A/N: This is the first part of a festive fanfiction challenge I set myself: '5 Gold Rings' – 5 Christmas proposals in different fandoms.
I was told by my unofficial beta reader (and infinitely more talented fanfiction author in her own right), Elizabeth's Echo, that this fic could do with some more context, so before we start:
It is December 1979. The Evans parents are dead (killed by Death Eaters). Lily has just been to visit Petunia (who is married to Vernon and has just moved into Privet Drive) for Boxing Day. It ended disastrously. It is still the height of the First Wizarding War. Lily is still in The Order. However, she never got together with James (I will write the story of how she ended up with Severus at a later date if this is well-received) and has been with Severus since the summer after 5thyear. They moved into a tiny flat together their first summer out of Hogwarts (which is where they have just spent Christmas alone together) … J
No trigger warnings – for once. Yay!
5 Gold Rings
Part 1 – Said it for me
'A thousand times the words just died right on my lips…'
She storms down the street in a blind fury and he follows as close behind as he dares – not wanting to aggravate her further but unwilling to simply allow her to go off on her own when she's in such a state. She must know he's there but she ignores him, not reducing her pace in the slightest, but not increasing it either – and he takes that as permission to continue his pursuit. As soon as they are an adequate distance from the disconcertingly identical muggle streets – all ugly, modern houses, totally devoid of personality, that seem designed to facilitate obnoxiously nosy interference in other people's business and allow their inhabitants no privacy at all (they are exactly the sort of place he'd have expected Petunia Evans to end up and he is startled to find himself thinking wistfully about the grimy terraces of Spinner's End…at least they're memorable and distinctive) – she promptly turns on the spot and disapparates in a swirl of fiery curls. He was afforded no opportunity to grab hold of her sleeve and he's fairly sure he wouldn't have had the guts to do so without invitation anyway, but he has a feeling he knows where she will have gone; a sort of instinct draws him there.
Therefore he is relieved but not surprised to find her sitting on the swing she always favoured, swinging so violently and recklessly that he would be afraid of her falling if it weren't for the fact that he had seen her 10 year-old self launch herself into the air only to float effortlessly to the ground like a flower caught by a gentle breeze. He sits on the other swing – his swing (though he has to admit that it was 'Tuney's' first – a fact the girl in question never failed to make abundantly clear, as though this somehow gave her sole entitlement to possess it) – and looks quietly out at the achingly familiar, remarkably unchanged landscape. Certainly it is as bleak as it ever was: the buildings are still made from grey stone, besmirched with city smuts, the massive chimney of the mill still dominates the skyline – but it is disused now, no longer belching foul smoke to stain the steely Northern sky with industrial pollution and thicken the dense smog that always hangs in the urban air. In the distance he can tell that it is raining – the background of this picture looks as though a careless artist has slopped murky paint water across the scenery, smudging it so that the colours all run together in dulls shades of grey. It is grim enough, to be sure - the concrete under his feet is more cracked than ever; oil from the neglected chains of his swing stains his pale hands and Lily's creaks ominously as she asks too much of rusty poles that should have long since been replaced; of all the equipment he recalls the half-hearted playground possessing, only these two swings remain useable (some of it has been removed entirely – presumably deemed unsafe by the authorities –other fixtures are vandalised beyond repair) – but their tree is still there, and they are both still there (well, back after a prolonged absence, but that's beside the point) and this is home. The first place he can remember being conscious of being happy. His safe haven with Lily.
He patiently waits for said girl to stop venting her rage and rejection on the wind and come back to earth. It takes a long time – he knows from experience that she doesn't like to relinquish the release of being so high and free, liberated and wild and uninhibited (he'd often wondered why she didn't fly – with a broom – but she claimed it wasn't the same, you knew a broom was there, with a swing you could forget there was anything at all supporting you…) – but eventually she comes back to him. Dragging her heels on the ground – scuffing her shoes, just like a child – until the swing comes to a juddering, inelegant halt. She loops an arm around the chain and turns to face him.
Her eyes are bright – blazing - with anger and something else too, something he can't place. Her usually milky white face is flushed with exertion and cold and her radiant hair frames it with windswept tangles. Severus knows it's inappropriate when she's so worked up and distressed, but he can't help but notice how beautiful she looks – fierce and strong and glowing. She must be freezing, he worries. Neither of them thought to bring a coat – never mind scarves or gloves. He would offer her his jumper but in this tempestuous mood she'd only shrug it off. He's beginning to lose the feeling in his hands – they will freeze to this metal chain if he's not careful and then he will be stuck here forever…not that that sounds too bad actually: 'stuck' alone with Lily in the place where they met, always…
"Tuney hates me." She says it bluntly – not seeking reassurance or assertions to the contrary but baldly stating a fact. There are none of the tears that were in her voice and on her cheeks when she told him the same thing at the age of eleven. If anything she looks resigned – accepting. He hastens to contradict her comfortingly – and truthfully – nonetheless.
"She's just jealous. Because she's ordinary and you're special." He's repeating things he's said before as well, but where he was reprimanded by the younger Lily, the woman sitting before him, trailing her feet on the icy concrete, nods.
"But where that was all very well when we were children, now it's bitter and vicious and frankly pathetic." She pauses. Severus remains silent - he has no desire to dispute her words. "She hates me for something I can't control, because I have something she doesn't – something she can't get, and she always has; hated me, I mean. I think…" She trails off for a second but he doesn't interrupt, merely waits, letting her talk it out. "I think I hate her. I think I hate Tuney." she bursts out.
After the scene he has just witnessed – the way Petunia treated her – he wouldn't blame Lily if she did hate her sister – he knows he certainly hates her for hurting Lily, making her feel this way. But that's the thing; it's for him to hate people, not Lily. There isn't a spiteful bone in her body and he doubts she is capable of malice, much less hatred. No, he doesn't believe that she hates Tuney; it's just that the hatred would hurt less if it was requited.
There are angry tears in her eyes now, but she dashes them away impatiently with the back of her hand – he tactfully pretends not to see, aware of how she detests crying when she's angry or frustrated – and takes a deep steadying breath. Then she resumes speaking – but now her voice is different and that unidentifiable thing he glimpsed in her eyes earlier has come to the fore, eclipsing her anger and hurt.
"I don't want to be an Evans anymore. I don't want to have the same name as her – especially not now m-mum and dad are… gone." She stumbles over the last bit and he is in an agony of empathy – it will be her first Christmas without them – the firsts are always the hardest, he remembers when his mother died and…No. He can't dwell on that, not now. This isn't about him – it's about Lily, Lily who needs him, who's telling him something important. She has collected herself but is looking at him expectantly – seemingly anticipating a response. He assumes his continued silence indicates his confusion – he's not sure what she means.
Seeming to gauge his lack of comprehension of her intentions she hurries on, her voice dropping uncharactersistically shyly to a whisper so that he has to strain to catch her words.
"I want a different name and I was wondering if…well, if I could share yours?"
'You are my always.'
A/N: Credit to Cassandra Clare for the style of proposal and credit to anyone who recognised it as a Herondale inspired one. ;p If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go and read 'The Shadowhunter Chronicles' – now!