, while my best friend's future was already beginning to take shape, mine was not even being considered. I had no idea what career path I would follow, but what normal thirteen-year-old did? Perhaps it was my carpe diem philosophy that was to blame, but at that point in my youth, the period of time from then to when I would live independently seemed interminable.

I observed as Morgan gathered up her things and received an affectionate squeeze from the young resident nurse.

“It's always wonderful to have you help me out in here, Morgana. I look forward to Thursday.”

“As do I!” she replied gracefully. That was another part of Morgana's charm. She could say things like `as do I' at age thirteen and not sound like a prick.

She strode confidently to meet me with her bag swung over her shoulder.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yep. Been ready.” We started to make our way down to the Great Hall for dinner.

“I'm sorry about that. Lindsey Garret, you know, that pretty 6th year with the curly brown hair?”

“I think so, yeah. What about her?”

“She came in about a half an hour ago with bruises and cuts all over he body. She was too dazed to tell what happened, and Madame Pomfrey had me sit with her.”

The image of a pretty girl staggering into the hospital wing all covered with sores was disturbing.

“That's… strange.”

“Yeah, I know. Pomfrey still can't figure what or who did it, but I have no doubt that she'll be able to sort it out. The woman is really amazing.”

“I've heard.” My tone was flat and glum. Sometimes I couldn't help sounding less than interested when others were being praised. I was a teenager, after all. Though still a new one.

“How was divination?” She asked me. The brilliant girl had decided to swap the class for a chance to volunteer in the Hospital Wing.

“Well, I have absolutely no gift for it. I had this idea in my head before I decided I wanted to take the class that I would walk in, and the professor would jump up and rave about my aura, and I would be predicting things, amazing things, left and right from then on. But I cant even make out shapes in a lump of tea leaves.”

“I don't think that really takes away from your own personal merit. Tea leaves are a shady subject. Right up there with puppets and mayonnaise.”

“Sorry, puppets and mayonnaise?”

“You heard me.”

“But what do tea leaves have to do with puppets and mayonnaise?”

“They're creepy.”

“Creepy?”

“Puppets cant move their eyeballs, but they can speak. Mayonnaise is lumpy and it makes me cringe.”

We arrived at our destination and took our usual seats at the Gryffindor table, slightly apart from the rest of our peers. “I really don't know how to respond to that, Morgana.”

My friend said nothing, but grinned wryly, like she knew a secret, and shoveled a mound of mashed potatoes into her mouth.

We had been in a near state of contented silence for a few minutes; the breaks in conversation only pierced by the occasional light-hearted question or comment. How was your day. Pass the sprouts. Did you do your arithmancy homework. I have to pee. Etc. The monotony was broken when James, Sirius and Remus approached us. Peter remained seated with his head bowed at the other end of the table.

“Hello Morgana.”

“Sirius.”

I giggled. They were both suffering from enormous crushes. I thought they fit.

“What do you all want?” This came from my lips.

Remus answered my question.

“James had us come over here with him.”

“For moral support,” added Sirius.

“-He said he wanted to check in on you- was that it, James?”

“Yeah, that was it.” He looked uncomfortable. “Alright, Lily?”

“So far, yeah. Thanks.” I looked up at him. The Great Hall was melting away from behind his frame. He had hazel eyes.

“Oh, James. Look at the way Morgana eats her peas. It makes me wanna touch myself.”

“Inappropriate, Padfoot!” Remus gave Sirius a threatening glare that he cowered under.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. He stole a wink at Morgana before walking away, and I saw the Hall fall back into focus and I started laughing. They would make a cute couple, really.

“See you in herbology tomorrow then, you two?”

“Yeah, see you,” Morgana spoke for me. I had lost my breath for a minute.

When Remus and James had also found their seats, I stated the obvious.

“He likes you.”

Morgan put down her fork and began gathering her things. “It's not mutual.” She said coldly. She stood up. I did the same.

“Morgan, what is it?”

I got no response, but proceeded to follow her, agitated, upstairs. It seemed to take days for us to reach the portrait hole, though Morgana nearly ran, and I followed closely in her wake. After climbing through, we were met by an empty common room.

