Jagged Red Pill
-By Yo-yo
Description: As the Order of the Phoenix's newest undercover agent, Lily Evans has a lot to prove. Among them, she must prove she is trustworthy, that Muggle-borns are equal to Pure-bloods, and that James Potter is an infuriating toe-rag. Drama/Romance/Humor
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not own HP, or any of JKR's characters. I only own the insanity that perpetuates my story. (This counts for the entire story)
A/N: AU. This story operates under the assumption that Lily and the Marauders went to Hogwarts three years apart. When the Marauders were in their seventh year, she was in her fourth, which is why they don't know one another. I should also qualify that a few wizards that were not included in the original Order are included in this story. The setting is present day London. Otherwise, the story's pretty clear, and if it isn't, that's what review space is for! R&R please!
Prologue- Animal Backwards:
Patent leather six-inch heels clicked against the asphalt with purpose. The strong lengths of her legs were painted in a synthetic fabric called liquid leggings, making the light from the streetlamps slither in long, shapely beams off of the "leather." A black leather bandeau maintained modesty, binding her chest like a censor bar, and a loose-knit fishnet leotard kept the rest of her warm. Her hair was a shocking electric pink, tied in a severe bun with mismatched chopsticks, contrasting sharply with her colorless eyes, ghostly pale skin and her features highlighted in black make-up.
She brought her slight fingers to her lips where she held a dark red berry, easily distinguishable between her white fingers and black lacquered fingernails. Popping the berry in her mouth, she used her teeth to scrape the tangy pulp from the bitter seed and discarded the seed in her décolletage. She swirled the pulp along her tongue as she marched toward her destination, legs crossing over one another confidently as though she were on her own personal runway, and swallowed the sweetish flesh after a minute.
Turning sharply down a run-down, cobblestoned alleyway, she stalked between the neglected backs of buildings before she came across a large, unmarked, black painted metal door. The door had been painted over many times, the paint bubbling and scratched down to the metal in certain places. She didn't have much time to inspect the damage, for instantly, as though anticipating her arrival, a pair of dark eyes slid into view from behind a small sliding door.
"Whadaya want?" a deep voice asked, after a moment of inspection.
"To reach nirvana," she smiled, taking her supple black lip between her glistening teeth and winking mischievously.
The small opening drew closed and for a beat, nothing happened.
She didn't shift or jump when finally the door swung open to reveal a rusting, metal staircase between dank, slimy cinderblock walls.
Descending without hesitation, she felt many things at the same time. The first was the swift change in temperature, the air from outside unable to penetrate the building's threshold, therefore offering no displacement for quickly declining temperature. Another was the disturbing, creeping feeling of eternity grappling at her legs first, and making its way up her legs and hands and body as she plunged into a darkness below that was so dense it appeared solid. The last was the bass-heavy, broody music that like the temperature and feeling began to climb up her body until her heartbeat synced up with the beat.
A second door opened as she reached the last step. Like the first door she did nothing to announce her presence, and entered the lit room knowing exactly what she would find there.
"Hello love," she was instantly accosted by an emaciated young man with empty eyes, "What's a young… zoetic girl like you doing in a place like this?" He moved his finger to the pulsing along her neck, his touch like ice as he drew a line to her collarbone, down her arm, and extended his tongue lewdly as he wrapped his arm around her hips possessively.
"I'm Eurydice in the Underworld, searching for my Orpheus, of course," she answered wryly, pushing him aside and heading toward her initial destination.
"O negative, body temperature."
"It'll be extra," a young woman stood before her, frowning indignantly as she watched her.
"Don't worry, it's my birthday."
"Well then, wouldn't you want something a little more sublime?" a smirk of pretention overtaking her pinched features.
She took a moment to take in the rude young woman before her. Standing at average height, she wore heavy black, steel toed boots, those large, loose cargo-type pants with the million and one chains and straps crisscrossing from the belt loops, and a simple tank top, everything was black. Her skin was as pale as her own, a myriad of piercings perforated her face, and her silky hair was twisted and knotted in long, heavy dreadlocks, pulled high on her head with a few hanging down, skimming her waist.
