A/N: Hi! I'm writing a WIP, I guess. Which is weird. I don't really do this anymore. And what's more is that it's AU, which I never ever ever write. And what's more is it's James and Lily, and I am not sure when I started writing about them so much, but here we are. Forgive my blunders with European money, I am unenlightened. There is going to be more. There will be explanations of the vague parts. And flashbacks. Some of those, maybe lots of those. And a longer chapter next time, probably. Eek, I don't know! (rating may also/will certainly also/be increased at some point but for now).
Lily takes a job at a bookshop the summer after her sixth year of boarding school. She's tired of spending the sticky days of June hiding amongst tall grasses that itch the skin right below the edges of her cut-off shorts. She's impatient and wistful and she can't seem to write anymore, can't seem to get the words from heart to head and from head to paper.
She likes the book shop. She likes her boss, Minerva, who takes her tea black and relaxes her usually stern expression when Lily shares her poetry aloud. She likes the quiet of reading souls, the way that people get dreamy and languid as they thumb through the pages of books. She likes the smell of ink and the crack of new spines. She likes that she can read any of the books, all of them if she'd like, as long as she takes care of them and brings them back, eventually.
She's not looking, not really, but she's lonely, somewhere deep down. So she fills herself with words, phrases, paragraphs. Fills herself up to make up for losing her sister, her best friend, her father.
She's looking for an adventure, an escape. And it's just her luck that she finds one.
She's re-reading A Tale of Two Cities on a slow day at the shop. She's leaning over it at the counter, her fingers gripping the edges of the book and her long red hair falling out of her bun just a small bit, requiring her to brush loose strands out of her face every so often. It's quiet, a Tuesday. There's one older gentleman in the cooking section perusing, and every once in awhile she glances up at him, to see if he's still there.
The door chimes, and she turns to look, but as soon as she recognizes who's entering the store, she sighs and returns to her story.
They call them "The Marauders", she and her friend Mary, who also works at McGonagall's. It's a silly little name they've coined for the group of blokes that pass through every few days, making a mess and entirely too much noise. The days when they come Lily enjoys, but also hates, and she's not entirely sure what to do with that.
She doesn't know their names, at least not officially. She's never asked, but she's heard them used plenty. She knows one of them to be called "Peter" because she's heard the others refer to him as that, always with a tone of exasperation. There's Remus, who she sort of likes, because he's quiet and is always telling the others to calm down. There's Sirius, who's a trouble maker, but seems funny, and whom Mary seems to have a bit of a crush on.
And then there's James.
The gentleman in question saunters up to Lily, who pointedly ignores him, and rings the small silver bell that's been placed on the counter for customers to use when she (or whoever else is working) is in the back.
"You know, you don't have to ring that. I'm right here." she says, for what she imagines is the hundredth time this summer. She doesn't look up from her book, trying to concentrate on Sydney Carton and finding herself inexplicably examining her chipped nail varnish instead, waiting for his retort.
"Aren't you going to ring me up?" James drawls, and she can already see his infuriatingly boastful smile without even glancing up.
"No, because I happen to know that you never buy anything, and I can't see why you'd start now, seeing as you probably can't read."
Sirius wolf whistles and chuckles from somewhere behind James, but she won't, she absolutely refuses to look up at them.
James just laughs. "Hey now, miss, that's not very nice. I happen to have a book right here that I would like to purchase and perhaps even go home and read."
She looks up, finally, with disdain. And of course, he's smiling crookedly at her, his eyebrows cocked, and, good lord, he's holding a copy of Hamlet. His glasses are slightly askew on his face, and his hair is sticking up. His eyes are very light grey. For a fleeting moment there's the slightest swooping feeling in her stomach, as if she's peering over the edge of a cliff, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. She stares at the book, stares at him, and shakes her head.
"What do you not want my money?" he asks. She almost glares, but sighs and grabs the book from him, turning it over to write down the identification number and price on her carbon paper pad. She's looking down again so she doesn't see which friend whispers something to him that makes him scoff, but she pointedly ignores it and continues writing.
"It's nineteen-oh-four." she says, all business, handing his book back to him. He doesn't take it.
"I'm a fan of Macbeth, but I'm not sure how I'll feel about Hamlet. All the soliloquies. What do you think?"
She almost laughs, because until now the only thing that James had bought at her store was one of the fruit lollies they have for sale at the counter for kids, and now he's trying to discuss Shakespeare with her.
"It's nineteen-oh-four." she says again, more insistently this time, pushing the book out farther towards him. He takes it this time, and burrows in his jeans pocket for a twenty pound note. He slides it across the counter with a smirk, all coolness and class, and she fights off the urge to grumble as she opens the register and counts out his change.
She looks up at him to drop it into his hand and he's still smirking. His friends have dispersed, Remus thumbing through a cryptozoology book, Peter standing awkwardly by him and Sirius outside the shop windows smoking.
"So do you think I'll like it?" he inquires again, a little more quietly and, she thinks, a little more seriously now that his friends are gone.
For a moment, she considers him. He's been in here almost every day for a month, passing through on his way to the music shop that's situated behind McGonagall's, no doubt, and has never bought anything, and never failed to bother Lily into oblivion. And yet, here he is, buying Hamlet.
"Sure. He never knows when to stop talking. Just like you." she says, abruptly closing the cash register, propping up the little sign that says "ring bell for assistance" and leaving James standing at the counter nineteen pounds poorer with a handful of Shakespeare. She doesn't look back as she rounds the corner to the back room, even though she wants to.
A/N pt. 2: So that's it! Chapter one! I have ideas for this. Lots of them. Not sure how long it will be. Not sure when I will stop. But I pretty much wrote the whole thing in my head this morning when I was biking to work. These things just happen. Reviewers get love.
I sort of imagine Lily listening to Devil Moon by Slow Runner as she reads at the counter. It's a sad, Lily-esque summery song I suppose.