A Starry Night

A long ringer reached out, touching at the dial on the matt black sound system tower propped up where a television would have, should have, been. Discs and a few sleeves of vinyl were littered around it, making it look like a ramshackle Pisa-like structure yet there was a certain character to it that couldn’t be denied. The large, upright, rectangular speakers dotted about the room began to boom that little bit louder and the deep, piano chime spread through the apartment, filling every room with its lilting, almost heartbroken tones.

The hand retracted and the ringed fingers found the buttons of the damp shirt that clung awkwardly to the broad shouldered body of Stewart Harding, one of the dull and foolish London inhabitants that had taken it upon himself to go out for his evening meal. He pulled off the shirt, abandoning it on the sofa, and with it went his belt and trousers, leaving him only in the plain, navy blue boxers and the few bits of jewellery that he habitually donned – his cross, hung on a silver chain around his neck and the rings that had become a mere extension of his hands. Once free of the cumbersome clothing, he could breathe easier. Focus.

“Cara,” Stewart murmured, rolling his neck from side to side as he ran his hand down the spine of the animal that had taken up residence on his dining table once more. Caravaggio mewed in greeting but declined to add anything more, closing his eyes once more, relaxing further into the table.

Removing his wand from behind his ear, Stewart flicked it around the flat, throwing open all of the windows he could. Then, he set the wand down on the table and turned to the painting that he had recently been working on. He disliked Van Gogh intensely – not because of the work, just that it was a trifle to get right and it always seemed to be that those the works went to could tell if something was wrong, even if there was a slight embellishment on the original. Yet, it was double-edged sword. The paintings took forever to replicate – or forge, semantics – but it paid a dazzling amount and a fresh injection of a substantial amount of money was exactly what Stewart needed. So it was to the Starry Night over Rhone that Stewart returned.

“He was a genius, Cara,” Stewart told the cat, leaning against the table to appraise what he had thus far. “And I hate him for it.”

Bringing the end of his paintbrush between his teeth, Stewart bit down, making a face as the chipped wood splintered a little under the touch. He took the paintbrush away, bringing up his other hand to take the paint off of his tongue and he sighed, wiping it against his boxers before picking up his palette. He frowned, scratching idly at the surface with the brush before looking over his oils. He took out the slightly scrunched tube of royal blue, pulled off the cap with his lips and spat it onto the floor before squirting some of it onto the palette.

The music continued to brush over Stewart like a gentle, ebbing wave and he extended his arm, flicking a bit of paint over the bare part of the canvas, sighing heavily before beginning to properly scratch out slithers of paint in perfect mimesis of that portion of the painting. He had always taken great pains to put his Van Gogh’s into quadrants and do the same with the painting itself so that he knew exactly what he needed to do where. He’d then go over it later to make sure there was that same fluidity to it that the man himself had created.

Caravaggio meowed behind him.

Stewart pursed his lips at the painting.

The music continued to play.

Oh, the music was short but the night was long.

His was longer.

Lily was feeling pretty miserable. She apparated home and fumbled when opening the door to her brother’s apartment, slipping in to a dark, quiet flat. It seemed no one was home. Surely, Teddy was back at graduation, dealing with the mess that had been made by the young Greyback woman – the GossipMonger blast had reached her on her way home. Lily did not know where Albus and Athena and the kids were – she had not exactly earned the right to be kept in the loop, so she could not be upset by their unaccounted for absence. She closed the door, and stood in the kitchen, letting out a long sigh.

Well that had been a disaster.

She had expected something, yeah. But she had thought it would be as simple as someone making one rude comment, or her own anxiety forcing her to leave. Public humiliation in front of the masses had not been what she had been counting on. And then, in her escape, to run into Henry Yewbeam and hear all of the horrible accusations he had for her, his true feelings and nature coming out… With two strokes of bad luck, and all before the clock hit midnight, Cinderella had lost hope in all of humanity.

She had to remind herself that she was back home, safe, away from them all. She still had all summer to recover, to lick her wounds, to muster up some of that Gryffindor courage she was supposed to have so she could face her peers once again in September. It was not going to be easy, and it certainly was not going to be pleasant. But she cared little for how enjoyable her seventh year would be. The first sucked, and the second would too. She only cared that she survived. She would graduate and move on with her life, and leave all of this darkness behind her.

So she hoped.

She made her way into her room, slipping inside, intent on collapse. Speaking of darkness, she found that she had left the light off in her room and the entire thing was shrouded in a strangely opressing lack of light. She paused on the threshold, sensing a presence. She peered around in the darkness of the room and saw a figure move. A small sense of relief bubbled within her stomach – Stewart was here. Who else would be found in her room when they weren’t supposed to. An ironic little smile hitched itself onto her lips as her hand swiped upwards on her wall, hitting her switch and revealing the visitor.

The smile disappeared as she realized there was ONE other person who might be found in her room.

“Hey, sexy,” came the drawling voice of Roxanne Weasley.