“Morgana, what is it with you?” I pleaded.

She turned sharply. “What just happened downstairs, Lily?” She spoke softly, but I would have rather had her shout.

“What do you mean?” I spoke back just as quietly.

“James. James, Lily. Something's wrong. Something's wrong with you that I don't know about.”

“Nothing's wrong, I-”

“So how do you explain what just happened? Why was James Potter concerned about you?”

“What, can't anyone be concerned for me?” I felt my temper rising in spite of myself.

“Not for no reason! And right now I'm concerned. You used to tell me things, Lily, and you don't anymore. It scares me.”

I sighed. The only thought that blasted through me head was that, for awhile, I had forgotten that Morgana was my dearest, and only real, friend. I had to tell her. I felt myself pulling back my sleeves- and nearly keeling over at the sensation I felt as I did it. I was opening up- offering up my problems to the world. Anger, frustration, relief, disgust, regret, joy and ecstasy coursed through me. A throbbing wave of electricity. Of positive and negative energy all at once, both keeping my sleeves down and rolling them up for my friend to see what lay beneath. Morgana gasped.

“I did this,” I sad. Methodically. Mechanically. Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa…

“What do you mean?” she was staring at my arms, looking numb and white as a Lily flower.

I walked closer to her, forearms outstretched and resembling the familiar stance taken by statuesque Virgin Marys. “You asked.”

I saw Morgana's eyes finally leave my wounds and find their way to my green, empty ones.

“Why, Lily?”

I shrugged. I felt like being cruel. Like playing up my sickness. It was so easy.

“Why not?”

“But… you… you never told me.”

“How could I?”

“You told James.” Now Morgana was being cruel. I backed down. It was her turn.

“No. I tried to hide it. He saw.”

“I cant believe you. You're awful.”

“I'm awful?”

“Yes. You're awful because you're hurting and you didn't tell me. You confided in a stranger. I've lost your trust. Cover your arms, please, they're making me-”

“-Queasy?” I pulled down my sleeves.

“Mad.”

I looked away. I began contemplating my retreat to bed. I wanted to hide under the covers for a while. I felt vulnerable.

“You know, Lily, if you didn't spend so much time dwelling on your depression, you wouldn't be depressed. You wouldn't do something like cut yourself for reassurance. It's so cliché, isn't it? The troubled, brilliant girl with an affinity for self-destruction. I feel so sorry for you. But I suppose you don't need me. You can figure this out on your own.”

She turned and went back toward the portrait hole, resolute. But she spared me this before she crawled through the threshold: “Unless, of course, you want to call up your friend James Potter.”

My new friend James.

There was nothing left to be said. I went to bed that night unsatisfied and incomplete.

_____

Whether my inner clock woke me late or early I was never curious enough to find out, but I was greeted the next morning by a sunrise and a dormitory devoid of any other thirteen-year-old Gryffindor girls. I got ready on my own time; slowly letting the previous day's events rolls over me like a quiet storm.

I was clam but my mind was brewing. Morgana hated me, but James was concerned. Had I lost one friend and gained another? I let the question trail off, and the reason why was obvious. I wasn't ready to hear the answer just yet.

That morning, I was spared having to exercise the practice of discretion with the lack of prying eyes in the dorm. I took advantage it, and made special care to cover my arms with make up rather than obtrusive bandages that screamed, “I slice up my own skin! Pity me!”. I wore long sleeves under my robes. I knew if I did this, people would wonder. It was still warm outside, after all. But better they wondered than knew. I wished people would stop their wondering. If they did, maybe I would stop hurting. Maybe.

When I jab a sharpened object in
choirs of angels seem to sing
hymns of hate in memorandum

I chanced a glance in the mirror, and found myself apathetic to the sight before me. My green eyes seemed far away.

“Somebody fix me,” I whispered out loud.

