Right. Apparently, this was not the time for humor, according to Arthur. Lily promptly pressed her lips together, and pulled out her more serious face. Of course, humor was simply a defense mechanism. If she couldn't laugh, she might die.

Seriously.

"Right, James," Arthur whispered, "You slip along to the right side, Lily, you take the left. I'll stay here and cover your backs. Don't touch the door until I get there."

Lily swallowed, and adjusted her grip on her wand before slipping off after James and into the open vulnerability of darkness. She could feel her heart at the base of her tongue and the back of her throat. What a strange blend of feeling she felt: reasonable fear, excitement, righteous anger, a longing for warm socks and her own bed, a tic of laughter, and a solid irony that hung over everything like an iron umbrella.

But, Merlin, she loved the irony.

Until James went into the black of the abandoned shelter, and Lily couldn't help but wish for warm socks and a bed for him. But those feelings needed to be-- must be-- were shook off, and with a vengance. She followed him, flicking her wand to shroud them in a protego spell, determined that they shouldn't be caught with their pants around their ankles.

It was damp inside, and smelled like a dirty mixture of mold and soot. Lily wrinkled her nose, but made no complaint.

I feel as if we could disappear down here, she thought. Her hand pressed against James' shoulder to stop him from going on as they waited for Arthur to join them.


Bee and ffleurbert Sitting in a Tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

The Former Evans: Keeper of Kibble, Walker of Doggies, Breeder of Elvendork Potters, Caretaker of the Untameable Hair.

I, Lily Cootie-Infested Evans, hereby promise to love, honour, but most importantly to OBEY the Tangle-Headed Potter for all eternity, henceforth. DOOM!