Jily oneshots

Of Dead Queens and Drafty Corridors

by loverloverlover

A large portrait of a long-dead queen in Lily Evans's royal chambers rattled when it stormed. Sometimes it rattled when there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. The noise of it always startled her from her sleep with the force of a cannonball smashing through the mast of a ship. Tonight, she hadn't been in bed five minutes before she heard the familiar bang.

Lily remained under her covers, staring at the portrait across the moonlit room. The long-dead queen stared back at her, her regal eyes narrowed—almost as if in warning. Lily had been living in England for almost two weeks but still hadn't mustered enough courage to find out why the portrait rattled. There'd been enough novelty in her life recently (not limited to leaving the comfort of the Scottish Highlands and meeting her betrothed for the first time), and she didn't want to add a mysterious portrait and potential ghost to the list.

But Lily was fed up, and she'd inherited her mother's fiery-red temper. She threw off her covers, grabbed her dressing robe, and shoved her feet into her fur-lined slippers. With steady, determined hands, Lily lit an oil lamp, marched up to the portrait, and looked the long-dead queen dead in the eye.

"Why do you make such a racket?" she hissed. The long-dead queen just stared at her—because of course she did, she was a painting. Lily huffed and stepped closer, close enough to see the rusty hinges attached to the frame. "What…are you hiding?"

Lily reached for the opposite side of the frame, feeling for a latch of some kind until something clicked, and the portrait-door swung towards her. Heart thudding in her chest, Lily peered down the dark corridor with curious but distrustful eyes.

Lily was a princess. She'd been schooled in all manner of things by her haughty, wrinkled governess. Defending herself against mysterious attackers in a drafty corridor was not included in her lessons. It would be beyond dangerous for her to go snooping; nonetheless, Lily extended the oil lamp in front of her and decided the hefty weight would do her well if she had to bash someone over the head. She tightened the sash of her dressing gown and stepped into the corridor.

She made it two steps when the portrait-door slammed shut behind her.

"No!" Lily yelled, scrambling to set her oil lamp on the damp, stone floor. She frantically pushed on the back of the portrait, planting her feet and squaring her shoulders, but it wouldn't budge. Swear words a princess shouldn't know cycled through her head.

Stunned, Lily slowly turned to face the empty corridor. Firelight danced across the mortar-stones only a few feet in either direction, but she couldn't just stand there in her bubble of light, waiting for her handmaidens to discover her empty bed. Morning was hours away, and she was already shivering.

So she picked up her oil lamp and started walking, the sounds of her footsteps both soft and echoing. She walked for ages, feeling along the walls for any crevice indicating another door. When she came to yet another fork in her path, Lily felt like crying. She was thoroughly lost and completely trapped.

A strong gust of wind suddenly blew from the left corridor, fluttering her unbound hair and flickering the oil lamp's flame. With that forceful wind came a strong sense of foreboding, and something in her gut told her to move—now.

She hurried down the right fork, heart in her throat and praying to God there was an exit ahead of her and not another dead end. The wall scratched at her palm as she continued to drag it along the stone, and she lost a slipper in a tiny crevice that nearly sent her tumbling to the ground.

Lily came upon the end of the corridor quicker than she'd hoped, and a strangled sob leapt from her throat. But, miraculously, as soon as she pushed on the appearingly-solid wall, it gave way under her hand, and she stumbled over the threshold, losing her other slipper as she did so.

The oil lamp shattered across the floor as she whirled to slam the door—another portrait-door—behind her. It was just as dark in this room as it had been in the corridor, and she no longer had the benefit of firelight. Chest heaving, she wiped her sweaty brow with a filthy hand and was just exhaling in relief when someone grabbed her from behind and hauled her against their chest.

She had no breath left in her lungs to yell. Her sharp gasp burned her throat almost as much as the cold metal of the dagger that was suddenly pressed against it.

"Who the hell are you? Who sent you?" the low voice asked. Lily knew that voice; she was betrothed to it.

"James," she breathed. Heedless of the blade to her throat, Lily sagged against his chest in relief.

"Lily?" Crown Prince James Potter released her immediately, and she nearly crumpled to the floor, but he grabbed her arms and turned her to face him. "Why are you—What happened?"

Lily stared up at him and placed a tentative hand to his cheek, propriety be damned. She'd never seen him without his glasses. His eyes were bright, his expression worried but earnest, and Lily felt safe for the first time in hours.

"The castle's haunted," she breathed.

"Nah." James laughed. "That's just Helena."