_____

Herbology would have been Hell if it hadn't been for Remus. I was beginning to really like him. He was so complex. Intelligent, but silly. Artistic but methodical. A grounded Dreamer. He was almost completely effeminate in manner and appearance. Something else about him, though- something less visible- was virile. The combination, however odd or mysterious, suited him. It made him even more intriguing. Tangibly so. He was easy to talk to, I think, because he was sad like me. And two sad people never failed to connect.

“We make good herbology partners, Lily.”

“Do we, Remus?”

We poked and prodded at the plant we weren't supposed to be touching.

He laughed in a lovely way. “Oh yes, I think we do.”

“God, will you look at this thing? What's it called again?”

“A leafdoll plant.”

“It's squishy.”

“It's fabulous.”

It was my turn to laugh. “No, Remus, you're the fabulous one. I think its such a pity that all of our time together is spent pruning and poking odd leaves.”

“Too true,” he agreed.

“I blame it on the peculiar, time-consuming institution that adults like to call `education'.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Remus in a warning tome. He had adopted his `stern' facial expression, which, though it did make a body feel guilty, was sweet nonetheless. “Are you saying that education is a waste of time? Would you rather not be intelligent?”

“Intelligence cannot be taught, silly. I thought you knew that.”

“No, it can't. You're right. But it can be enhanced. I know, because I am educated.” He gave me a “holier than thou” nod, and I raised an eyebrow.

“Touché,” I surrendered.

After turning his attention back to the front of the classroom where the herbology professor was busy instructing, poor Remus fell into a small fit of coughing. Though fleeting, this was horrible to witness; somehow he resembled a sick and weakened animal that caused those who witnessed it to feel the deepest, most awful pity. Those few seconds made my heart ache.

“Are you alright, Remus?” I put my hand on his back to comfort him. He was small and frail and I could feel the prickly bones in his spine.

He turned to me and attempted to convey health for my reassurance, but failed.

“Oh, I'm okay. I had something in my throat.”

“You sounded pretty bad.” I was not convinced. I was starting to notice how tired he looked.

“Don't be ridiculous, Lily. I'm fine.” This statement, along with the lopsided smile that played around his lips, told me that this topic of conversation was to end here. I had enough tact to let it slide, but Remus floated in and out of my head that whole day.

_____

I had decided I didn't want to feel anymore.

I wanted to be fucking numb.

All my thirteen years, and I assume, in all the lives that I had lived before them, the ones that had slipped out of memory, were wasted. Gone. I was thirteen years old, so why wasn't I in love yet? Where had the angel gone that was to tell me I was a prophet- that I was the apocalypse? Was He lost? Had someone forgotten me?

I often got the urge to scream, or else to do something violent, but I always got myself to bottle it up. How would I explain to someone that I had thrown a chair because I wasn't all-powerful? That I had broken a vase because hardly anyone knew my name? I would be labeled a lunatic, and rightly so. I was completely mad inside, and no one knew it. A closet nutcase. How it hurt me.

But surely, one day the sky would open up. A supreme deity would descend upon the Earth and deliver the news of my absolute superiority to the rest of the human race, and of my mission to save life itself. Everyone would love me, and I would meet that person whose soul's very imprint was branded on mine like a memory. I would know what it was to be happy- not fleetingly, but forever.

I kept imagining this, and nothing came. I could not just accept reality. So I would just have to wander through life… dead. Feeling nothing. I would start that day. Morgana no longer needed me, after all. It would be easy to teach myself to just be. And to forget that I had ever had potential.

_____

I decided that I would put my method into practice in the common room. I had first wanted to stomp all over my inability to feel, to cut it open, but know I was embracing it- trying to remember it again. I needed to let this wash over me, so I sat by the window and looked out for a long time.

“Lily.”

Lily. Lovely. I think that meant something to me once.

“Lily.”

An urgent, passionate word. A sound…

“Lily? Are you all right?”

I came round. Furious at my weak mind for letting something real penetrate its surface, my eyes unclouded and James Potter was sitting across from me.

“Oh.” My own voice sounded distant. “You.”

He laughed. “Yes, me. I wanted to check in on you. I thought you might like to have a chat.”

“A chat? Oh no, we can't have a chat.”