Roxi was sprawled across Lily’s bed, looking almost corpse-like. Rox might have been a model, but Lily did not see any life left in her cousin’s body. It had been stolen by sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The men and women who ate Roxi up said she was a morsel of life but Lily could not see it in those sunken eyes and dropping features. Not now. There had been a time when Roxi had been so cool to Lily. Her approval had meant more than anyone else’s had before. Now, Lily just wanted her out of her room.

But these feelings felt so traitorous. Had she not just been betrayed by someone she had commiserated with, accused of being the cause of a downfall? Roxi might have helped Lily along the way, but Lily would not pin her problems on the string bean ginger before her. She blinked, failing to conceal her disappointment. “What are you doing in my room?”

Roxi lifted a half empty bottle of vodka. “Waiting for you, love.”

Lily shook her head. “I’m not in the mood, Roxi.”

Roxi sat up, legs sprawled at weird angles, hair dangling around her shoulders. “Yeah, I know. I was at graduation. Decided to beat you home.”

“You drank half a bottle of vodka since I left graduation?” Lily echoed hollowly.

Roxi rolled her eyes. “No. Since I left graduation. Geez.” She suddenly smiled and reached over her dress, into her bra, and suddenly withdrew a plastic baggie – but Lily did not need for it to be in a clear bag to guess what Roxi had on her person. Roxi flung the bag at Lily and Lily caught it ; it was a reflex. “I thought a small party might take your mind off of it. Just like old times, Lil. Just you and me… and DJ and Connor.”

“Who’s DJ and Connor?” Lily croaked, staring at the bag.

Roxi shrugged. “Friends of mine for tonight.” Her lips cracked into a wide smile, and she tipped her head back, laughing. “What does it maaaatter?”

Lily could still feel the disappointment in her bones when her visitor turned out not to be the person she had expected. And she still heard everything that had been said about her and to her that evening. Drinking and smoking with Roxi would mean becoming the girl everyone had accused her of being all night. And there were few people in the world who would be surprised. And those who would… well, she didn’t want to surprise them. Not like this. Not with this.

She tossed the baggie back to Roxanne. “I don’t want it, Roxi. Thanks.”

Roxi blinked, staring at Lily with her lips slightly agape. She blinked heavily once, twice, before she rolled up to a standing position. Her slightly slumped posture still did not hide that slender, tall body. The body she trashed on a regular basis and put up on auction for the highest bidder. “LP, you and I used to be close. What’s happened? I haven’t seen you in ages. It’s like… you’re barely a friend anymore.”

Lily glanced down, her hand picking at the doorknob. “You are my cousin, Roxanne-“

“So I can’t be your friend?” the older girl snapped. “Hey, I was the only one who gave a f*ck about you when you went off the radar, wasn’t I? I found you half-starved in Diagon. I showed you how to feed yourself.”

“By sleeping with strangers!” Lily blurted.

“So!” Roxanne demanded, her voice suddenly rising. “You do whatever the hell you have to do. Don’t look down on me! I don’t sleep to eat.”

“You just tell your seventeen year old cousin to,” Lily spit.

“I could have ratted you out,” Roxanne said, stepping forward. “I could have sold you to buy my next fix – there were offers, you know. I gave you half of my stash so you could find yourself. I gave you means for survival. I didn’t act like you were my kid, my child, the way everyone else does because you wanted to be an adult. I gave you everything you wanted.”

“And nothing that I needed,” Lily murmured.

Roxanne was in her face now. “Do I look like your Mummy? Newsflash, I’m not. No one is. And if that’s why you’re mad, then don’t take it out on me. And don’t you treat me like garbage. I’m not the one who slept in it.”

Lily shoved Roxanne away from her, and the girl stumbled, collapsing against the bed. She stared at Lily, and Lily stared back. Roxanne had been dangerously close to hitting her head on the dresser. Something horrible could have just happened. Lily’s face turned sheet white as she looked at her cousin, suddenly feeling like a monster. Roxanne was regarding her cousin the very same way. Lily blinked, and fumbled to open the door.

“You’ll be back, LP,” Roxanne called after her. “When no one wants you again, and you need to escape. And I’ll be here. Because I’m a good friend.”

Roxanne’s words echoed in her school as she hurried down the street, close to hyperventilating, eyes welled with emotion. She refused to cry. She refused to cry.

Stewart had given her his address in case of an emergency, and she was nearing the place now. She clutched her shoulders, shivering in the cold night, attempting to still her face as it danced and shook with all of the turmoil within her. She reached the door, finally – finally – and knocked on it with urgency, hands shaking.

When Julio had called that night he did not do so looking for company or good humour for he sought none and received neither as the weary and irritable Stewart, strewn in paint and disdain, quickly donned a suit to cover the kaleidoscope marks on his chest, pushed out of his apartment to go to dinner. They sat in his favourite London café not long before the wind dropped and the heat began to persist. They dropped their blazers onto the backs of their chairs. Buttons popped every few minutes until both sat lounged in the wrought iron garden chairs, looking a mix between Roman nobles and dogs, parched and exhausted. They traded their meal for ice cream. Nothing could quite sober them from the heat, however.

