Wrote this for the August Jily Challenge - theme: first wizarding war

Prompt: I heard some rattling in the kitchen of our safehouse and opened the door ready to fight and wait - what in the bloody hECK are you doing down here at 4am?

So, it's not exactly this, but it's kind of this. Enjoy the angst, friends xx

On the first day, James woke up to the house smelling of gingerbread.

It was long before dawn one morning in the middle of July, and, for the life of him, James couldn't figure out why Lily had decided to get out of bed and bake at this hour. And gingerbread of all things.

He'd hoped, after the night she'd had last night, that she would just stay in bed that morning, let him take care of Harry while she had a bit of a lie in. He hadn't seen her cry like that since… since her parents, and though they'd been dealing with a lot since they'd been locked up in the cottage, been losing more and more people every day, this, James thought, had almost broken her.

Dumbledore had stopped by to give them an update of what had been going on with the Order, had mentioned it as he was leaving, almost like an aside. Lily's entire body had gone stiff immediately, her hands trembling just a bit as she shut the door softly behind Dumbledore as he left. She'd kept it together until Dumbledore made it down the walk and turned on the spot just past their garden gate - the moment he disappeared, she collapsed. She sat curled on the floor in their sitting room for hours, sobbing so hard that her entire body was shaking. Harry was already sleeping, thank fucking Merlin, and James had sank to his knees, pressed her to him, ran his fingers through her hair, said anything he could to let her know that he was there, he had her, that no, it wasn't okay, but they were going to get through it. It was all that he could do, and James had never felt more powerless in his life.

He rolled out of bed, grabbed his glasses off the bedside table, his dressing gown off the chair in the corner, pulled the gown over his shoulders as he crept across the floor and opened their door. The door still squeaked a little and it usually woke Harry without fail (he kept swearing up and down that he'd figure out some charm to fix it, but he never actually remembered to do it) - James wasn't sure how Lily had managed to avoid waking Harry this morning (or himself for that matter). Though, he walked quietly past Harry's room, down the stairs, it is still dark outside and I was fucking exhausted, so maybe it wouldn't have been that hard.

He walked through the corridor, pushed open the kitchen door, his chest tight in anticipation. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw her. "Lily?"

She was standing at the counter, her hands braced against the worktop. Her hair was piled on top of her head, her red apron tied haphazardly around her waist. She looked up when he walked in, her eyes meeting his briefly before turning back to the piping bag that was lying on the worktop in front of her.

"I can't do it."

James pulled in a steadying breath, walked over and stood behind her, placed his hands gently on her hips and bent to press a kiss to her cheek, "Can't do what, love?"

He was worried, but he didn't want to show it. She'd yelled at him about tiptoeing around her last night after he'd carried her to bed ("I'm not fragile, James, fuck!"), and he didn't want to step on her toes if he could avoid it. He remembered how she was after her parents died in seventh year, a mixture of profound sadness and explosive anger, how she'd needed him to remind her that she was alright while she pushed him away and asserted her independence, declaring (loudly) that she was okay while desperately hoping he wouldn't leave her alone.

She'd been able to put on something of a happy mask whenever they were in class, in Prefect meetings, in the corridors, but James had seen it cracking at the edges, wearing thinner and thinner as they went through the day. Whenever they were done for the night, it was like something broke in her, like whatever had been keeping her upright collapsed under the exhaustion of pretending that everything was alright. She hadn't wanted attention, hadn't wanted people to feel like they needed to prop her up, had reminded them time and time again that there was a war going on and they had better things to be worried about than her parents who, after all her worry about Death Eaters and torture, had been taken by some ice on the bloody M1.

Marlene had been home for the Christmas holidays when it happened, had spent days baking every single thing she could, had brought them up to the Head's dorms the moment she'd gotten back, had sat in bed with Lily and eaten biscuits for days on end.

Maybe that's why they were here now.

Lily huffed, and though she was clearly irritated, there was a fragile edge to her voice that shot through him, "I can't pipe the fucking icing like…."

She trailed off and James felt her body begin to tremble against him. She sucked in a breath, squared her shoulders. James could tell she was pressing down a reaction, trying to steel herself, to force herself to get over this, to forget. It was how she dealt with everything, with this incredible strength, like she was a sheer force of nature that could just push through it, could square her shoulders, clench her teeth, and move on. For the most part, she could - she'd done it in school as the Death Eaters in training started getting more and more daring, done it when they'd dragged Mary up off the floor in the dungeons in fifth, a bloodied mess, and taken her to the hospital wing, done it every single night that she went out into the field, every night that he came home to her bruised, bleeding, broken, terrified, livid.

She could reshape her reality, or at least her perception of it, her reaction to it, through sheer force of will, and she did. Readily. But when things couldn't be fixed, when things wouldn't heal, wouldn't get better, when there was no going back or changing what had happened… she still willed the world to change, willed herself to move on, but it was only a matter of time until things fell apart.

