AN: I own neither Batman nor Harry Potter. I'm just a poor dandelion writing a fanfiction.
Aconitum
Queen of all Poisons
Jeremy Hutson heaved a sigh and tiredly glanced around the nearly empty dingy bar. As the night came to an end, only the desperate souls still occupied their seats, staring into their drinks as though the toxic liquid contained the answer to all their problems. Needless to say, it didn't, and the scene was becoming depressingly familiar to the young man.
He half-heartedly glanced at the clock, and cringed. 3:47. When the wannabe writer agreed to play bartender in such a decrepit establishment, he knew it wouldn't be all rainbows and sunshine, but he thought that the customers would spend the night pouring their hearts out to him, revealing tragic fates and stories of betrayed love, encouraged by his wise advices. Instead of those passionate tales, he only got drunken mumbles filled with sobs about lost jobs and hated lives. It was disappointing, and Jeremy thought about quitting more and more as the nights passed, all annoyingly similar.
But tonight was different, he reminded himself, staring at the only unfamiliar customer of the night. The writer in Jeremy couldn't help but admire his looks, the kind that books took pages to tell, and made more than one fall on their knees.
The stranger couldn't be more than two or three years younger than the bartender, but the frown currently creasing his forehead made him look older than his mid-twenties. Perhaps sensing the weight of his gaze, striking hazel eyes looked up and revealed a tired and weary soul hidden in their depths. It didn't make much sense though. Judging by the quality of his clothes and glasses, the handsome man had everything to lead a happy and successful life, so what was he doing alone in such a place, breathing the same air as those drunkards? The living-mystery lifted his glass, silently asking for a refill, and Jeremy hesitated.
If he complied, it would the fourth glass of Scotch in less than two hours. However, a part of him couldn't help but hope that this glass would be the one allowing him to hear all those secrets. The too curious bartender was about to pour the liquor when the bell above the door chimed softly.
It was as though a spell had been at the same time broken and recast. A new kind of silence appeared, the apathy vanishing, replaced by awe and lust. This reaction was easily understandable though.
This type of beauty was one that men, especially those who hang out in this pathetic bar, could only hope to witness once in their lives. Even under the unflattering artificial lightening, she looked like an angel, appearing before their rotten eyes to purify their damned souls. Her crimson hair danced like fire with her every move and created an alluring contrast with her alabaster skin, almost green under those lights, which paled in comparison to her eyes, the same colour as unpolished malachite. Her unusual colouring only made her more intriguing to the assembly, their heavy gazes not bothering the exotic goddess who calmly made her way to the nervous bartender.
Her luscious lips stretched into an amused smirk and the boy gulped loudly.
"A Cosmopolitan. Now."
Jeremy could only stare at her dumbly, unable to even think about wiping the drool off his chin. It was as though his heart beat on the rhythm of her words, and the mere seconds following her order were spent in agony, the lack of oxygen making it near impossible to breath.
"Can you even do that one simple task?"
Though she was still smiling, there was no mistaking the annoyance in her voice.
Straightening, he nodded rapidly and turned around to make the cocktail, hands shaking and sweating. After a minute of preparation, he finally placed the drink in front of the gorgeous customer, waiting eagerly for her approval. He watched intently as she took a first sip, anxiously biting his lips when she sighed gently.
"Well, I guess that it will have to do…"
The effect of her voice had multiple effects on him. The fact that the beverage wasn't as much as a success as he first thought was crushing, the liquid honey that was her voice both chastening and soothing; and hearing it as a disappointed murmur made him want to change it into a scream of pleasure, his name on her lips, head thrown back and exposing her delicate neck.
The sound of another voice, much less pleasant than his goddess', snapped him out of his thoughts, and he turned toward the intruder, face still flushed from his previous thoughts.
"Lily-Flower?"
The dangerous beauty slowly shifted in her seat until her eyes met the hopeful ones of the sad enigma.
"My name is Poison Ivy, and you would do well to remember it."
The hope was slowly replaced by confusion, and in his drunken stupor, the man looked like a petulant child.
"But you look just like her! The same pretty hair! So pretty…"
Reaching to pat the fiery locks, his hand was slapped aside by the peeved woman.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?"
Ignoring her indignant question, he turned back to his drink and his eyes gained a haunted look.
"Did you hear about the Prewett brothers? Do you know what they did to them? Can you believe that they're gone now? Just like that. It could have been us, and if this continues, it will be us, Lily." Hands and glass shaking, he finished in a whisper. "I don't want to die."
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the trio, before the only female repeated herself, still annoyed:
"I told you, my name is Poison Ivy, not Lily."
Suddenly gripping her shoulders, he begged frantically:
"Promise me, though! Promise me that you won't die! That you'll survive this war and live a happy life, even if it's with this bastard Snivellus!"
Her eyebrows further furrowed, and confused, she asked:
"A war? What are you talking about?"
"Don't worry about anything he says" interrupted the eager barman, "he just had one too many drinks. He isn't worth your time, milady."
Barely sparing him a glance, she asked her question again, angrier than before. Her feelings didn't softened when, instead of answering her as he should, he ignored her yet again, moodily muttering about this 'Snivellus'.