Upon returning, a warning rumbling around his ears that the people who wanted the Van Gogh would not wait much longer, Stewart had sought to wash it all from his mind. In stripping back down to his boxers, nigh bear as bones once more, the paint could return to his skin and the music could wash through him like the restless breeze that had ceased to exist and he would paint. He had to. It was not a voluntary thing anymore and though precision was still important, the flippant scrape of his brush across the canvas informed the ever watching Caravaggio that the base colours would come first, then the detail. They’d never know.

At times like these, he was much better suited to being perched on a high stool with clay between his fingers, moulding out thighs or, more often than not, the intimate quarters of the David. He loved the feeling of the substance so unlike flesh being created into it under his gentle guidance. He adored the way all of a sudden with a pinch of fingers and the drawing of his thumbs over cheeks there were bones, the bridge of a nose, large, expressive eyes and a slight smirk to a pair of rosebud lips. Even more precision was required when it was marble but he took even more out of it, even more joy.

A small knock on the door, imperceptible by his ear but indicative by the way he sat the cat move in the reflection of one of the panels of the old, oil lamp he was using to get the light right, settled Stewart immediately. He dropped the brush, letting it spit blue paint onto the table, and set the palette down with a shard more care. He then tossed his hand through his hair, spreading a slither of blue through it that made the cat snort and him despair. He determined that blue in his hair – navy, in fact, - would be the least of his troubles given he was covered in it amongst other colours and was going to answer the door one piece of fabric away from being utterly naked.

He’d done worse.

Tripping absently over one of the extended legs of the dining chairs, he stumbled through the apartment, flicking out his finger to turn down the volume of the music before reaching the door. His hand grasped awkwardly at the rounded doorknob and he opened the door, the door chain whining at him. His eyes widened as he caught sight of who was there. He’d expected Julio, in truth, a man who would know the chain was there because Stewart was done for the day rather than for fear of being attacked via his front door. It was an age old signal of theirs – better than a sock on the door and subtler to boot: leave. me. alone.

For the sake of Lily Potter, however, that rule could be bent. It was only a guideline, really. Bringing the door to, Stewart pulled off the chain and threw the door open wide once more, the chain banging around the back and hitting out at the wall, the handle doing much of the same. There was a nice dent forming in the wall there now and he was waiting, just waiting, for it to get bad enough for the paint he intended to put in there to look really very interesting indeed.

She was shivering.

Stewart stepped forward, guiding his hands to her arms. He rubbed his palms across the skin, brushing away the goose bumps that had sprung up there. They returned as he took his hands to a next patch of skin but he didn’t mind too much. She, ironically, was trussed up, had no reason to be cold while he stood in nothing, his skin feeling like molten lava was erupting from magma beneath his pores.

“Come in, love,” he murmured, sliding his hands down to hers, his fingers looping about her smaller, narrower, daintier ones. He stepped back, his feet dancing from the wood to the rug that was in his hall simply because he had no idea where else to put it. He kicked the door shut behind her and the sudden chill that had been about the door was gone, replaced back with the impossible heat that had consumed his apartment, to the benefit of Lily, ironically.

“Hey, right, okay. We’ll talk about this but why don’t I get you something to wear that’s a bit more comfy and something to drink? I can do hot cocoa but I’m thinking a bottle of rum. Cold but it’ll warm you through. Best of both.”

These were the times when Stewart felt like his grandmother, when once again he (or rather, she as it was her role) was fluttering about someone, trying to fix the cosmetic bits, to make someone a little superficially happier and more comfortable before dealing with the difficult bits. She’d always done it for him. When he used to come home, grumpy and frustrated she’d make him up a glass of wine and would pull a soft, loose cotton shirt over his head, replace the shorts he’d wear with ones for bed and she’d have him sit on the sofa with her to talk, to drink the wine and to work through the problem with him. It always made him feel better, even if it was eventually and not right away.

Stewart smiled briefly before turning on his heel and hurrying past the sofa, sliding around past the Van Gogh erected opposite the dining table in front of the window seat, and he breezed through the wide arch-way (he’d gotten rid of the door) into his bedroom which still didn’t really do much. He lived in the living room and the dining room and often slept on the sofa in those few hours he allowed himself to get a bit of sleep. The bedroom still had boxes here and there but they had been covered over by bright material, another monument to a kind of art and it looked something like a Bollywood film – bright and garish. The bed was covered in sheets, also, scattered with pillows of all covers with a heavy blanket folded over the footboard. He should have loved it in there really with the balcony to the near end by the door and the large bathroom at the opposite but he couldn’t lest he had someone home with intent on using the bed. He had too much that pressed on him beyond the bedroom. It wasn’t a heaven for him.

It was, however, where he kept all of his clothes.

From the large dresser pressed against the wall by the bathroom door, Stewart sourced an old t-shirt that bore the regalia of the Sex Pistols on it. He also took out a freshly washed pair of boxer shorts. He wasn’t going to pretend he had any trousers that would fit her and his sweatpants were locked up in a box somewhere underneath the offensive exhibition to the rainbow so he couldn’t get them for her, either. He bit his lip, turning over the dotty pair of shorts – colourful also – and deemed them alright. They were near-new. Worn once, washed twice. They smelt of lavender because it was what the laundrette downstairs stocked and he wasn’t one to argue. It was nice, fresh smelling and he felt infinitely better about giving the clothes to Lily knowing they smelt sensible and still bizarrely of him rather than of him and something infinitely odd he couldn’t account for.