She pulled in another breath, and though her trembling subsided a bit, James felt her tense under his hands, "Like Marlene. I can't make the fucking biscuits look like hers."

She gestured vaguely at the half-iced biscuit in front of her and James glanced around the kitchen. There were dozens and dozens of piles of different biscuits littered around their kitchen in various states of completion.

Truth be told, James didn't remember what Marlene's gingerbread biscuits looked like (he'd never paid that much attention before scarfing them down whenever she brought them to school after the Christmas holiday), and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to tell her. But he knew she was struggling, knew this was how she was dealing with this right now, that this single, small connection to Marlene and their friendship was one that she'd needed to latch onto this morning, and so he tried to make his tone cheery as he said, "Well, yours look lovely -"

"But they aren't hers!"

Lily's voice was louder than he'd anticipated it would be, and he cringed involuntarily, waited for Harry to start wailing from upstairs. She stiffened against him and dropped her head for a few moments before turning in his arms to face him. "I'm sorry."

James shook his head immediately, "You have nothing to be -"

Lily placed her hand gently on his chest and looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet with tears, the dark circles that were now regular visitors under her eyes (under all their eyes, really) were almost black today. She had flour on her hands and black treacle smeared on her cheek, and when she spoke, her voice was rough with emotion and exhaustion, "I do. I'm sorry I've been taking this out on you. It's just… Marlene is...was…"

Tears cascaded down her cheeks, and James drew a shaky breath, his own eyes filling with tears as he pulled her against him. They stood there, her tears soaking his chest, his falling into her hair, the silence pressing in on them. He whispered quietly, ran his fingers through her hair, said every comforting thing that he could think of.

He didn't tell her that it was okay.

They couldn't get her back, she knew that. Knew she was wherever people go when they die and that there was no recalling her from wherever that was. Lily cried for her, for her best friend, for her sister, for the woman that had meant so much to her, had meant everything. She'd been there whenever Lily had needed her, had gotten her to lighten the fuck up a bit, had carried her through heartbreak and anger and loss and terror, had held her hand when Lily woke up screaming in their dorm that Voldemort was coming to get her, this time it was real, I just know it. She cried because she knew that if Marlene were here, she'd be smiling that cocky smile as she watched James hold her, that one that said told you this would happen, Evans. She'd known, she'd always known, even when Lily had no idea. She cried for the world because it lost a fearless, powerful, challenging woman, a woman who wouldn't take no for an answer and wouldn't hesitate to stand up for anyone, especially those she loved. She cried because she knew that in her last moments, that's all Marlene had wanted to do. Protect her family, protect her friends.

She'd lost her family. She'd lost her life. But she hadn't said a damn word about the Order, about her friends, and Lily cried because she knew how much that meant to Marlene. She could almost picture the look on her face, that stubborn, determined look she always wore before a quidditch match. It was a "mess with me, I fucking dare you" look, made all the more terrifying by the way Marlene smirked effortlessly as she tossed her beater's bat easily between her hands, a reminder that she could, and would, beat the ever-loving shite out of you with both hands.

They cried for the person they'd lost, for the person they'd loved, for the person the world wouldn't get to know. James cried, too, for the woman he held in his arms, for her broken heart, for her pain. He cried because he couldn't make her chest feel like it wasn't splintering every time she took a breath, because he couldn't banish the demons that clouded her mind. He cried because no matter how much he'd wanted to spare her from this, he hadn't been able to. He cried because this was something he couldn't fix, something he couldn't keep from happening again.

On the fifth day, James woke to heavy thuds in the room next to theirs.

The room across from Harry's.

He shot straight up in bed, one hand grasping frantically for his wand and glasses on his bedside table, his other arm flying out to shake Lily awake, but she wasn't there. He frowned and rolled out of bed, not bothering to slide on his slippers or grab his dressing gown off the chair in the corner. He walked swiftly out of their room and turned left, walking up the short corridor, his wand raised as he tried to silence the racing in his mind that made it difficult for him to focus. He nudged the door open with his foot, went wand first through the doorway, and sighed a breath of relief as his eyes found Lily, standing alone in the middle of the room surrounded by boxes.

"What are you doing?" His hand had worked its way into his hair. He lowered his wand and adjusted his glasses so they weren't quite so crooked.

"I'm looking," Lily said, bending over and digging roughly through the box at her feet, apparently oblivious to the fact that James had just confronted her with a wand, all but ready to attack her, "for Marlene's old quidditch jumper."

He knew that Lily had a tendency to latch onto things, to decide that certain things needed to be the centre of her attention whether or not those things were actually worth her while (and, typically, they were usually the most random things that she could think of). It was one of the ways that she helped push down things that she didn't want to feel, a kind of radical redirection that bled into obsession, and kept her from thinking about whatever it was that she was trying to avoid.

