Where Are We Now?
Chapter III: Panic
Summary: Five years after Hogwarts ended, James has become a bitter Quidditch player with a girlfriend-who isn't Lily-that he hardly knows and has found that Lily's back in his thoughts and life once more.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all the characters except for Camille.
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Her feet ached, as she sat hours later, in the limousine, after the horrible modeling show. No, she wasn't a model, but a famous Auror, a one so far from England. She could never return to England again, not unless the world had ended. And that, she thought, would not come for a long time. How could she bear seeing his image with that whore all over the billboards wherever she went? Though she hardly knew it, they were both running from the past that they once had, trying to pretend that there was never anything between them, no action, and no love.
She feared everyday that a tabloid or a newspaper would discover what they had. It was inevitable. But why, why was she so scared that someone would discover their relationship. It wasn't as if they had very much to hide, as every man has had a previous relationship, not matter how in love they were with another. But she just didn't want to get caught by the media and to be haunted once more by the treachery of James Potter.
Every time the English Quidditch team came to France, she saw them and felt the thrill of joy at seeing him fly again. But every time, it seemed to get worse and worse for her to deal with, as he grew cold and emotionless. It was obvious, as pleasure never showed on his face, only concentration. No one else would've noticed this change, but then again, very few people would have known James the way she did. After all, she was still the girl that argued with James for six years straight. His physical features hardly changed, except for the hardening in his eyes that had disappeared for so many years.
She remembered how he first came into Hogwarts, a boy with cold eyes that was the Potter heir. The first time she saw him, she felt sorry for him, remembering those childhood stories that her mother used to tell her about the children of rich people and how they were neglected and how they always turned out worse than the children of the common. But then, when he opened his mouth…oh how wrong she realized she was. In her entire lifetime of meeting with famous Purebloods and Muggles, she had never met any as arrogant and conceited in her lifetime. He genuinely expected that all the people around him were merely pawns that he was allowed to use to further his ideas and desires. Somehow, Sirius Black saw some good in him and became his friend. To this day, she still didn't know how, but the arrogance began to recede, very slowly from him, and he began acting like a normal boy. It took him seven years to finally destroy all the egotism that he once had and then it all came back.
Sometimes, she wondered why life was so unfair and how it took him all those years to become less prideful but it most likely took less than one day for him to return to his First Year self, who truly was incredibly infuriating.
She knew he saw her. She knew that he had so obviously ignored her. But she couldn't miss the lingering eyes on her body as he held their trophy of victory, every single time.
They were in France, her territory.
His hands dampened for once before the game, for probably the first time in years. Their faces straight, but their ragged breaths showed more than their faces. They were scared, almost nervous. For James, he felt as if he could not fail her, though he knew that she hardly cared whether they won or not. But why, he always contemplated, why did she always come? She sat in the same place, in the Top Box, next to the same people every time. Burning, his eyes met sunlight, as he flew easily. Automatically, a mask of concentration filled his face, as the quaffle was thrown into the air. The thing he loved abut Quidditch, was the way it made him forgot everyone, except the game. He no longer remembered the pain that filled his life after Hogwarts, but only the rush and excitement of it. It was an escape, another world that he could hide in. He was good at this, as well, and had no doubts of his ability to play well.
The quaffle passed back and forth between the other chasers and him, as suddenly, the crowd cheered and booed wildly as they scored. Before he even knew it, the score was 100-20, England. The quaffle was passed to him, as he caught it by the tips of his fingers, and urged his broom to go faster. Dodging a bludger that came from the left, he weaved in and out of the other players, gasps in the audience at his skill at maneuvering. Finally, he came within reach of the goal and threw it with all his strength, aiming for the left ring. The keeper hadn't been expecting this and reached for it, but missed it by an inch. His breath, which he had felt that he had been holding for the last five minutes, was let out.
Perhaps it was twenty minutes later or even half an hour, when he noticed the crowd was suddenly quieted, suddenly fearful. He heard screams of fear and pointing toward the open air on one of the sides. The other players looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. As they looked far into the horizon, it was all that they needed.
