Poppy dreamt.
There was a woman sitting in a chair. Hanging around her head was a covering of clouds so thick it completely obstructed the top half of her face. Poppy would recognize that chin blind, and knew those red threads of hair tumbled over Lily's sturdy set of shoulders; strong enough to hold back the world.
She sat docile, hands folded in her lap. The clouds did not disperse. Her voice, when it sounded, came from very far away—
"Poppy?"
Poppy blinked. The clouds darkened with the threat of thunder: again, the sound—
"Poppy, I know it's you. Stop hiding."
She tried to move forward, but for all her walking it brought her no closer to the other woman. "Lil, I don't know what's happening. I can't get to you."
"I need your help!" The clouds thinned; Lily threw her head back in agony and yelled, thrashing in her seat, "No, not him! Not Harry! Please, I'm begging you, take me instead—"
Poppy ran, and wanted to run, and saw that she was getting closer. She pushed herself. She threw her hand out, "Lily!"
Lily screamed, a terrible shuddering note that rippled across the dark space. The clouds disappeared, and Lily looked back at Poppy, her eyes blindingly bright, arm moving—
Poppy snatched for her outstretched hand. She felt the barest whisper of contact, and then her fingers closed around nothing.
Nothing could be a big word, sometimes.
The space went dead silent. Poppy could not even hear the sound of her own breathing, nor her heartbeat. Not a breeze or a rustle in the darkness, which stretched endlessly in mockery of the desperate way Poppy now searched through it.
Lily was gone. Lily had disappeared into the dark. Poppy cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted her name, only for the sound to be swallowed by the nothing before it could go anywhere. She searched for hours or minutes or days.
Exhausted, Poppy collapsed to her knees. She felt frozen. Her limbs were stiff, and she felt like there was something stuck in her throat, an inhale, perhaps. Poppy ducked her head.
Slippered feet appeared before her.
There Lily was, standing tall, in nothing more than her pajamas. Her copper hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Tears wet her cheeks, still round with the same baby fat Poppy hadn't shed.
"Go home," Lily told her. Her eyes were frigid. "I've never asked for it and meant it the way I do right now."
"I have nothing there," said Poppy.
Lily knocked two knuckles against Poppy's forehead. "Pops, go home."
Before Poppy could ask why, she was awake. Her blankets were suffocating on her, but Poppy was paralysed and shivering underneath them and couldn't do anything about it.
She forced her head to the side. The clock on the bedside table blared the number and date: 11:33 PM, OCT 31. Hallowe'en.
The chill abated slowly. Poppy laid, shivering and sweating in the dark, listening to the crooning sounds of Édith Piaf coming from the room beside her. Her sheets smelled like red wine: she must have spilled some before she went to sleep.
It must have given her bad dreams.
No more drinking before bed, Poppy told herself. She turned over and covered her head with a pillow. She would write Lily when she returned home.
Poppy Darlene Evans was thoroughly enjoying a croissant and a pot of Earl Grey.
Her sister would call it overindulgence and tut about her weight, but which one of them was in France again? A few extra stones was nothing compared to this sense of peace and satisfaction. Paris was beautiful, discounting the stench of dog shit, and Poppy would visit next year if she were able.
A man wearing a bowler hat and a long, tailored coat scampered through the crowded cafe. It was mostly full of tourists, so he stood out among the khaki shorts and fanny packs. There was a posh paper bag clutched in his hands. Poppy waved, catching his attention. His stressed face lightened. "I see you've taken it upon yourself to order."
"Yes, it's delightful. Would you like a taste?"
He sat across from her and leaned in. Poppy slid the plate until it knocked into his hands. "Oh, okay," He said gamely. He hummed, pleased, upon taking a bite of the beautiful pastry.
Her friend, Cypress Williams, the sponsor of this particular trip, had been her coworker for several years now. Almost three, she thought. They weren't very close, but he had the markings of a respectable man, so when he asked if she wanted to come with him to Paris for two weeks, Poppy leapt on the opportunity.