When her parents had died, it was school.

When James' parents had died, it was the Order.

James studied her for a few moments - her hair was still piled on top of her head and she hadn't taken a shower since that night. She hadn't changed her clothes.

"Lils, let's go get a shower."

Her head snapped up, "I'm not having sex with you right now, James, I'm busy. I have to find Marls' quidditch jumper. I still have it somewhere, and I just - " She broke off, bent back down, and began rifling through some more boxes.

James walked quietly across the room and knelt down in front of her. He reached out and grasped her hands gently in his own, stilling them. Lily looked down at him, her eyes blazing angrily into his, and James' chest cracked open.

"Come on, love. You haven't showered in five days. You're starting to smell like Padfoot after a night in the Forbidden Forest." He smirked a bit at her and Lily let out a small laugh. It was breathy and tired and nothing like her bright, stomach-clenching laughs, but he'd take it.

She nodded her head slowly, "Alright, I suppose I could…" James breathed a sigh of relief and pulled himself to standing. He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her against his chest, planted a kiss on top of her head before holding her at arm's length.

"Okay, you pop in the shower and I'll get you some clothes?"

Lily nodded, and James took her hand, walked them back to their room.

Lily shuffled into the shower and James walked over to their wardrobe. He picked out a soft pair of trousers and her favourite t shirt, and cast a gentle warming spell on each piece so they'd be cosy when she put them on. It was the middle of July, but it had been a bit chilly in the morning recently, and he hoped he could convince her to go out in the garden with him and Harry. Getting out of the house, he thought, would do her some good. He remembered how much it had helped him after his parents had died. Sure, he'd punched Sirius in the arm a few times in an attempt to resist leaving the house, but it had helped. They couldn't go far, not with all these bloody enchantments, but the fresh air had to help.

He pulled a pair of jeans on and slid a t shirt over his head before padding over to their bathroom to brush his teeth. They had an open shower, a tub with only half a glass screen, so he knocked lightly on the door before entering. Lily normally never minded, hell, he was usually in there with her, but he didn't want to assume anything until they got back to something that at least vaguely resembled normalcy. When she didn't answer, James knocked again, this time a little louder.

No answer.

He felt his breath catch, but he cleared his throat because no fucking way did anything happen to her in the shower, and said, "Lily," before pushing the door open gently and poking his head round the frame.

His heart was instantly back in his throat.

She was sitting on the floor of the tub, her back pressed against the cold metal side as the water, boiling hot, judging by the steam that clouded his glasses when he'd opened the door, rained down onto her now bright red skin. She was shaking with silent sobs.

"Oh, Evans," James pushed the bathroom door open all the way to let the steam out and crossed the room in two steps. He climbed over the lip of the tub and scooped Lily up in his arms, before reaching over and shutting off the tap. The movement seemed to jostle something within her because she gasped and let out a weak sob before wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his skin. Already soaking wet, James sat down on the floor of the tub and held her against him, smoothing her hair and rocking them gently from side to side. "I know, love," he whispered, pressing kisses onto the top of her head, "I know."

She stops keeping track that day. The day James pulls her out of the shower.

She remembers sitting there, crying until she can't anymore, remembers James lifting her carefully out of the tub, remembers him towelling her off and pulling a warm t shirt over her head. She remembers settling back in their bed, James tucking the duvet around her, telling her to go back to sleep. She remembers James wrapping himself around her, his hands running over her, his lips at her ear, but she doesn't remember what he was saying. She does remember James rolling out of bed later when Harry starts shrieking happily from across the hall. Remembers hearing James tell him that 'Your Mum needs some sleep, mate, so it's just you and me.'

She remembers laying there, eyes open, for hours.

She knows she eventually goes downstairs and makes tea, but she isn't sure what time it is. Harry's napping. She cries again. Clutches her tea, and then James, like they're the only things keeping her grounded.

They are.

Time passes.

She's not sure how much.

She's vaguely aware of the things going on around her, much as she tries to participate in them. She sits out in the sun with Harry, smiles warmly as he brings her bundles of clover. She laughs, genuinely, when James sweeps her into his arms one night when his favourite sappy song comes on the wireless. She bakes a cake for Harry's birthday, doesn't even try to pipe any icing. She's there, doing things, but sometimes she still feels like she's standing outside herself, like the woman laughing with her husband in the kitchen, tickling her baby in the lounge, wide smile on her face, like that woman can't possibly be her because she is sad and broken and barely there and can't they all tell that it's just an act?