"Alright," she groaned. She turned away and flicked her wrist flippantly as she continued, "Give me something with smoky notes, then."
She leaned back against the expansive bar of the nightclub. She was standing in a large, underground concrete tomb. Opposite her and the bar, a DJ governed the music, and between them a mixture of dance and seating area were fashioned. Opposite the door she entered through was the water closet, probably fashioned in the same style as the club: expansive, sparse, perpendicular, windowless and grey.
"Wotcher doin' here anyway?" the barmaid caught her attention again. "What are you, sixteen, in a place like this?"
"For your information," she looked over her shoulder, keeping her form on display, "It's my eighteenth birthday."
"Still doesn't explain what you're doing here," the barmaid lifted a pierced brow.
A deep sigh escaped her lips as she turned reluctantly, and took in the barmaid's appearance once again, "I'm looking for the fountain of youth. I hear your lots got it and willing to share."
"Oh, we've got it alright," the barmaid regarded her in apparent disgust, "but we don't just share it with anyone. Especially not your type, Flower."
"What's my type?" She pulled her spine into its most rigid stance. "And what's wrong with my type?"
A smooth, soft chuckle shook the barmaid's diaphragm as she regarded the young woman with shockingly pink hair before her and she shook her head. "Your middle class, suburban discontent story with not coax 'my lot' into inviting you to share the world of immortality. Go back to your Mum and Dad. I'm sure all your contrived pain will be remedied by a Xanax or twenty."
"Show's you what you know about 'my type.' Even if you're daft enough to believe you know me, you're underestimation of 'my type' will prove your detriment when you learn that I always get what I want." She looked the barmaid in the eye with a hardened expression overtaking her face.
"Here's your O negative, body temperature as you asked. She kicked at fifty-six; she had emphysema."
Not taking her eyes from the barmaid, she brought the warm drink to her lips and took a sip. Never breaking the hard expression she'd assumed, she opened her mouth to reveal her blood red tongue, and lapped the remaining liquid from her upper lip, leaving dark red streaks on her pale skin.
"This tastes like rubbish," she smirked, darkly. "It's like you added Liquid Smoke or something. I thought I asked for a note, not the whole bloody aria," she pulled a fifty pound note from the waistband of her leggings and turned her back to the bar, once again regarding the open floor plan with observant eyes, this time with her drink secured in her hand.
"You'll get more than you asked for," the barmaid chuckled aloud behind the naïve girl.
The dance floor was full of young, writhing bodies, dressed like her. In the current lighting, she couldn't distinguish the Muggles from the vampires, but that was the point of a place like this. In present day London, in the wake of drivel such as Twilight, such places were popular amongst the subculture. For the Muggles that frequented places like this, the dark seduction of beauty and immortality beguiled them into believing that consorting with vampires would help them achieve the difference that evaded them, and made them crave a life beyond the mundane. The resolute come to find vampires willing to perform the deed and act as their Callers. The indecisive come to experience the rush of being bitten without lasting side effects.
Lily's eyes took in the patrons, their sullen make-up and striking costumes working as a mask for both sides. For the vampires, maintaining these semblances of humanity put their food at ease, even quelling the natural instinct to repel the undead. For Muggles, embracing the magical beings gave them a sense of belonging wrapped in the guise of natural curiosity, for no matter what, they truly did not belong here, putting on the façade of ease when the human disposition naturally, and quite intelligently, fought against this unnatural proclivity.
Not that Lily felt that vampires were unnatural.
Vampires are as integral to the world as dementors, ghosts, and the contrary of some wizards, Muggles. It was only that vampires' inherent existence worked against the nature of living things, which made them dangerous, but not worthless.