“Here we are,” Stewart returned to the living room-dining room-kitchen that was his main living area. He held out the clothes for Lily and once she took them he stole up the ones he’d abandoned himself on the sofa, throwing them at the wicker hamper that was beside the bedroom arch. The clothes rumbled inside, bouncing down off of the wall, and he smiled sheepishly before moving to the kitchen area, taking the rum out of the cool cupboard underneath the counter.

“Go get comfy, Lils,” he said, taking two tall glasses out of one of the wall cupboards. “Bathroom is through the bedroom if you wanna wash your face or anything. Not that you need to, you just might so…”

Shut up Sprout, he thought derisively as he sloshed the rum liberally into the glasses. He brought the bottle to his lips after, taking a long swig before pouring a little out into one of the shot glasses that had been on the draining board waiting to be cleaned up. He then left the rum on the side and found the cola from the fridge, topping up the drinks before taking all three to the dining table. To the cat he gave the shot glass and Caravaggio bounced up, moving more when he realised he had a drink than Stewart ever saw him move and he smoothed the cat’s fur back as the animal began to drink. He was convinced there was Kneazle in Caravaggio. Or perhaps he was an animagus. Whatever it was, he wasn’t a normal cat. There was something very wizard like about him.

Stewart set the two glasses down on the table and lifted up the paint brush, sitting it on the palette. He turned and stared once more at the Van Gogh. His furious slosh of paint across the canvas had gotten him his base colour. He leaned forward and ran his fingers of the heads of the soft hair brushes, knowing he’d need a narrower one for the detail. Yet, as he thought about that it occurred to him he had someone in his house who didn’t know what he did, who assumed he was just a Daily Prophet reporter. It was very different to Marie and to a degree his mother who he assumed did know but didn’t deign to tell him she knew and/or did not know quite what he did with all of the replicas he made. She would have seen it, or would imminently if she hadn’t already. Stewart took a mouthful of his rum and coke, grateful for the strength of it. He couldn’t get rid of the Van Gogh now. If it came up, which he desperately hoped it wouldn’t, then he’d say something, anything other than “I forge paintings and sell them for millions via buyers of course, if I did it I’d be in a mansion but yeah.’ No, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Okay,” he said, deciding to ignore the Van Gogh, as Lily returned. “What’s happened? Something has happened because you are in my flat which means something really bloody awful has happened. We can leave it at that or we can embellish – doesn’t matter. This is Caravaggio,” he patted the cat, “he’s a raging alcoholic.”

Lily was almost embarrassed, realizing the situation she was bring to Stewart. He had said emergency, and her problems were feeling less and less worthy of his attention. They had definitely felt urgent at the time but now, standing on his doorstep, her breathing heavy within her own ear, arms tickled by the cold night, she felt very childish indeed. She looked down at herself. The collared dress, the stockings, the general air of helplessness - it was so very schoolgirl. Stewart was a grown man with his own problems and she felt the fool for thinking herself anything more than a burden.

But she could not leave this spot. Somehow, she was physically rooted to his doorstop for, even though she wanted to leave him alone to his evening, she only managed to waver on the spot. The soles of her feet had turned to lead as her heart gripped her to the spot. The unfortunate fact of the situation was simple. She had nowhere else to go. Family would mean starting a war with Roxanne. Home would meaning falling to the other girl'a influence. And she knew all too we'll what the school and the streets meant for her.

Lily had to burden Stewart. No one else would take her.

The door cracked open, letting warm air and warm light out onto the doorstop. And there was Stewart, looking remarkably invulnerable in nothing but his boxers. Lily looked up at him, looking ashamed for having even come. Her makeup was smudged, her face pale, her lips shaking. She was pathetic and she was so sorry that she had even wasted his time.

He reached out and began to rub her arms, her sleeves having been pushed up in the struggle between herself and Roxanne. He had said nothing, demanded no explanation, begun no lecture. He had just set about fulfilling her need for warmth, without asking permission and without being instructed. Of his own will and volition, he was taking care of her. Lily stared at him, her eyes large.

And it all boiled over.

She dropped her head as she began silently sobbing, no tears leaving her dehydrated body, instead sliding down her throat in great salty lumps. She shook as he rubbed her warm, her throat and neck straining as she held all evidence of her misery captive within her. He drew her inside, and she clung tightly to his hand, pulling herself close to his side, keeping herself closet sheltered by the broad, strong body next to her, her fingers locking onto the five lifelines on his hand.

He spoke and she nodded numbly, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips rolled tightly inward, still holding all emotion inside. She knew drinking with Stewart did not mean the same as it did for Roxanne. She would drink to restore her spirit, to warm her bones, to chase anxiety out. Roxanne meant to numb all her senses so she could be flung back out into the sea, unfeeling to the rocky waves. And if she could not feel the waves, who was to say she would not end up drowning?

