A/N: Apparently I'm on a writing binge at the moment. Yay! So I'm feeling my way through my own personal grievances right now, and this was just way of talking about coping mechanisms, and sadness, and other people, and how sometimes you need them and sometimes you're fine to be left alone with your pain. I just hope it makes sense to everyone else.

Oh, and there may be a part 2. If I'm in the mood.

Comfort

by padfoot

...

Lily has a rule: if she is upset, it's her problem and it must stay in her own space.

Usually, that means she will choose a time when the other girls are unlikely to come by – dinner time is the best, but lunch works too – and pull the curtains shut around her bed, and let it out. She'll clutch her test paper with a bad mark, or a picture of the beloved pet that passed away and cry and cry until it's all out of her system, and she can bring herself to function normally again. And then her life will go on.

Maybe some people would think it's dispassionate, depressing, even. Maybe people would think that Lily's whole process reveals a lack of true emotion. Maybe, according to some people, not sharing feelings, not advertising your tragedies to the world is a bad thing.

For Lily, it's just how she copes.

For Lily, in times of pain and hurt, there is no better way for the world to be than completely, utterly, perfectly organised. There is no better way for her to mourn than in peace and isolation, until she's shed all her vulnerabilities and is ready to be the person she presents to the world.

Plus, of course, there is a purpose-built loophole in her one rule.

If someone were to come into Lily's space during the time she allots to be upset, then they're absolutely allowed to witness her grief. Provided they don't run screaming from the room at such an uncharacteristically intense show of emotion.

And that loophole is what keeps Lily curled up on her bed tonight, her stomach growling at the thought of missed dinner.

The crying has stopped for the most part, and the test paper with its large red marks is just a pile of ash on the floor. Lily is clutching her pillow to her chest, her whole body curved around it to hug it close and tight. Her eyes are squeezed shut, imagining the warmth of another body, someone who could be as silent and pliant as the pillow in her arms. That imaginary someone who is a companion in all her pain, and who finally convinces her to get up and keep going when everything feels like too much.

"Uh, Lily?"

An imaginary someone who is really not meant to have the voice of James Potter.

"Are you in here?"

Lily hastily wipes her eyes, remembers that she can't be seen and stops. She hears the bed covers rustle at the movement and curses under her breath, trying to move her arm back onto the bed without making any more noise.

"Are you in bed?"

Potter's tone is certainly not non-judgemental, and Lily thinks it's really honestly quite rude of him to be here at all, let alone be here judging her for being here too.

"Okay, now I don't know if I'm talking to an empty room or not. Just to be sure, I'm gonna check behind your curtains." Lily can hear him moving closing, the sound of the dormitory door shutting behind him. "If you are there and you're naked or something, you'd better tell me now," Potter continues, his footsteps getting closer, "because it's not my fault if I see anything."

Tangled in her bedsheets and entirely at a loss of what to do, Lily opts for closing her eyes again, rolling over and hiking her sheets up over her shoulders. She'll pretend to be asleep. It'll be fine, and Potter will go away, and she can go back to wallowing in her pool of self-pity and failure.

"Have you been crying?"

Lily screams – actually, girlishly screams – and Potter jumps back from where he was peering through the curtains.

"Merlin! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Lily. I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry."

His tone turns soothing as he approaches again, this time sliding the curtains back properly and crouching down to be at eye-level with Lily who is still lying down, busying herself with pulling her blanket over her head.

"Go away," she mumbles, entirely aware of how childish this whole thing is thank you very much.

"You're upset," Potter replies, and it's not a question.

"I know," she hisses back, "So go away."

Potter chuckles, and she feels the weight of a hand settle near her head. He tugs at the blanket and for a second Lily holds it tight, not letting it move. But then Potter tugs harder and she knows who of the two of them will win this fight so she relents, watching as his face comes into view.

His expression is sympathetic, something that Lily hadn't know was possible until now. His eyebrows are drawn down, making his glasses lean dangerously far forward on his nose. Lily resists the urge to reach out and push them back into place.

"What?" she sniffs, petulant and not at all sorry about it.

"Am I allowed to ask what's wrong?"

"No."

"Okay."

Potter falls silent. His eyes move away from Lily's face, taking in the pile of tissues on her bedside table, the little pile of ashes on the floor. Still, he doesn't say a word, only shuffles around to seat himself more comfortably on the floor beside Lily's bed. Absently, he plays with the corner of a sheet that is hanging down, flicking at it.

Lily watches, puzzled, but slowly her confusion shifts to amusement. The way James is batting the sheet – it reminds her of a kitten playing with wool. A reluctant smile strays onto her lips, making the dried tears crackle on her cheeks. She wipes the feeling away with the blanket still clutched in one hand, and the movement makes Potter look up.

"Can I help?" he asks.

Lily shakes her head, and James nods, gaze falling back down to the corner of sheet.

He says to the floor, "Do you want me to go?"

It seems to take an age for him to look up to see Lily's reply. Another shake of her head.

"Okay," he nods, and looks back down.

Lily watches the way James' head dips, the way he shuffles his shoulders to make his back more comfortable against her bedside table. She wants to reach out to him, to feel the comfort of human touch that her pillow could never quite replicate, but realises with a start that she's never really been comforted by someone before. There are vague memories of her mother holding her when she was a child, but those are so old and so dim, she can barely recollect the feeling at all.

Maybe this is what comforting is. Maybe James sitting beside her, not touching, not talking, just being there, is the way comfort works for adults. It's silly to think that someone will always be around to hold her when she's sad. Maybe, right now, this can be enough.

"Thank you," Lily murmurs.

She can't see his face, but from the way his cheek curves up, she knows that James is smiling.