He was coming.
Thousands of screams were heard by everyone as they scampered away or apparated. He noticed that there was such chaos from the fear of the man that getting out of the stadium in such pandemonium would probably cause more deaths than the new Dark Lords. The English and French Quidditch team flew back into their respective areas. He noticed how she, unlike the other people around her that disappeared, stood strong and others joined her. With her wand out, it looked like she was ready for anything. Moments later, they entered the chaos, shooting curses and hexes here and there. Inside the locker room, he couldn't hear anything, except the howls of agony and screeching above them.
He toweled his sweaty hair hurriedly, as his heart pounded in fear. Years ago, he wouldn't have run; he would have fought while holding her hand to calm her. Now here he was, acting like a person who she would have despised for their cowardice. Even in the room, there was panic and fear from the Quidditch players who were believed to be the most courageous people around. Some didn't bother to clean up as they flew with all speed in any direction, any except the one where the men in the dark cloaks were coming from.
They left France, without winning for the first time in years.
They met once more, at a pub in London. It was all over the news, everywhere they went, that almost a hundred people were killed in the attack. With twenty Aurors laying in their coffins, they prayed that she was not one of them. There were rumors of how he had captured half the French Quidditch Team and a bit of the English team as well. But it was so obviously false, when the tabloids began to claim that the players were now robots, after they were all sighted practicing. A slight burden seemed relieved off their shoulders, when they saw that she was alive and well, with no injuries.
A mousy-looking boy asked, "Why are we always so secretive about the fact that we care about her? It's not like James cares anymore. It's not like any of the bosses care." They raised their eyebrows at him, but nevertheless, sighed in response to his true words. There really was no reason why they pretended they never knew her. Just like James did. Just like James.
When the sandy-haired man commented on this thought of his, they didn't make any response to his words, except for a few sighs.
"Lily would be disturbed if she knew we were still watching her outside of Hogwarts. She's a big girl now and doesn't need us watching her. I doubt she ever did." The handsome man spoke, for once without a tinge of humor in his voice.
"We have a right to be scared, you know. Haven't you seen any of the Wizarding hospitals? They're so full of injured Aurors and Ministry workers that the organization of the building is completely off. And believe me, I've seen some of those Healers and they look like they're fighting a war that they know and think will never end." The tired looking man commented.
Snorting, the man with the watery eyes said, "That's because the Minister's sending all the Aurors to do the stupidest things. It's better that the public hears about how many Aurors are falling then how the Aurors are waiting for someone else to kill this bastard. They head into missions without filing all those files like they used to, so most of them have no idea where the hell they're going. I've heard from this guy in my office whose brother is an Auror that he was once sent into Canterbury and almost got captured because he accidentally Apparated into a Death Eater campsite." They chortled at this, with hidden despair underneath their laughter.
The sandy-haired man left soon after this, leaving two galleons for his butterbeer, though he so obviously knew that he gave them extra.
Sitting on his couch after he returned home, he stared emotionlessly at the photo in front of him that he had so recently discovered in his overgrown pile of memories from Hogwarts, of the two of them kissing, hugging, and holding hands. How could such a beautiful and amazing couple fall to such depths? One was now involved in a relationship with a woman he didn't love, the other, closing into herself. This was something that they at least would never be able to heal, something that they would have to do together. But would they want to? Would they even want to after all this time, time without each other? He wondered about it often and throughout the many hours spent on this topic, he really had found only one. Lily and James were not made for each other.
But whatever the case, he didn't want her to think that they didn't care; she used to be one of the closest people to his heart. He couldn't lose her, he couldn't. But what to do?
He turned his attention to the empty page in front of him. And he wrote. He wrote with tears in his eyes, with his hand shaking, with his heart breaking. He wrote of his hatred for James, what life was; he wrote of everything that came to his head. Without even looking at it again, he gave it to his owl and looked around the flat.
How desperately did he try to ignore the pictures in front of the newspaper that was on the coffee table before him, of her impassive face, her cold eyes hardened from life.