Every so often, but not nearly often enough, the '78 Hogwarts class—Gryffindors, mostly—tried to squeeze in a night together at the pub. Difficult, for sure, to set a date and time between school or work or Order missions, depending, but everyone tried to make it for Christmas.
And nearly everyone had, except Alton and Noel, Lily Potter was happy to note.
They'd arrived at the shitty Muggle pub they always used in ones and twos—the sort of place where everyone was either too drunk to pay attention to their bizarre conversations, or assumed they were too pissed to be speaking coherently. They'd pushed together three rickety tables in the back room and handed old jokes around with chips and bottles of cheap, tasteless beer.
During the third round, someone always brought up who, exactly, was to blame for Breda Padgett's broken ankle, sixth year. Tonight, it was Dorothy Conway.
"Her fault," Mary MacDonald accused, pointing to Lily, "on account that the entire ordeal"—she always said 'ordeal' with her hand to her heart, as if she were the sole survivor of a horrific plane crash—"was her idea in the first place."
"Ice skating," Mary parroted back to Lily, disgust etched into the normally cheerful crinkles around her eyes. "You want to go ice skating?"
"Yes, Mare, ice skating," Lily said, rolling her eyes, "not murdering puppies."
"No."
Lily widened her eyes as much as she could, but Mary was undeterred.
"Fuck no."
"But it's my birthday."
"No, Lil, your birthday was three days ago. I already gave you your present."
"But it's a gorgeous today, so today is when I want to celebrate, Mare. And the ice is frozen solid, so no worry of going the same way as Peakes."
This assurance did nothing to convince Mary ice skating was a good idea.
"I'll bust out the whisky I stole from Petunia's room tonight," enticed Lily, but Mary still protested: no, hell no, fuck no through both breakfast and the revision Agratha Goshawk forced upon them. But then they broke for lunch and Mary was the only person Lily hadn't yet convinced to go.
The prospect of an afternoon alone, or more revision, won her over in the end. Or maybe it was the reminder that Mary had eaten half the Honeyduke's assorted fudge before wrapping it up for a birthday present.
Whatever the reason, Lily, Mary, and the rest of the Gryffindor girls were strapping on ice skates—death blades, Mary called them—soon after lunch.
Lily batted Mary's accusatory hand away and snatched her bottle of beer. Drained it, for spite, and then looked to her husband. Husband. The idea was still new enough that it took her by surprise, but not in an unpleasant way.
He hadn't even been her boyfriend then, but that was when it all started—really started—between them. At least for her. She didn't say that. Instead, she picked at the label on Mary's bottle and let a mischievous smirk play at the corner of her mouth.
"I think it was James's fault, wasn't it?" she said, looking up to the table at large. "He was the one who did such a shit job transfiguring our skates."
"If you hadn't been so damn distracting, Evans," said James, nudging her with his elbow, "with your tits popping out of that shirt, I might've been better able to keep my focus."
"You—what?" James looked up from his chess game to gaze at Lily. Not at her face, exactly. His gaze stopped at her chest.
She bit her cheek, and with it, her temper—that had been her plan, hadn't it? She'd only unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse, but even the promise of cleavage appeared to do the trick.
"Well," she said, forcing her cheeks to redden in a magnificent blush, "you are the best at Transfiguration in our year, Potter. James. Could you—would you mind?"
Laying it on thick, but she'd been trying to modify her trainers for twenty minutes with no success. She'd pulled short wand, voted by her mates to go on their behalf. However little attention James Potter had been paying her of late, they all still knew she'd have the best success in convincing him to help them.
"He's busy, Evans," snapped Sirius, watching this spectacle unfold from his side of the chess board with a disapproving glower.
Lily fought for an even, placating tone. "Now, Sirius, you ponder your next move and see if you can save the match. James'll have our skates fixed up in half a mo'."
She leaned over the chess board. Playing foul, but desperate times mean ruthless flirting.
"I mean, if you don't mind, James. You'd be all kinds of a lifesaver." She pulled her lip in, just a little. Lily smiled brilliantly at him. The final touch.
He blinked several times in rapid succession. "Erm, yeah. Sure."
"Perfect."
He stood and followed her across the Common Room without a second glance at his horrified best mate.
Lily had purposefully flirted with him. Had been startled to realize how much fun flirting with James Potter could be.
Mary fell on her arse within the first five minutes—no one's fault but her own. Lily's eyelets, however, kept falling out, and Dorothy had a skate that appeared to be neither left nor right. Aggie's skates were so slippery she rocketed halfway across the lake before she could stop, but Katie Killick's left blade melted as soon as it hit the ice.