He left to go find something for her to wear and her arms lifted toner face. Her eyes were pressed into the heels of her palms and her shoulders hunched. Her mouth opened bit no sound came out, her lips curving in a silent wail. It was as though her body was incapable of expressing the shock and grief it were feeling. For a fee moments, she was like this, before she almost choked on the rapid breaths that jerked in and out of her lungs. She took a deep breath to steady herself and dropped her hands, swallowing a final lump of salt down her throat, where it heavily landed in her stomach.

She was in Stewart Harding's apartment.

And there was a cat regarding her very cleverly.

It was then that Stewart reappeared. She almost felt a bit stupid for having stayed rooted to the very place he left her, but she was also past caring. How much more foolish could she look, really? He handed her a baggy shirt and a pair of colorful boxers which would easily cover her with her knobbly legs. He moved, suggesting she go take care of herself and she nodded numbly again, head turning to find the room he had mentioned. She nodded again, and approached it, feeling strange - as if she were in a dream.

Once in the bathroom, she sat on the toilet. Slowly, very slowly, she took off her boots, and then peeled her tights off. The dress was unzipped and she shrugged her arms from the sleeves, it fell around her feet. She dropped the ring on one of her boots and stood, stepping in front of the mirror so she could take off the necklace.

And her she was. Again. Practically naked, with Stewart Harding mere feet away, looking herself in the mirror and despising all of the circumstances in her life. She squeezed her eyes shut, her chin twitching once. When was she going to just... grow up? Had that not always been her plan? Grow up as early as possible. Move out. Be her own person. And now she was even more dependent than she had ever been before. She had been more independent at eight years old. She had figured out long ago that she was a mess but with this repeat situation, she could not help but feel like she was spiraling.

However, Stewart had instilled some hope in her that last night. Perhaps he would again. Maybe that was what this meant, not that she was destined to always make the same mistakes.

She left the necklace on, sliding the boxers up her pale legs and pulling the shirt over her. She wiped her eyes with her index finger, leaving the rims of her eyes red and raw from the touch. She did not have a hair tie so she left her hair as it was, falling over her shoulders and resting atop the curve of her chest. She blinked, swallowing again, and gathered up her clothes and boots, carrying them back with her into the living space.

Stewart addressed her as she reentered the room and she made a direct path for the sofa before the table. She sat on it, plopping her bundle of clothes and shoes next to her feet, before seizing her glass of rum. A good swallow of it immediately trickled down her throat, her head tipping back to welcome a generous amount of the drink into her system. She needed the liquid courage before she could speak, before she could reveal her folly and failures to one of the few people not already aware of them.

Swallowing the drink down, she leaned forward, her forearms resting on her knees, the glass held loosely between both hands. She tilted her head, regarding the cat that had previously regarded her. "Hi Caravaggio."  

She took in a deep breath and released it again. She knew she had to tell him. She was not going to be tell anyone else, and she was tired of fighting everything within herself. The battleground was much to wrecked to wage any more wars on. One more swallow.

"I went to graduation," she said, glancing up at him. Surely, that was going to please him at first. He had suggested she try to get out there. "It was tonight and I figured I could just... Pop in. The entire school, friends and family included, reminded me that Lily Potter won most likely to be a f*ck up." She dropped her face into one of her hands and shook her head. "I was humiliated. More than I've ever been before. No one has ever made me feel that horrible."

She straightened up, sitting back against the sofa, eyelids falling over her eyes. "And I saw a friend that used to smoke with me and drink and stuff. Basically, I'm his own personal satan in his eyes. And," she tried to smile, but it looked twisted and disgusted in her face, "my own was waiting for me at home. My cousin, she... she got me in on the party scene. And then helped me do some really horrible things when I was living on... on my own. She wanted me to go back and things got really intense and physical and now I've cut all of my ties and have nowhere else to go, nothing left to do." Her eyes slid open, looking right at Stewart. "Except burden you, of course."

“Okay,”

Stewart sat down beside Lily, folding his legs up behind himself as he threw his arm over the back of the sofa. He leaned forward briefly to set his glass down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa and before he sat back he flicked his fingers towards the stereo, turning it up the briefest of ways before relaxing back against the sofa. He watched Lily carefully as she spoke, extending a gentle hand to her shoulder. He hated the tear tracks on her face. He loathed the fact that someone could make her feel so rotten. He ascertained quickly he never wanted to see her cry again but life wasn’t quite like that, it wasn’t so pleasing or forgiving or kind about these things. But there was always going to be people like him, people who didn’t mind the burden.

“This is the place to come,” he murmured, her long curtain of hair away from her pale, angular cheeks. He smoothed it behind her ear and managed a small smile of his own before touching at her chin briefly with his thumb.

Her words were turning awkwardly over in Stewart’s mind. Initially her mentioning she had gone to the graduation had made him happy, if only for the fact that she had gone out. Yet, it did occur to him that perhaps it hadn’t been wise – not simply because of what had happened but because she would see what circumstances had prevented her from having herself and he didn’t want her to take to any conclusion along the lines of her not deserving such triumph and success because she was more than worth and deserving of it. The way the people in her life had spoken to her though grated somewhat on Stewart’s less than easy temperament.

