Jily oneshots

And the Wolves All Cry

by monroeslittle

When the day has come,

That I've lost my way around,

And the seasons stop and hide beneath the ground,

When the sky turns gray,

And everything is screaming,

I will reach inside,

Just to find my heart is beating.

The cockroach scuttles across the wall, disappearing into a crack in the plaster.

This flat is decrepit, water stains spiraling over the ceiling like fine lines in a spider web; the sparse furniture is worse for wear, featuring lumpy, stained cushions and cigarette butts stubbed out on unvarnished wood. She can't believe this is where the most powerful woman in Great Britain lives.

The room smells like stale sweat, and she glances at the jammed windows; they're painted shut, she realizes, and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Accidentally, her eyes catch on the man in the corner, smoking like a chimney and staring straight at her. His hair is greasy, his face gaunt, and he sits slumped in his seat with his wand lazily held aloft between his fingers. His gaze doesn't waver.

She crosses her ankles, trying to focus on Mrs. Potter.

The woman is nothing like Caroline expected her to be.

She carries herself as though the ground beneath her feet is flimsy, ready to give way, and Caroline can't reconcile the small, tattered woman with the woman featured in the news. The woman in photographs splashed across the Daily Prophet is a strong, smiling heroine. Her face is round; her eyes are bright. She is a fighter through and through, Lily Potter, the woman who saved the world.

The woman who lets Caroline into the flat is thin, seemingly sewn together with scarred, sallow skin stretched over brittle bones, and a jagged, raised scar snakes across her throat, over her chin, reaching out to a torn, ragged ear. She wears a large, lumpy jumper over a faded print dress, her knobby knees hidden in thick stockings that disappear into her boots. Her hair falls in wispy, unkempt tendrils, her front tooth is chipped in a jagged line, and her hands are dry, the skin red, cracked, her nails cut with ragged edges.

"I put the kettle on," Mrs. Potter says.

There's a soft clicking noise, and the man in the corner puffs on a fresh fag.

Caroline decides to ignore him. She smiles at Mrs. Potter. "Thank you." She clears her throat and dips her quill into the ink. "I guess we'll jump right in," she says. "As you know, I'm asking survivors from the Menial District about their experience in the war. Could you tell me about your experience?"

She blinks, and a hundred memories flood her mind.

"Padfoot!" James roars, beckoning, "Lily needs to sit on you!"

Sirius stumbles towards them, and she giggles madly when he drops to his knees. "I'm ready," he crows, and Lily throws her head back in laughter, sagging against Remus, who catches her elbows, stands her up, and lugs her onto Sirius. "Steady," Remus says, which makes her laugh, and she pets Sirius on the head before her gaze lands on James.

His shirt is untucked, his glasses are titled on her head in a way that makes her stomach flip, and he is her husband. She crooks her finger at him, and he kneels, his hands sweaty on her calves as she spreads her legs. He kisses her knee, and she runs her hands through his hair, laughing a little when she feels Sirius shake underneath her. "Get on with it, you bleeding moose!" Sirius bellows.

James catches her garter in his teeth, tearing off the thing with a flourish.

Their friends hoot at them, cheering, and James surges up towards Lily.