“Why not?”

“I'm tying to… die.”

“What? That doesn't make any sense.”

Quiet.

“Lily, will you stop looking out the window? You're scaring me.”

No clouds. Just a gray mist hovering. A gray mist…

“Lily!”

I saw a hand, his hand, touch me and turn my eyes to meet his brown, golden, hazel, gray blue gaze.

“I can't feel you,” I said, dry. “I'm numb.”

“Stop this, lily.”

I saw another hand take hold of my face before I closed my eyes.

“I'm numb, I'm numb, I cant feel this. Numb. Your hands are too real. Get them off my face, I hate real things. Numb, I'm numb, I'm… oh my God. Oh God.”

Numb people aren't supposed to cry.

“Shh. You'll be okay, Lily. You'll be happy. I'll help you get happy, I promise. Shh.”

James held me, and didn't seem to mind that his collar and neck were soaked with tears. I liked that.

_____

“Ablutophobia- fear of bathing. Ha! Old Snivelous definitely suffers from that particular ailment.”

“Arrhenphobia- fear of men. Understandable.”

“Thaasophobia- fear of sitting. Now wouldn't that suck?”

“Yes, but wouldn't scolionophobia- fear of school- be awesome? `Um, excuse me teacher, I have to leave your class immediately. I suffer from scolionophobia.'”

“Ha! Definitely.”

It was sunny, and one week following my embarrassing crumbling breakdown, I was sitting by the lake with James Potter under the willow tree of his choice and laughing at a book of phobias that I had brought from home. Somehow, it was therapy. It made me feel a little less nutty to know that there were people out there that actually had mental aversions to things like bald people, chins and peanut butter.

“Verbophobia- fear of words”

“Sesquipedalphobia- fear of long words. That's great. That's gotta be the longest word in this book.”

“Fear of thinking. Peter Pettigrew comes to mind.”

“Fear of constipation.”

“Fear of knees.”

“Fear of insanity. Fear of pain. I relate to the first, but not the latter. I like pain, sometimes. I'm sort of a masochist.”

“I know that,” said James.

“James, do you think I'm crazy?”

Hazel met green.

“I know you're not. You're more grounded than you think.” His eyes shifted back down to the large volume before us. “Now here's one I don't understand at all. Philophobia.”

“Fear of-?”

“- Fear of being in love. Can you imagine?”

An earnest smile spread across my face.

“No. No, for once, I really cant.”

_____

Morgana had stayed true to her word, and had successfully ignored me for the past two weeks. I kept telling myself that she would come round. She wasn't as happy as she wanted me to think she was; hanging around with the other girls in our year and laughing a bit too loudly when I came close. No matter. James was doing a fair job of taking her place. My scars were healing, after all...I had not had the urge to hurt myself- given in to that will to self-destruct- in over two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks, and now forever seemed a piece of cake.

I tried reflecting on why I had gone so suddenly from happy to sad. But I couldn't remember ever really being happy. Or if it had happened, it had been fleeting, and easy to forget. I had always been so easy to get depressed, and so difficult to pull myself from such a state and find elation once again. I didn't know what it was. What was wrong with me. And even though James had succeeded admirably of late in keeping me cheerful, the lack of Morgana in my life was, in truth, beginning to weigh me down.

I had been brooding once again in my grove, but needed to go back inside to reconcile things with Morgana, using whatever method I could. I would not back down till I had befriended her again. I was prepared to apologize to her, as well, and was quite sure that now she had had some time to cool down, she would accept such a gesture, and willingly too.

I had only taken a few steps outside my hiding place, when the world seemed to freeze and go dark. I had a moment to calculate my surroundings: they were falling and fading, dreamlike, all around me. My body went stiff, and whispers lulled me as everything went black. I wouldn't remember hitting the ground.

_____

Someone was cradling me.

A soft buzzing sound was in the air. I was more aware of my full weight than I had ever been, and I was heavy. And weak. My head was spinning and my skin stung. It was not a good pain. Still, I felt comforted, because someone was speaking softly in my ear, and I was being placed, ever so gently, on something soft.