Once he ate his share—with gusto, leaving her to finish the tea—he placed the bag on the table. Cartier. They walked past the jewellery store on the way. By his interest, Poppy wasn't surprised he doubled back to purchase something.
Poppy dabbed at her mouth daintily. "And what is this?"
He pulled out a velvet purple box. "A gift," said Cypress, putting it between them. "Open it."
Inside was a collar necklace, outfitted with three rows of pearls and another row of small, polished rubies. Her favourite stone. It was bewitching, and Poppy carefully kept her fingers to herself. It obviously cost a fortune. "How much?"
"Price is of no concern," Cypress bragged. He wore tailored suits and oxfords to the grocery store when he could be convinced to buy his own food. Of course, money was just a number to him. "Do you like it?"
"It's beautiful," she conceded.
"Gorgeous," he corrected. He tugged at the cuffs of his suit. Cypress was so nervous he forgot to remove his hat before sitting. He did so then, face turning pink. "Do you consider it a suitable gift?"
"A marvelous one," Poppy took a long draw from her teacup. "Jessamine will adore it."
Cypress faltered, fingers twitching. He said, "Ah, yes. Jessamine."
"Is there an anniversary coming up?"
"Not as such," he hedged, "Jessamine—well, she has enough necklaces to last her in Britain—"
"What's one more from her lovely husband?" Poppy interrupted. She decisively closed the box, pushing it back to his side of the table. "Is that why you invited me along, Cypress? So I could assist you with picking a gift for her?"
Cypress was clearly wondering if she was being difficult on purpose or if the oblivious act was, perhaps, not one at all. She wondered which he preferred: the out, or the challenge. He was a respectable man, wealthy and well-mannered. But he was a very poor husband, and Poppy rather liked that in men.
"It seems that way, doesn't it?" And he tugged again on his cuffs. "But—no, no, I intended the necklace as a gift to you, Poppy. To express my gratitude to you for coming with me."
Challenge it was.
"What are friends for?" She said, and smiled.
"You are a spectacular companion. As my friend, I could not ask for better. You see…" He swallowed audibly, here, "Jessamine and I have been experiencing… difficulties lately. It's why she didn't want to come, but I couldn't waste the tickets and she rather likes you as well, Poppy. She would approve of you and me—being here, together. The necklace is an example of my gratitude. For… for accompanying me to the city of, of love."
"Such gratitude," Poppy hummed. She reached out and reclaimed the box. His shoulders relaxed as she stroked the line of rubies. "If this is how you spoil your friends, I imagine that Jessamine is a lucky woman, Cypress."
"I'm glad you think so."
Poppy placed it in her purse. She stood, and Cypress rose as well, hastily putting his hat back on and extending his arm. Poppy pretended she didn't see it as she walked away.
He quickly caught up, undeterred. "And where to now? Do you have any ideas?"
"Some. They can wait another day. For now, I'd like to return to my room. I need to change my shoes." Her heels were not efficient on the old cobblestones.
"Very well," Cypress said, offering his arm again. Poppy, amused, placed her hand on his elbow. The married ones were so persistent. "Are you interested in visiting the museum later? I've heard good things about it."
"We'll see."
The walk was filled with talk of his work. Coworkers, she called them, and it was true in the loosest of terms. Poppy was a receptionist at the company Cypress owned: not his, of course, but one of them. There was a receptionist on each level of the building. Poppy looked after Mr. Howard, the director of R&D.
Once they arrived at her room, across the hall from his, Poppy left him at the door. Her suitcase was laid out on her unmade bed, unzipped as she left it.
With a great sigh, Poppy kicked off her heels. They landed near the bathroom door next to some socks and the dress she discarded last night. She collapsed on a stark white ottoman, thumbs digging into her blistering feet.
Poppy glared down at the red skin. "Oh, tits."
Trainers it was.