Point was, James had done an awful, no-good job transfiguring their skates. None of them could fix the defective Transfiguration work, so were forced to abandon the pursuit twenty minutes in.
"Well if it's not your fault, Evans, whose is it?" He always called her Evans when he was pissed. Or turned on. Right now he was a little bit of both.
"Teresa's," Peter suggested. "She's the one who decided to make the snowmen, right?"
"Fuck ice skating," said Mary. "Fuck snowmen. Fuck—"
"Stop whining, Mary, or I'll throw this giant snowball at you." Lily threatened, but as the giant snowball was the lopsided head of a snowman— one of four the girls were constructing—it was an empty threat. "Has your arse stopped throbbing?"
"Fuck you too, Lil," Mary snapped back. "But yes. And they're going to find out about this. And their revenge will be terrible. And I'm going to blame you."
"Impossible."
"Is that one Black or Potter?" Katie asked. She and Aggie had finished with their Peter snowman and started surveying Lily and Mary's handiwork.
"Potter," Lily said, "can't you tell?"
Aggie squinted sideways at the snowman. "No."
"Hard to encapsulate cocky shit into a snow sculpture, isn't it?" Lily said ruefully, but Breda chimed in.
"You were awfully friendly with the cocky shit in the Common Room, Lily."
"To get our skates!" she defended. "Fat lot of good it did us, too." She'd Transfigured a stick into cartoonish, overlarge glasses and placed them on her—their—James Potter snowman. She knocked them a tiny bit lopsided. There. Perfect.
Breda stepped forward to inspect the glasses. "Did you make these?"
"Yes, why? Are they off?"
"No. I think they're perfect." She turned to Lily. "Just how much attention have you been paying that boy?"
"Watch your mouth, Padgett, or you're going to get a giant snowball down your shirt."
"That was my idea," Teresa confirmed, "but they were destroyed before you could even be offended or amused by them."
Teresa smiled at Mary and Breda, who smiled at each other, and all three of them grinned at Lily. The snowmen had been the first casualties—ammunition, actually—in the snowball fight that erupted after Mary and Breda lobbed the James Potter snowball head at Lily.
"But if you want to be technical," Teresa said, "the entire thing was Breda's fault."
"How's that?" Breda asked. As if she didn't know what Teresa's answer would be. As if the group didn't go through this story every time they got together.
Teresa paused dramatically to take a long swig from her bottle. "You, Breda darling," she said sweetly, "were the one who threw the snowball at the back of Sirius Black's head."
"And?" Sirius asked, a predatory smile on his face.
"And," said Teresa, matching his smirk, "you lot"—she pointed in turn at each Marauder—"escalated our friendly, casual snowball fight to a three hour war involving forts, tactical maneuvers, and two bloody noses."
"Tactical offensive," shouted Sirius Black from behind the six foot snow wall he'd conjured into existence. Lily watched him from behind a neighboring tree, waiting for the offensive so she could dart back behind their fort. "Right flank. NOW!"
He looked to his right, but nothing happened.
"RIGHT FLANK!"
Nothing. He glared at the brunette standing idly in the snow.
"That's you, MacDonald!"
"Fuck off, Black. Stop shouting nonsense at me!"
"How did you end up on my team?"
"How did you end up as my team captain?" Mary asked, but Lily somersaulted from behind her tree and landed between them.
"She's useless, Black," heaved Lily, "and she's in a foul mood because she broke her arse."
"Recon! Please tell me you've got intel, Evans."
"I do." Lily pulled a stick from the wall—snowman Peter's arm—and drew a rough diagram of the Hogwarts grounds into the snow. "Potter and Alton are holed up behind a fort they made behind the vegetable patch. Nothing to yours, though." Sirius nodded at the compliment. "Katie is holding the beech tree by the lake—no luck there. I saw Noel trying and failing spectacularly to climb on top of Greenhouse Four. And Remus and Dorothy are here." She sketched an oval, to indicate the Quidditch pitch.
"Padgett?"
"She's on our team, Black. With Pettigrew and Knoll."
"I know that," said Sirius, looking at Lily with something like approval, "I was just testing you. They were rounding on Lupin and Conway?"
"Yes."
Sirius examined the snow. "Dammit. Bastards are pulling a Szcwentsky Maneuver."
"I don't pretend to know what that means," said Lily," but I hope to fuck you know how to counter it."
"Indeed I do, Evans. Sorry about your nose, incidentally. Episkey should clear that up. Here's the plan."