Leaning forward and fixing him intensely, she repeated herself a third time and it was as though the grumbling man had been sucker punched. Frowning, he shook his head and slowly turned toward her, looking alert for the first time since the beginning of the night. It would have been far more impressive if his sharpened eyes hadn't looked so glazed and conflicted.
"Not here." His voice sounded confused, as if he was reading from a script that didn't make any sense to him. "I have a room in the street. Let's go there."
With a satisfied smirk, she nodded and rose gracefully, following him out of the seedy bar.
Too focused on the hypnotising sway of her generous hips, it wasn't until the jingle snapped him out of his trance that he noticed an important detail for his now seriously compromised carrier. With a long, tortured moan, he whined to the dazed and uncaring customers.
"My boss won't care how beautiful they were! They still had to pay!"
XXXXXXXXXX
Except for his occasional stumbles, James and his companion arrived quickly to their destination, a modest nondescript hotel, the kind that didn't ask questions.
He hesitated on his every move, not understanding why exactly he was making them. Why was he opening the door? Why was he letting her in? The heavy scent clouding his thoughts wasn't really helping either. The fragrance in itself was quite unusual, a mix of moss, cinnamon, honeysuckle and sandalwood. He felt the strongest urge to try and catch a better sniff of it by leaning his nose near her tempting neck, but he resisted with all his strength and was again confused as to why exactly he was experiencing those strange impulses.
Of course, he had always wanted to get closer to Lily, both romantically and physically, but never with this kind of need; like a plant seeking water and sun.
Though his vision was still blurry, he knew it was her. He would recognize this shade of red anywhere: darker than the Weasley's, closer to fresh blood, and yet so alive it looked like a will-o'-the-wisp. And those eyes! He couldn't remember how many times he had lost himself into those bright emerald orbs.
No one else could possibly possess such a colouring. This woman standing right in front of him, so tempting, just had to be Lily. Even if her lips were fuller. And her eyes seemed sharper. And she kept denying her name was Lily…
Still staring into her almond-shaped eyes, he almost didn't hear her next words.
"Now tell me more about this war of yours."
"Don't be silly Lily, you already know all about it."
"Again, that's not my name. But please, do enlighten me."
Her tone seemed to become more forceful, and he felt the same compulsion, the same need to answer her, no matter how illogical her question. And so, still confused he recounted to her the war for freedom and tolerance they were fighting against the tyrannical Voldemort. With each passing words, she seemed to get angrier and her voice came out as a snarl.
"Is this some kind of joke?! Who do you think you are, wasting my time like that?!"
"What? No, of course not! Why would I joke about something like that? You know I'm telling the truth!"
"As if something like magic could actually exists. There is only science in this world!"
"Then what is this!?"
With a flick of his wand and a quick incantation, the bed was on fire. Another flick and it was extinguished without leaving a trace.
Mouth ever so slightly open, eyes wide, she was unable to speak for a few seconds before curiosity took over.
"What was that? How did you do that? Tell me!"
She stared at him intensely enough for him to be slightly uncomfortable.
"I already told you it was magic." With a disappointed sigh, he added, "You're really not Lily, are you?"
The unimpressed raised eyebrow gave even more bite to her mocking retort.
"As I have already said many times now, my name is Poison Ivy."
The expectant way she enounced her name made it clear that he was supposed to know what it represented, but all he could say was:
"Well that's… ominous. And slightly ridiculous too."
Obviously, it was not the right thing to say.
"Coming from a man fighting, and losing against someone named Voldemort…"
"That man is incredibly ruthless and dangerous! He could kill you in a blink of an eye."
"Ha! As if a simple man could stand a chance against the Poison Ivy! I have the support of Gaia herself."
Ignoring the incredibly arrogant claim, he stared urgently in her eyes, trying to impress on her the danger that was Voldemort.
"He has incredible, dark powers, and he wouldn't hesitate one second before killing you!"
"He would already be dead."
"Why do I have the feeling that no matter what I tell you, you won't take it seriously?"
This time, she was the one not answering his question, looking childishly proud of herself for it.
With a sigh and a muttered "your loss", he sat tiredly on the bed. A minute of silence passed before he looked up only to see her standing there, staring at him with an intensely curious expression.
"What?"
Cocking her head to the side, she slowly asked:
"This magic of yours… Were you born with it?"
"Yes? Nobody really knows where it comes from; just that it's been here for a long, long time."
"So, it's a natural energy? Humanity had no hand in its creation, correct?
"Right, humans can only wield it. Completely controlling it is impossible. Why?"
"I wonder if…"
Before he could ask her to elaborate, she was upon him, straddling him, kissing him fiercely and letting him no way to refuse her. He could only taste mint, honey and the bitter aftertaste of her Cosmopolitan, yet it was enough for him to feel more intoxicated and feverish with this kiss than with his five glasses of Scotch.
After a short and half-hearted struggle, he surrendered, overwhelmed by her presence, falling back on the used mattress under him, her body moulding to his in all the right places.
His last coherent thought was to the only woman he truly loved.
'At least, this one really does look like you.'
