Disclaimer: I do not own this. At all.

Author's Note: Today, I felt wistful and the words took control of my fingers and everything just worked. If you don't like them smoking, I'm sorry. But I found it to be an integral aspect of this story. It was inspiration.

Salvation.

Sanctity.

The cool grass poking through my sandals. The dusty dirt lightly coating my toes. The warm breeze that ruffles my hair in the twilight.

It is almost perfect.

Out here, N.E.W.T.S don't exist. Friends with silly, insignificant problems and that headache that refuses to subside, they are not here.

I can feel the weight of the cigarette hanging from my lips and that's all that matters. I pull out the tarnished silver lighter and my pocket feels light. I feel light.

A twig snaps behind me and I know what's coming.

"Hello, James." My voice is soft. It doesn't sound hesitant or cautious. It sounds just like peace. Or the moments before peace, just before you know everything will be all right. That promising contentment that feels so good.

"Lily." His voice, though infinitely deeper, holds the same tone as mine had.

He slips his own cigarette from his pack, sticking it between his lips.

We match.

I am just staring out at nothing. Not thinking. Not seeing. Just being.

He takes the weathered lighter from my fingers. I let him. I idly wonder why it is that I haven't lit my own cigarette yet. Perhaps I'm just enjoying the serenity of now. Or maybe I'm just too lazy to lift my damn arm.

Regardless, James raises the lighter, and I lean in. He flicks it open and the orange of the flame flares. I breathe in as it touches the end of my cigarette. The flame spreads a red-orange, turning the paper to ash. The smoke that fills my lungs, my throat, my mouth, is thick, tangible.

I lean away.

So intimate.

I exhale.

This isn't the sneaky kind of smoking. It's the kind where you can just breathe in and relax. Honestly, I don't care if anyone catches me, catches us. I am a Seventh Year. I am Head Girl. If I need to stroll to the edge of beauty and share a stolen break, I'll do as I damn well please.

James lights his own cigarette. Closing his eyes, he tastes it.

I inhale, hold the smoke in my esophagus. It burns, but it's the good kind of burning. The prickling feeling that explodes in my throat and chest is invigorating.

Reluctantly, I exhale.

A routine.

A ritual.

James does it too. We share that, if nothing else.

When he first stumbled upon me in this secluded space, his eyes widened as they took in the thin white cigarette between my two fingers and the cloud of gray that left my mouth in a breathy whir. His eyes held mirth and he chuckled as he pulled out his own pack.

We've been okay ever since.

Now, we have common ground. A place we go to when things, the world, becomes too much. We can count on each other for the silence that no one else will give.

I come alone, most times, as I'm sure he does. But when we both end up here, at the same time, it's a chance encounter, a reassurance that someone else feels as out of control as you do. It's nice.

"You're concentrating awfully hard on something," he observes quietly. There is no room for loud here.

"Yes," I say. "I'm contemplating."

I say it as if it explains it all, and, oddly, it does.

We stand there for a while. It's nice, comfortable. Eventually, I sit down. We don't really talk. Occasionally, we will comment on the beauty of the night or the simplistic glamour of nature. We smoke cigarette after cigarette.

Eventually, I lay down. James is close and I can smell the smoke that clings to his skin.

"The stars," I begin, not quite sure where I'm going, what I'm saying. I let the feeling take over my mouth, my tongue, my words. "They smile."

I can feel him smile. I can't see him, but I know he is.

"I think they're telling us 'hello'."

For the first time, I turn and look at him. It's dark, but I can see him perfectly. I can see the straight slope of his nose. I can see the curve of his lip. I can see the earnest glint in his hazel eyes. And I sigh.

"Everything's changing now," I whisper. It is part question, part statement, part fear, part hope. Three words that convey so much.

He knows that I mean our friends, the growing evil, ourselves. He knows that it also extends to our stolen bubbles of time.

I keep looking at him. He keeps looking at me. We are silent, but our eyes and our minds speak. It is beautiful and frightening and easy.

"Change can be good, Lily," he says, finally. His eyes are roaming my face. His words caress my cheek.

I feel something change then. I'm not sure what it is, but it feels as if it is right.

I am silent, yet again. I light another cigarette. I think.

"It can," I conclude. "I just don't know if I'm ready yet."

He thinks on that for a few minutes.

It's odd. The world, when we're here, just seems to slow down. We don't have to rush. We don't have to hurry. We have all the time in the world. We can think. We can smoke. We can.

"When you're ready, Lily, you'll know."

I nod slowly. He is right.

James stands and he is towering above me.

"I'm going to head inside. I think it's about time the world starts turning again." He takes one last drag on his cigarette and then stubs it out with the toe of his shoe.

"Yeah," I agree, following his lead.

We walk back up to the castle. It is pitch black and I can start to feel time speeding back up. I can feel the anger and fear and loneliness that engulfs the students. It doesn't feel good to come back.

The next week is filled with the rising anxiety of the usurping of power in the magical world. Sadness comes with the news of each death. Friends worry about petty problems, wasting the time of anyone willing to listen.

One week later, I go back to my spot, his spot, our spot. This time, he is already there, cigarette already lit. I smile and light my own.

I feel at peace again.

"Change," I say.

"Change," he replies.

I close my eyes and sigh.

"I'm ready."

He turns to me with a look of surprise widening his eyes. I am reminded of our first meeting here. I almost laugh, but I am too excited by change to be so shallow.

"You're ready," he reiterates.

"I'm ready," I repeat.

"Change," he says again. I don't think he meant for me to hear. It was almost inaudible.

I take a step towards him. My cigarette falls from my hand and I touch his cheek. It is soft and perfect and better than I could have imagined.

I think he dropped his cigarette as well, because suddenly, both of his hands are cupping my face and it feels even better to have him touching me.

Somehow, our lips are less than a centimetre away.

"Change," I whisper, almost brushing my lips against his.

And then his lips are on mine. His kiss is everything our spot is. It is content and peaceful and everything it is supposed to be.

We stay in our spot for a while. I know now that the thing that had changed a week ago was us and what we were becoming, and I could not be more overjoyed.

Now, we don't need to find salvation, sanctity in our spot. Our escape is with each other. And the cool grass and the dusty dirt and the warm breeze and the intoxicating scent of smoke will linger.

It will linger.