Poppy peeled herself out of her red dress, switching it out for something warmer. Some jeans, the blue blouse he once complimented, and a thick coat an ex gifted her, made in Italy. November in France was chilly, though nothing like home.
She freshened up her makeup before snatching up her purse and going to the door. Poppy hesitated, then looked through the peephole. Cypress was shifting nervously outside, checking his watch periodically, lifting and dropping his hat. A maid walked by and he hid his face by checking his shiny shoes for scuff marks.
This was his first time. Poppy would have to switch jobs when she was done.
She went to join him in the hallway when her phone rang. Poppy leapt out of her skin. She answered the hotel landline with a huffed, "Hello?"
Instead of the polite, accented English she expected, it was a British voice that answered her. "Poppy."
"Sister!" Poppy said, voice light. "I'm surprised you called. You don't usually like to involve yourself in my antics. What's the dire news, then? I assume someone died since you're picking up the phone and ringing me."
She laughed, but the other line went chillingly silent. And then—ragged breathing. Like she was trying not to cry. Poppy knew the sound.
Suddenly, humour was the last thing on her mind. Poppy sat down. "What? What happened?"
"Lily—" She started, and stopped.
The air was sucked out of the room. No. It couldn't be.
"Tuney," Poppy said, voice low. Her sister hiccupped. In the background was the splitting cries of a baby, but that hitching, laboured breathing was louder. "Tell me."
Petunia inhaled, and unevenly said, "Lily's dead."
The world tilted. Poppy dug her free hand into the blankets, catching on the threads, and tried not to fall over. "That's not funny,"
"It's not a joke!" Petunia snapped, before gasping. They sat on the line quietly before she could continue, "You have to come home. Poppy, I need you to come back. To stay."
Petunia tried often to shackle Poppy in one spot. She had a brief thought that this was another twisted attempt at that, but upon further consideration, it didn't make any sense. Not when Poppy could send a letter and bring the farce down around her ears.
"How?" She asked. Her voice broke on the question.
"Some… some typical magical nonsense… murder, I think it said. The—the letter. I have a letter. Come back, and you can read it."
"A letter?"
"Explaining how… oh, my..." And she sobbed, dry, before taking a steadying breath. The babe cried louder. "Vernon, please—"
Poppy's sister was murdered. It was in a letter. She was going to be sick. "Her husband?"
"Dead," Petunia said. "Both of them."
Both of them. It danced around her brain, something odd about it, before Poppy finally grasped the issue. Both, meaning two. There were three members of the Potter family. Another cry, and the muffled sound of Vernon shouting: Petunia must have covered the receiver with her hand. Three members.
Petunia received a letter saying Lily was… murdered. What if that wasn't the only thing she received tonight?
"Harry? Where is Harry?"
"With me," was the displeased reply. "I can't take him. I don't—he has her eyes, Poppy. And the same… You need to come back. You need to stay."
"Doesn't he have a godfather?"
"Neither can take him in. Something about—how long will you be? Poppy, how long? He has to be with a blood relative of… hers. If it isn't me—"
Blood relative. Poppy was an orphan these days, her uncle died years ago due to pancreatic cancer, and she'd never met either grandparents. It was her, Lily, and Petunia since she graduated.
Her and Petunia, now.
"I'll take the first flight back," Poppy said. Petunia whimpered, relieved beyond words. "Tuney, look after him until I get there."
"Of course I will!"
"Tuney. I mean it. I know that you and…"
"How dare you? Just get here," Petunia snapped. She hung up. Poppy kept the phone to her ear, numb to the obnoxious dial tone. Dead? Her Lily?
Cypress knocked furiously, calling, "Are you alright in there, Poppy?"
Poppy stumbled to the door. His smile dropped when he saw her pale complexion. He steadied her with his hands on her arms. "Did something happen?"
Yes. Yes, something had.
"I need to go home," Poppy rasped right before she vomited on his two thousand pound shoes.