Her eyes scoured the room, noting the traffic at the loo. People milled around the area, most of them seemed to be grouped as couples. Some couples came and left together, others left separately, and others left with people they hadn't entered with. No one seemed to be bothered by this behavior and she knew to behave likewise.
Taking another swallow of the abysmal drink, she carefully controlled her expression as her pale eyes caught the dark, glistening eyes of a young man.
He was watching her, for when she acknowledged his attention with a small nod; he lifted himself from his seat amongst you, disinterested looking women and began to move toward her.
She pulled her drink to her lips again, to conceal a smile.
Ok. She understood the draw of a place like this now.
As he stalked toward her, his dark eyes glistening almost predatorily as they locked eyes; she felt herself shiver. He wore a dark, silk shirt, unbuttoned so it billowed in the cool air as he moved, displaying his pale, sinuously muscled chest for her appreciation and a pair of wool trousers, fitted nicely. The way he moved toward her, as if completely drawn by the electric current of their attraction was positively flattering. It also helped that he was tall, intense looking and had the sullen, androgynous appeal that would make him a successful male model.
He was the embodiment of sex.
This was her man.
"You're new to these parts."
"That I am," she swiped the blood from her upper lip with her finger and licked it off her finger, "I'm just old enough to get in."
"And what would make you want to 'get in' a place like this?" he moved closer to her, taking her vulgar gesture as an invitation.
Her eyes never strayed from his as she answered, "A life of ennui has set me on a path toward élan."
"And all you need is someone to free you?" He whispered, pressing his nose into the flesh of her neck, landing finally on the pulsing vein along her neck.
"Uh huh," she moaned softly, keeping her body rigid as the coolness of his skin made hers pebble in gooseflesh.
"My name is Benjamin Sinclair. I was born in 1796. And what's your name, Flower?"
"I am called Penny Lane, my parents are… sorry, were avid Beatles fans," Lily flashed him an impish smile, bringing the glass to her lips again.
Benjamin offered her a breathtaking smile, both primal and comforting at the same time, while moving his hands down the contours of her arms, only to take her hand. He tugged on her arm, lightly, moving his head to indicate they were headed for the water closet.
Before Benjamin could lead her away, she took a moment to turn and wink at the barmaid, triumphantly. She didn't see Benjamin wink at the barmaid behind her back. Therefore, when the barmaid only grinned back, she didn't catch the sinister twinkle in her eyes.
Letting Benjamin lead her away, Lily asked,
"Benny, how did you notice me with all of those gorgeous women around you?"
"Your hair," he drawled, fingering a flyaway. "Pink reminds me of the living. And I must admit, I have a soft spot for both the color and the living. And Flower, you reek of life."
"I know," she nodded, offering him doe eyes and a pout. "It burdens me. I hope, Benny, that you can help rid me of it."
He moved behind her in one step, moving his hand to the small of her back as he led her through the doors to the water closet, a broad smile consuming his angular visage as he trailed behind her.
Beyond the metal door, painted black many times just like the others, lay no lavatory. Instead of stalls, large, private rooms were erected in the same style of the club. It was like a labyrinth of concrete cupboards, the doors were the same painted metal as all the others, with small vents to circulate the air, for the living, she supposed.
Benjamin pressed his hand into the small of her back as they made their way through the narrow corridors searching for an empty room. When Benjamin leaned over her shoulder and extended a hand to test a locked door, triumph transformed his features and he swung the door open for her.
The walls of the unoccupied room were splattered in red and the metallic smell of blood was heavy in the stagnant air. The room was sparse and cold. There were no creature comforts, only a solid, concrete bench just long enough for her to lie down on, sans heels.
She proceeded into the room, craning her neck to inspect her surroundings while Benjamin closed the door after them, clicking the lock shut while allowing his teeth to slowly elongate before he turned to her. Before he could pounce, his jaw locked and his limbs went rigid; he was paralyzed. She held a small wooden wand in one hand and the glass of blood she'd been holding the whole night in another.