She does it so often that it's hard to tell where the act stops and she begins. She can't tell if that means she's getting better or worse, doesn't remember what it had been like the last few times she's been here, has no idea what this path is supposed to look like. It's made up of all the same things, grief and guilt and anger and so much sadness, but the guilt is stronger than it's ever been before and she isn't sure it will ever go away, if she'll ever be able to look herself in the mirror without thinking your best friend died for you and did you really even deserve it -

Time passes.

A month after, when she could finally think the time again, it hit her that they'd never had a funeral for Marlene.

They hadn't really been able to… the fucking bastards that murdered her had set the house on fire and…

James had, she'd noticed that morning, found the unfinished letter to Marlene that Lily had been working on the day they'd found out. It wasn't on her desk anymore. He might have binned it, but she was sure that he'd just stashed it away somewhere. She'd probably never be ready to read it, but maybe it would be nice to have. A record of their friendship or something. Proof that Marlene had actually once existed.

It felt, almost, like Marlene was still around, like Lily could look up any moment and see Marlene's owl clicking it's beak, annoyed, at their kitchen window, or like Marlene herself would just show up, her loud laugh filling their house as she and James tried to teach Harry how to play every quidditch position under the sun. She knew, logically, that Marlene was gone, but she found it so difficult to accept it, to move on, to believe that her best friend was actually, honestly gone, that she would never hear her voice or see her face or anything, anything ever again.

Her entire world had shifted on its axis, and she didn't even have any proof that it had happened.

A funeral probably would have broken her, but at least she would have gotten to say goodbye.

Lily shook her head to clear her mind and wiped away a stray tear. She closed her eyes for just a moment, took a deep breath, brought herself back out of her thoughts.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, cup of tea in hand, watching Harry scoop porridge into his mouth, a look of intense concentration on his little face. She smiled softly at James as he walked in, his hair still wet from the shower, chuckled when he leaned down to kiss her and some water dripped down onto her face.

"Good morning, love," he said, smiling, kissing her softly again, before he turned and pressed a kiss to the top of Harry's head, "Good morning, Harry."

"Dada!" Harry slammed his porridge-filled spoon down onto his tray, splattered porridge all down his front. James chuckled, "You eat the porridge, mate." He mimed eating and Harry beamed, scooped up another bite and stuffed it into his mouth.

James ruffled Harry's hair, walked over to grab a mug from the shelf, lit the fire under the kettle. 'Your son seems intent on making himself as messy as possible this morning,' Lily said, her voice light. It was always that way around Harry, something that she made sure to do so that Harry didn't end up completely traumatised despite growing up in the middle of a bloody war. It had been harder, over the past month, to maintain the softer, less anxious tone she strove for, but it hadn't been feeling so forced lately.

James laughed as he grabbed some bread from the cupboard and began toasting it, 'My son? Why's he always my son when he's making a mess?'

Lily took a sip of her tea, cocked an eyebrow at him, 'You're really asking me that?'

James scoffed, took a bite of his toast. Lily smirked at the crumbs now covering his chest and James sighed, walked over and ruffled Harry's hair again. 'We're too cool to stay clean, right mate?'

Harry banged his spoon on the tray again, 'Dada!'

James sat down next to Lily at the table, reached over and took her hand. She wasn't sure how he knew that she needed it, but he always knew, and she was glad that he had the ability to read her mind. She squeezed the hell out of his hand, but James didn't seem to mind. He just rubbed his thumb soothingly over her knuckles.

It amazed her that she was able to even breathe sometimes, that the grief that rolled over her hadn't knock her flat and crushed everything out of her. It could have, easily, but James was always right there to pull her back to the surface. Some days, she still felt like she was barely treading water, but those days were getting fewer and further between.

She squeezed his hand just a bit tighter in thanks.

They sipped quietly at their tea for a few minutes, and Lily laid her head on James' shoulder, watched Harry smear more porridge into his hair than he managed to eat. James turned and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, 'How are you feeling this morning?'

She shrugged, 'A little better.'

She had been better. The bar was really, really low, but still - she'd managed to clear it.

They'd had Harry's birthday tea a few weeks back, and she'd been able to use it as an excuse to bury herself in something besides wallowing. They'd just had Bathilda over, had opened presents, spent the evening watching Harry fly around on the broom Sirius had gotten him, but it had been a nice change from their usual routine, a distraction from everything else that had been pressing on her lately.

Peter had even come over the weekend before, she'd written to Sirius again….

It helped, remembering that there was a world outside their cottage.

James hummed, shifted to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer, 'I'm glad.'

'Yeah,' she said, pressing her head into the side of his chest, 'me too.'

James had just turned to look at her, when Harry upended his porridge bowl onto his head. James swore under his breath, set his mug on the table, stood up, 'Alright, mate, now, come on, what are you doing?'

Harry just laughed, rubbed the porridge into his hair, and Lily sat back in her seat, soft smile on her face, as James did his best to pry the bowl from Harry's hands.