The last thing I felt in the darkness was the cold on my face before I opened my eyes, at a loss as to where I was and how I'd got there.

“Oh, Lily!” I followed the trail of the graceful sound and found Morgana kneeling beside my hospital bed, holding and stroking my hand in an effort to comfort me.

“Morgana,” my own voice croaked. “Aren't you… angry with me anymore?”

“No, darling, not in the least. I'm so sorry about that.” A tear cascaded down her cheek, turning the mascara that she wore into a dark watercolor that painted the skin around her eyes.

“Morgana.” I said. I was becoming more and more conscious with each moment that passed. “What's happened to me? Why do you look so afraid?”

“Because,” and this time another voice came from the foot of my bed. “You, Lily, have been the second victim in group-motivated attacks on young muggle-born girls.” Dumbledore stood with a concerned look etched in his wise face, granting the boy who stood beside him a brief look of pride. James.

“What?” was all I could get out.

The old man smiled sympathetically now. “This young man, James, found you lying unconscious on the ground around one of the more obscure borders of the forbidden Forest. We are lucky he did, and have much to thank him for. He carried all the way from that location to here, on this bed in the Hospital wing, where your friend Morgana and our dear Madame Pomfrey attended to you.”

I suddenly became aware of the fact that my scarred arms were bare and exposed, and hurriedly pulled down my sleeves. I looked up, and made eye contact with James, who gave me an odd look, but said nothing. I hoped no one had noticed. I also found that my stomach was wrapped in thick gauze.

“What is this for?” I asked, touching the place I had been violated.

“There was something written on it,” said Morgana, looking cautious.

“The word `mudblood' was scrawled across your abdomen in your own blood, as was the case with Miss Lindsey Garrett, the first victim, who lies beside you.”

I looked over, and my sight revealed a beautiful girl, sleeping and weak, her long brown curls falling every which way about her. I did not know her personally, only by name, but at the sight of her, my heart swelled. I had never felt so much love for a person I had never met.

“Out of my way, all of you! This girl needs rest!” Madame Pomfrey bustled over to me and my visitors, making them scatter like crows. She began fluffing a new pillow for me as she turned to Morgan.

“Morgana, love, go and tend to young Lawrence McEvoy over there, will you? His wand's backfired again.”

She squeezed my hand and left. Dumbledore and James reached the threshold. The headmaster walked through it, but James stopped, and looked at me for what felt like a lifetime before I closed my eyes and fell back into a deep sleep.

_____

I sat tapping my foot impatiently in out dorm room in the middle of the night. My release from the hospital wing about a week ago had stirred the school's interest in the previously non-existent me, and now I was being pointed at or whispered about whenever I walked up and down the corridors during the day. It made me passionately angry, and that night, I was trying to control an urge. One that had been hanging over my head for a month. Ever since I'd stopped cutting. I couldn't control it. I felt like a person on a diet, being taunted by visions of cupcakes and ice cream. Mt tormentor was not food, but a knife. Blades. Razors. My eyes kept darting longingly to the pair of handheld scissors on my nightstand.

After minutes of trying to suppress the need to sever my skin, I got up, picked up the scissors and made a beeline for the bathroom, where I quickly propped my leg up on the sink, forgetting to lock the door. I rolled up my pant leg. Surges of guilt tortured me. You promised James. You promised. It's your own fault you're so weak and stupid. Everything's your fault. Mea Culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea…

“Lily, please don't do that.” Morgana was standing in the doorway, pale and terrified.

I looked at her, and then back at the hand that held the pair of scissors. I jabbed them forcefully into my calf.

When I jab a sharpened object in
choirs of angels seem to sing
hymns of hate in memorandum

I threw my head back, exalted. The relief.

“But I have to, Morgan. I cant stop.” I was laughing now.

“Oh, Lily.”

Thin tears of blood flowed like a spring down my pale leg. Beauty.

“I'm so sorry Morgan. I think I have a problem.”

-This chapter is for Dede. Because we both know how awful reality can be. -

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