And he crashed to the floor.
"Now, you weren't going to attack me, were you, Benny?" She gave him doe eyes again and stuck out her bottom lip.
He couldn't shake his head in the total body bind she'd bound him to, but his eyes shifted frantically, from side to side as though to say no.
"Don't worry, this won't take long," she pulled him easily onto the built-in-seat.
"So, you're relatively young, undeniably attractive, and quite congenial, I hear. You are quite popular in many circles. I've even heard ridiculous things like you call yourself Oscar Wilde's muse for Dorian…" she eyed him a moment. "Although you are quite the dandy, I would advise you to be a little more discreet. For your name precedes you. The pink hair thing is widely known in the Muggle world and beyond, making it quite easy to find yourself in such situations.
"So now, I must tell you my problems, considering it is I that sought you out, and not the other way around as you so believed. I have learned, that you have been talking to someone you shouldn't… and you know that. But you have kept it on, despite the fact that even your Caller has advised you to stay away.
"Thus, you find yourself in a compromising situation. You see, this is a wand. The other chopstick in my hair is a stake. Your options are: answer me and you live, stay quiet, which I hear is a bit difficult for you, Benny, and die.
"Remember a few things before you begin: sound does not pass easily through these walls and you cannot transform when paralyzed by a wand. Although, what good would that do you in such circumstances, with only that tiny vent to escape? I know that the camera is a dummy, in order to allay the fears of Muggles. I know what goes on here."
She moved in closer to him, her breath warming his ear,
"And it's holy water filling my chicken cutlets, in case I need to do any rogering… Oops, I meant torturing."
Sitting up straight, she continued,
"So, what has you on the impetus of murdering a young, impressionable Muggle and putting yourself in Azkaban for the remainder of your long, everlasting life?"
She pointed her wand at his lips, poised to give him voice, when she pulled back to add,
"Sorry, we both know you'd never last in Azkaban. Not when the dementors realized that a kiss from you would be extra sweet. As a corrupted soul possessing the body of a dead person is sort of a delicacy for their kind.
"So what's your explanation, you naughty, naughty boy?"
She pointed her wand at his lips.
"My Caller let it slip he heard murmurs of the Dark Lord and Inferius. I hoped my contribution would put me in His favor."
"Is that all?" she frowned, perplexed. "You just wanted approval from Him?"
"To me it is everything."
"Why?" she regarded his beautiful face and contemplated his reputation.
"This life… this life is fairly mundane."
Lily laughed, "Would you like me to end it for you? To be so young, beautiful and discontent is treacherous, indeed."
"To be honest, I thought you might. Despite the choices you offered me, your kind… they regard us…"
"Then be ashamed that I am not like 'my' kind," she pressed a swift kiss to his lips, satisfying the impulse before throwing him back quickly.
Pulling the chopstick/wooden stake from her hair, she dipped the end in her glass of blood and placed two dots on her neck. Smearing a little more on her skin she turned to Benjamin. She threw the remainder of the blood in his face, catching the area around his mouth so that it ran down his chin and neck in the depraved way everyone imagines vampires feast. Then she pushed the chopstick back in her hair, and mussed her hair and make-up until she was the perfect picture of disheveled. Finally content with her work, she placed her wand to his temple and muttered, "Obliviate," reversed the body-bind curse and stood up.
Before Benjamin roused, Lily stashed her wand in her hair and began to scream stridently.
Fumbling for a moment with the door, she managed to wrench it open, and took off past the other stone chambers as fast as her unsteady footwear would take her. Screaming and crying she made her way from the "water closet." Streaking past the bar to the door, she didn't look to catch the barmaid's twisted smirk.
This type of things happened every night.
Up the stairs and out of the lair, Lily continued screaming and crying until she rounded an abandoned alleyway, the assigned Disapparation point, and disappeared with a loud Pop.
TBC…
P. A/N: Chapter title was taken from a song by Minus the Bear (whose music is their own, of course).