"That's all well and good," Remus said, after they'd finished reliving the finer details of the snowball fight, "but I think you're all looking at this the wrong way."
"How's that, Moony, mate?" Peter asked, grinning happily at his friend. He'd had quite a few more than three drinks, and forgot that this bit of the story turned on him.
Remus clapped him on the back. "I'm glad you asked, Peter, mate," said Remus grandly, playing to everyone's expectations. "It's your fault."
"Mine?" Peter hiccupped.
"Yes. You were the one who insisted we get—"
"Chot hocolate and sweets from the kitchens."
"Exactly."
Lily tripped over the edge of the Invisibility Cloak for the third time in as many minutes.
"How exactly," she grunted, "did we get pegged with refreshment retrieval, or whatever shit title Sirius called it?"
"Lower your voice, Evans," James whispered. His hot breath on her ear made her shudder involuntarily. "We're sneaking."
"It's too early in the day for such illicit activities, Potter." She pulled the Invisibility Cloak off their heads, suddenly needing space between them, and picked up her pace towards the first floor. "And where in the hell did you get one of these?"
James let the fabric of the Cloak slide through his fingers as they walked. "Family heirloom."
She snorted. "I've only got my dad's record collection to look forward to."
"And aside from this, I've only got my Dad's potions supplies to look forward to."
If the latest model of broomstick he always seemed to have were any indication, Lily thought he wasn't being entirely truthful, but that wasn't her business, was it? "I'll have to trade you inheritances, then."
James laughed. "Depends on the albums, Evans. And we didn't get pegged for this, we volunteered."
"You volunteered me. I was content to—"
"Listen to Mary bitch about her sprained arse?"
"Fair point."
"Really, you should thank me."
She threw him a mock salute. "Annihilating you did make me very hungry, so I should thank you for that."
"You only won," James pointed out, "because Padfoot broke my nose."
"Bull fucking shit—" began Lily, but James tugged on her elbow.
"Kitchens are this—"
"I know where the kitchens are, James."
"You do?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his tone.
"Don't make assumptions about me, Potter. And don't underestimate me."
"Oh," said James, levelling a brilliant grin at her that did unfortunate things to her stomach. "I won't underestimate you again."
"Peter is the one who suggested snacks," said Katie delicately, "but you've jumped ahead of our narrative, Remus."
"Oh?"
"Dor is the one who invited the Marauders to join us in drying out by the fireplace."
"And?" chorused the Marauders, all four of them, together.
"And," Lily answered for her, "spending time with you lot always drives us girls to drink."
"Not much has changed, eh?" said Katie, tipping her glass to Lily's. "Cheers to that."
The other girls joined in the toast.
Lily surveyed the boys wrestling on the floor from the safety of her armchair. Hard to tell who had the upper hand, but she wasn't sure winning was the point.
Boys were so weird.
"But why are they hanging out with us, again?"
"Don't be rude, Lily," Mary chastised.
"Admit the snowball fight was fun."
"Oh—it was. Absolutely."
"They aren't so bad."
"No—they're not…"
They'd never been awful, and Lily wasn't sure why she objected. It was just, for living under the same roof, and sharing classes and a supper table and a living room, their circles didn't interact much.
"It's just—we don't hang out with them, is all."
"Well, we are today."
Lily glanced over to the boys just as James emerged from the pile. He flashed her a roguish grin, and her stomach did a somersault. Remus grabbed his shoulder, pulling him into the tangle of limbs again, and the moment broke.
"At least," she said, looking back to Mary, "there's never a dull moment with them around."
"Nah," slurred Peter, "'S'not my fault, and s'not Conway's."
"Oh?"
"S'yours, Moony, for spiking the hot chocolate with Lily's alcohol. Everything went to shit after that."
"Jesus fuck on roller skates," Lily cursed, spluttering her hot chocolate all over her shirt. She turned to James and Remus. "How much did you lot put in this."
"Just drink, Evans. You'll be warmed up in no time." That grin warmed her up, but she'd never admit that to him. She turned to Remus instead.
"And you call yourself a Prefect, Remus."
"Whose alcohol is this, Lily?" Remus asked.
"Not the point. Is there any left?"
"We used a Refilling Charm, no worries.
She took another sip. "Jesus—"
"Fuck on roller skates," said James, finishing for her. "We heard you the first time. Now drink."
"Katie's the one who put the bottle down the floor and spun it around," Dorothy said.
"I stand by that move. We were half drunk and cozy, what better thing to do than snog?"
Mary chimed in, "Yes, and it was so fucking archaic."
"Don't be a snob, Mary," Katie said, "You were the one who snogged Alton for three solid minutes."