“You haven’t fucked up, Lily,” he murmured, sliding his arm around her, tugging her to him. It was easy, as though she was a doll. “Alright? You’ve not. I’m going to talk myself hoarse with reminding you of that. We’ve hit a road block, that’s all, and we’re navigating through it so whatever, it doesn’t matter. They’ve not learned anything about life by sitting in Hogwarts doing exams. You’ve lived through hardship and you’ve made it out a little bit battered but okay. That’s all you can ask for. You’ve been more successful than they could ever hope to be at this point in time. It’s just different. You can’t measure it against having a dozen ‘Outstanding’ grades. This is much more valuable and will teach you more than seven years at school ever could.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple reflexively as he ran his hand up and down her arm. He sighed a little, trying to suppress his temper. He kissed her again before resting his head against hers, trying to figure out how to fix things. He couldn’t he knew, short of beating to death the man who had been so rude to her. He could, however, lend help to Roxanne should she want it. He wasn’t an addiction counsellor, though. He could magic reasons out of the air for quitting a lifestyle that probably severed as more of a consolation than anything anyone else could muster for her. He was an art forger – a bad man with a few bad marks on his own record. He didn’t know if he could help.

“You can stay here, sweetpea,” he told her. “If that’s what you want, then you’re more than welcome for as long as you like. We’re going to try and get rid of the horrible feelings. Dunno how, just yet, but we’re going to work it out, okay? But y’know, I’m really proud of you. It’s been a completely shit evening all told but you can take two things from it. You went out, for a start. So, you’re feeling a bit better at least and even though it went pear shaped, you didn’t fall into exactly what Roxanne wanted you to. You didn’t go back. I’m proud of you.”

And he was. She was there, with him, instead of somewhere else, smoking and drinking herself into a stupor. She was safe with him. He could keep her safe. He would.

He sat next to her and, again, Lily marveled at the effects of human closeness. Teddy had made it plain that this intimacy was essential for human to feel safe and supported, and yet for so long he had not taken her hands, had not brushed her hair from her face, had not even squeezed her shoulder. At first, he had been perfect. As bleak as everything felt, her god brother had been her one solace, the beam of hoe in her dark existence. But as she had improved, he had withdrawn, leaving her to spiral backwards. Perhaps it was his own uncertainty, or his busy schedule, but the effort and the hope had left him. She supposed he had just assumed nothing had been working and his best bet was to make sure she at least survived.

Survival. That basic human instinct that she often struggled to maintain. That was what scared her the most, she was certain. How was it that most human beings that found themselves down a path that led to destruction always broke out in a burst of desperation and adrenaline to overcome the odds, whilst she ran towards her end. It was as though her instinct had been hardwired backwards, making even her most animalistic urges completely incorrect and inhuman. She knew it was foolish to think this way, for biology proved it impossible, and yet she was surprised every day by her own determination to waste away.

Today she had gone against those mechanics. Yes, every situation she had walked into had the sense of danger, but she had approached them with the intention of recovering her own psychological strength. And refusing Roxanne had been an obvious choice to live to fight another day. Even finding Stewart. She could have taken to opportunity to disappear again, maybe this time for good. With her spending money squandered on her weeks of teenage bohemia, she would not have made it very long. But it would have been so much easier than fixing everything.

And that was what separated the Potter children from their parents. They wanted the easy way out. But there was no easy way. Not for a Potter. Not for anyone.

His touches were not meant to mean anything more than consolation, and Lily sighed against them. They were safe and comforting. Her eyes closed because she was embarrassed by this need. This girl who had survived the streets (albeit barely) seemed to hold on to this gentle human connection like a lifeline and her weakness, for the first time in a long time, disgusted her. She had worn it like a comfy sweater and now she was stifled by the heat it brought. What had happened to Lily Potter who would fight those who crossed her, who was afraid of no one, who did whatever the hell she wanted because she knew she knew best?

She had grown up. She had realized how very little she really knew. She has seen herself in the light of day and deemed herself unworthy.

And she was sick of it.

He pulled her towards her and she did not fight him. She drew herself against him, fitting against his side the best she could, turning her head so she could take in his words. She knew that change would come from actions, but she knew that encouraging words inspired action. The action would have to come from her, but she could not think of anyone but Stewart who would offer up the words. Her family had, rightfully, left her to sort out her own issues. They had tried and she had resisted too many times. These curses were her own. And no one could fix them but herself.

Lily Potter had power to determine her fate. Not some Nott brat. Not Henry Yewbeam. And no longer, never again, Roxanne Weasley.

She took in a deep breath and, though it shook, it steadied her. He placed a kiss, and then another, on her temple. He offered his place to her and looked up at him, surprised. This was not what she was used to out of people. People did not take on more burdens, especially ones that made her anymore comfortable or happy. She was not a cynic, she was a realist with a grip on basic human behavior. But Stewart seemed to be the exception that proved the rule. Crawling throwing windows, painting ceilings, offering a sofa. Her surprise, mingled with some awe at having found the exception, was barely hidden on her face, still evident to a keen eye. She blinked and took action. Finally. Her arms raised to wrap around his neck, tightening around him as she drew this near stranger, this ally, this friend close to her.