Sirius whistled at that, and Mary threw the chip crumbs at him.
Everyone had chuckled when Mary got Alton, cringed when they wouldn't stop, hooted when Remus had gotten Peter, but now everyone was deathly silent; the crackling of the fire roared in Lily's ears.
She must've murdered puppies in a past life to deserve this kind of humiliation.
Of course this would happen. Who else would it have landed on?
Gryffindor, Lily, buck up. She looked from the bottle to James Potter. He, too, was blushing furiously, staring determinedly at the bottle.
She crawled forward, grateful she'd buttoned her shirt back up. Ridiculous, how fast her heart was beating now.
He leaned forward ever so slightly and her eyelashes fluttered closed, the traitors. But the trajectory seemed wrong—and it was only until he'd done it that she realized he kissed her on the cheek.
Merlin, her cheek was burning. So was his breath on her ear, because he wasn't pulling away.
"Evans, you ever decide you're ready to snog me—you come and find me. On your own terms, yeah?"
She nodded numbly, backed away.
Warmth that had nothing to do with the spiked cocoa or the fire hummed in her toes.
She might just have to take him up on that some time.
Jesus fuck on roller skates.
"It was Sirius's fault, isn't it?" Agratha said. "Practically speaking, I mean."
"Oi."
"Shove it, Padfoot, you know it's true," Lily said. She never missed a chance to have a good natured jab at him. "You were the little shit who started Breda on her elves' rights tangent on purpose, working her up by carrying on about your dear mother's stairwell gallery."
"Dear bitch mother's," Sirius corrected. He ignored the rest of her accusation—no point in denying the truth.
Lily nodded, acknowledging the correction. "Right. Point is, Breda was so riled up, she didn't stand a chance."
Lily watched James and Sirius share a mischievous glance as they watched Breda rant and pace.
Amazing, that so much could be communicated in one sharp, dangerous glance. She knew she hadn't deciphered half of it, and she'd been trying.
She laughed in her head, but realized too late that it was also out loud, because they looked her way. Her reflexes dulled by four cups of cocoa, she was too slow to look away. They knew it was on their account that she'd just laughed.
"Black," she mock whispered, covering her tracks, "Are you always this much of a shit?"
He cast her a self-satisfied smirk, and Lily waved her hand in the air.
"Never mind. Should've known better."
"No one has asked for my opinion," Breda said. "But as I was the one who broke my ankle, I think I'd get to assign the blame, no?"
"But we know what you think," said James dismissively, "and you're so utterly wrong it's embarrassing."
"Really," Sirius continued, "we've been doing you a favor."
"Well I'll tell you anyway," she plowed on, paying the boys no mind. "It was all of you, my shit friends, for leaving your mittens and scarves and hats in a jumble next to the fireplace. For ambiance, or atmosphere—"
"Aesthetics," offered Sirius, but Breda waved a dismissive hand at him.
"…instead of drying them with magic, like civilized people. Because I wouldn't have slipped on a wet, soggy mitten and broken my leg in three places, if you had."
"Sit down, Breda," Lily said, noticing a slight slur in her voice. "You're being as dramatic as Mary. Poppy had you fixed in a trice."
"And Davey G. rushed to your bedside next morning and gave you a sympathy snog," Mary reminded everyone.
"And you got all of our chocolate because we felt so bad," Agratha said.
"Shouldn't you be thanking us?" said James and Sirius together.
"Your monderful wates?" Peter said.
"For paying your tab," Dor said, "like we do every time this story gets brought up."
"To Breda and her broken leg," Lily finished, holding up her drink.
"Shit mates," murmured Breda, but she toasted nevertheless.
Lily snuggled into James, grateful for these old stories, and this dingy pub, and the shit music playing from the jukebox, and her husband's hand on her knee and his breath on her neck, whispering the same thing into her ear as he'd done that night—and a few others, for good measure.
She squeezed his knee, smiled the grin she gave only to him. "You know," she whispered, so only he could hear, "that was the first day I realized how much I liked you."
"Is that right, Evans?"
It was their private joke, how they finished the conversation, ever time. The confession—the whispered nothings. And that same roughish grin on his face—the one he gave only for her—which held the promise of more.
The moment was lost when Sirius, gesturing wildly, knocked his beer all over the table.
He apologized profusely, but Lily easily deciphered the sharp glance he shared with James—I did that on purpose, wanker, keep it in your pants.
She grinned sheepishly, ducked her head into her drink.
"Merry Christmas, Potter," James whispered to her, kissing the spot just above her ear.
Perfect.