(The theme of this thread in You'll Be Okay by A Great Big World. -nods-)

(OOC: Godmoddy-ish. Sorries.)

It was easy, living. The damn near impossible part was enjoying it. Both of those people tucked up in each other on the sofa in that hot flat had forgotten what it meant to be enjoying life – what it meant to really care about life. The difference was that no one had given up on him. When, in the darkest moments he’d wanted to be alone, someone had always been there. Ezra had been there. His grandfather had been there. Julio had been there. He’d never been on his own. But she had been. Even when they’d made a show of being with her, they’d left her isolated, vulnerable and alone – and there was a part of him that hated them for that.

Stewart’s hand began to comb gently through her hair, careful not to pull, just easing the knots out one by one until it was soft and smooth, curling slightly at the ends to tickle at the space of skin that had been revealed by the top riding up. Another kiss went to her temple and he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music float past his ears. He distantly heard Caravaggio jump down from the table and he looked to see the cat disappear into his room. The cat, having taken his leave, seemed to provoke the need to do the same in Stewart. He suddenly felt exhausted.

“Remind me to go and get some food for breakfast when we get up in the morning,” he yawned, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Otherwise the best we can hope for is a cup of tea.” He chuckled despite himself. “Eggs, bacon and toast sound good to you? I could probably even plump for some beans if you’re lucky. Some tomatoes or something too, maybe.”

There wasn’t going to be much opportunity to sleep for Stewart, however. He’d happily set Lily in bed and make sure she was sleeping well enough and while he’d want to join her Caravaggio would fill that hole because he needed to get the Van Gogh done. That, he knew, would keep him up for the rest of the night and the rum would slowly but surely disappear from the bottle until he fell asleep at the table and he’d have a stiff neck and a creaking back come morning but it wouldn’t matter too much because by the afternoon Julio would have picked it up and it would be out of his life until the next one came along – though he was praying for a sculpture next.

“Come on then, poppet,” he murmured to her. “Let’s get you into bed. Cara’s already there so at least one spot will be warm-ish if you shove him over.”

The cat meowed from the other room, as though asserting that if anyone dared to do that he’d be ready to kill and Stewart smirked before hooking one arm underneath Lily’s legs. He lifted her up and chuckled before carrying her through into the bedroom. Something in the back of his mind registered it as weird and strange but he ignored it and plopped her down on the bed, pulling one of the covers up over her head.

“Night night,” he laughed, before pulling the covers back down again. “I’m kidding but, really. Sleep off the rubbishy feelings and tomorrow we’ll do something fun, ‘kay?” He smiled at her.

He wasn’t sure what constituted as fun. He supposed they could go and have a look at some of the museums in town. He had a feeling he was going to geek out and be entirely lame but that wasn’t the plan. No, he had a better idea. There was going to be a ball pit set up in Trafalgar square – a giant one that could fit over a thousand people inside. If it was up by tomorrow, he had a feeling that was going to be the fun event followed by, inevitably, lunch somewhere. He was Italian after all – his whole life revolved around meals. And now, too, his life revolved around her.

((Never apologize for Sprily))

((Never apologize for Sprily. I apologize because I’m just going to jump to the morning because the muse for nighttime has died. Hope you don’t mind the minor godmodes as well))

Waking up in an unfamiliar place had become a reoccurring thing to Lily during her absence from general society, and it had almost become that unfamiliarity was the only constant in her young life. It had come to the point where she would awake with that dread pumping through her veins, certain that she was about to face someone or something that was going to slowly destroy her. Today, unfamiliarity was not accompanied by dread or loathing. When the sun tickled its light beams across Lily Potter’s face, she felt secure and safe.  For some reason, Lily felt as though nothing could harm her as her eyes blinked open one at a time.

Lily sat up, her hair falling around her face and shoulders. She felt bleary but incredibly well rested. She glanced down at her hands, which had fistfuls of soft blankets within them. She relaxed her hands, smoothing the covers as she allowed her muscles to relax a little. She turned her head, taking in the room. There was nothing dangerous about it – there was something definitely masculine about it, the slight carelessness hinted at that. She could see a canvas here or there, and the entire apartment seemed to be littered with extraneous painting supplies, just here or there.

This was Stewart Harding’s apartment. His room. His bed. He had seen hers, laid on her bed. She hoped this didn’t mean they were even and visits would be no longer an option.

That was when she remembered – he had offered to let her stay. He had taken her in on a hellish night and invited her to stay, baggage and all. And he did not grimace or sigh as though it was going to be a burden on him. He had offered, he had seemed sincere. Lily was in a place where she was wanted, where she was not merely a suck on resources or time.

It was another unfamiliar place for her, but it was a vastly more comfortable position.

Lily slipped out of bed and looked at herself, in Stewart’s shirt and boxer shorts. She wasn’t completely unpresentable. And besides, Stewart had seen her in much worse condition the night before, and on their first meeting. She brushed her hair back as she quietly padded through the room, leaving Caravaggio to snooze on.

Stewart had fallen asleep at his post it seemed. The painting he was working on looked complete – Lily tilted her head, looking at the canvas. She recognized the painting. She blinked, turning her head over to look at the man who had passed out on the couch. She quietly crept passed, moving into the kitchen. She found the kettle and the tea and the mugs, and quickly set about making a cup for herself and for Stewart. It seemed only natural. She would go on to make breakfast, but that felt a little intrusive, and he had mentioned something about needing to go get food.

The mugs were poured and she moved back into the living room. She set her mug down on the coffee table and squeezed into the space on the couch not occupied by the painter, holding his tea in preparedness to hand it off to him. She reached out and touched his arm, whispering, “Stewart?”

A storm had broken overnight. It had relieved the atmosphere of its humidity and had enabled Stewart Harding to finally relent and collapse onto his sofa into a fitful sleep. With a sheet pulled over his waist, his back released to the elements and his feet thrown over the end and he’d slept, mouth agog, eyes heavy and his body dancing kaleidoscopically in all of the colours that could be found on the canvas. The canvas had been finished a little after three o’clock in the early hours of that morning. Exhaustion wasn’t the right word for it. He finally gave up the ghost, so to speak, and was unconscious rather than sleeping fully.

When he woke, it was to his name being called by a lilting, feminine voice. Before he opened his eyes he took a minute to decide where he was. He was on his sofa, he realised. That meant he hadn’t brought someone home the night before. He didn’t usually have people stay long – if he could help it he didn’t bring them home at all – but he’d usually kick them out when he was done and dusted. But no, he hadn’t slept with anyone. He was on his sofa which meant categorically he had not gotten laid the night before which left him at something of a loss when it came to who exactly was calling him. So, without further ado, he opened his eyes and found, might to his immediate delight, that Lily Potter was sat on his sofa.

Then he remembered.

Turning over a little, Stewart pushed himself up against the cushions, his hair flying into a disarray. He wiped his hand over his face, rubbing absently at his eyes before reaching out with his other to take the cup from her littler hand. He smiled, stifling a long yawn, before bringing the cup to his lips. It would take a little while for him to wake up, he was sure. Usually he went through a few cups of coffee and a couple of cigarettes before things got back into order and the artist woke up. For Lily’s sake he wanted to be congenial from the beginning but he couldn’t help laying back against the cushions and closing his eyes again, bringing the cup with him to rest on his chest. It would still take a little while to get his batteries working, it seemed.

“Morning, love,” he mumbled finally, quirking his eyes open again. “Lovely cuppa,” he added. “Did you sleep alright?”

He’d invited Lily to stay, he remembered with a start. Yet, whereas in the morning after perhaps he might’ve minded had it been anyone else, he didn’t. Because it was Lily. He found that he’d gladly to anything for that witch. With things utterly dismal for her he wanted to make things as good as possible. He wanted to make her feel loved and wanted and all the rest of it. His flat wasn’t a home for anyone really bar the cat but if she could make it into one that was right for her, he’d gladly let her. She could stay forever if she wanted to. So long as she was happy, he didn’t mind.

“D’you want to move your things today?” He asked with another yawn. “And I’ll clear out the bedroom so it’s less like my crap is everywhere and … yeah.” He sunk into the pillows again, unable to get rid of the sleepiness. He took another sip of the tea and let his head loll aimlessly against the cushions. “Or we don’t have to. Can be a lazy day if you want. I need to get up and get food though, don’t I?”

He didn’t think the day would ultimately be that lazy. Hers might be but he knew he had a Van Gogh to get fenced. When he’d get the time to do that, though, he had no clue.

There was something so innocent and masculine in his awakening. He looked tired, like a little boy roused from his nap too early, but the exhaustion in his eyes was definitely that of a man who had to rely upon himself to stay fed. She could see a few splotches of blue paint on his arms, and his hair was messed up, and he still had not proper clothes. Despite the shame at having needed rescuing and shelter, this sight made up for all of it, made it worth it. A smile played on her lips, and she tried to commit it to memory. People left, but memories did not have to.

He finally seemed roused enough to speak, and his approval was enough. She was glad to have provided him with the tea, as humble and nearly pitiful as the offering was. She shifted a little as he asked about her night, and she absently combed through the ends of her hair. "I slept really well, actually. Really well. I..."

How could she thank him for what he had done? How could she express her gratitude for him being able to see through her and see everything she needed, and then continue to be willing to supply her with those needs and comforts? The fact that he had treated her like more than a petulant child, an angsty teen, a spoiled brat... that was enough, for she was so afraid of admitting the pangs in her heart. She was certain they would be declared invalid, cheap, and unworthy. He gave her suffering value, but gave her eventual bliss a realism she had not bought into until he had painted her ceiling with the nicest things.

She could not thank all of that. So she settled with a weighty, "Thank you."

He gave her the options for the day and she lifted her slight shoulders, dropping them again. "I'm in no rush for my things - it just means confronting my godbrother, as he will probably be there on a Lily Stakeout. I may have to just send one of my allies in to burglar everything I need." She smiled a little, before saying, "I am up for anything. Please, give me something to do for you. I don't want to be some freeloader. School's starting soon, anyway, so I won't be too much of a bother, but... I know you're going to say you don't mind, but I mind feeling like that. Let me be useful."