Something Blue

"She's getting married today—right now, in fact. Morning weddings! No consideration. How can I get that drunk before noon? She's marrying Snape. I hate her," complained James Ferdinand Potter, twenty-three, to his chief sympathizer. He held a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and a battered, feebly stirring old Snitch (for comfort) in the other.

Across from him in his spacious living room sat Mary McDonald, also twenty-three. She had her hands folded in her lap, and her expression was one of waning patience.

"I love her," moaned James. "I hate her. I love her!"

"You're confused," said Mary diplomatically. James stared at her, miserable. "I think we should break up," Mary continued. It cost her a pang, but she looked directly into James's innocent, light brown eyes.

"What?" he asked, his attention caught by something other than Lily for once. "What do you mean, break up? Why?"

"James," Mary said patiently, nerving herself to say it. "You have spent the last eight or nine months—ever since we got together—telling me how wonderful, how perfect, how amazing your wife—your ex-wife—is. It's obvious we have no future together."

"But you care about me," he pointed out softly, reaching for a lock of her thick blonde hair. She looked down at her hands. But her Gryffindor courage had stood her in good stead before, despite what some people (like Marlene McKinnon) had insinuated, and she raised her eyes back to his face.

"Yes. I care about you. But you don't care about me. All you care about—all you've ever cared about, even in school—is Lily Evans. Perfect Lily. Well, that's your problem. Good-bye, James." She got up jerkily (she could never be as graceful as her friend Nefertari, especially under stress) and walked toward the door.

"Wait, Mary, it doesn't have to be this way!" protested James. "I do care about you, it's just—well, we have fun, don't we?"

"I think you're neglecting the past tense, there, Potter," snarled Mary. "We're over. Get it? You jerk." And she hurried out, slamming the door behind her.

"Wait—" James started, then sighed in frustration. He slumped back into his chair, took a swig of firewhiskey, and ruefully addressed the struggling Snitch. "I really, really hate it when women walk out on me."

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I'm still not sure this was a good idea, thought Lucius Malfoy irritably, as he, his wife Narcissa, and his son, Draco, entered the main room of the Hog's Head. The tables and stools had been cleared away to make a nice, open space, and there was a small platform in front of the counter. A few chairs were arranged casually facing this, and flowers bloomed everywhere—roses, daisies, peonies, tulips, carnations, chrysanthemums, gardenias—everything, in fact, but lilies. They brought light into the dingy bar; transforming it from a disreputable inn that hadn't been cleaned in years, into somewhere a wedding could easily take place. The effect was startling, if somewhat inexpensively achieved; Lucius was surprised to find that he rather liked it.

They were not the first to arrive, of course: Lucius saw a shabby-looking young man hanging back in the corner, the old bartender, wearing a clean apron for once and standing beside silver-haired Albus Dumbledore, his wife's cousin Sirius Black, on the arm of a very oddly dressed young witch with wide, wondering eyes, tall and pompous Emmanuel Breckenridge, Wizarding minister, and a young family (husband, wife, and small boy) who looked wildly out of place.

You said, never waste an opportunity, his wife Narcissa reminded him tartly, clutching Draco's hand. He felt her nervousness in her thoughts. After all, who can say if this will increase your chances of being named to the Hogwarts Board of Governors? Not to mention the fact that it was Severus who asked, and you have always had difficulty resisting him.

I'm not the only one, Lucius thought back at her pointedly. She blushed—not enough for an outsider to notice, but Lucius saw it.

There was no time for more; they greeted their fellow guests with aplomb. "Professor Dumbledore, how lovely to see you again," Narcissa cooed.

Don't overdo it, advised Lucius. She made no sign that she had heard. Draco squirmed out of his mother's grip and sidled over to the other three-year-old in the room.

"Who are you?" he asked curiously.

"I'm Dudley." The boy, who was as blonde as Draco but considerably bigger (particularly horizontally), looked petulant. The truth was, he was bored. He'd met his cousin Harry already, about a week earlier (their mothers had taken them to an old playground, where they reminisced while the cousins got acquainted), and wouldn't have minded talking to him again (he wasn't as bad as Dudley's father had prophesied he would be) but he was nowhere in sight, and there didn't seem to be anything to do but smell flowers.

"What's that?" Draco demanded, pointing to the remote-controlled monster truck Dudley clutched in one pudgy hand.

"Duh," said Dudley. "It's a truck. You know, you make it go with this thing."

"What's a truck?" Draco asked suspiciously.

"'What's a truck?'" Dudley repeated, shocked. Just who was this kid? "Are you stupid?"

"You're an fat, pathetic, overgrown excuse for a Muggle!" began Draco loudly, offended. With the perspicacity of small children, he had known instantly that he possessed something this hulking stranger lacked. Magic left its mark—even if grown-ups couldn't see it.

Before the quarrel could escalate, a distraction occurred in the form of several new arrivals. Augusta Longbottom, tall and regal as ever, swept in, half-carrying her grandson Neville over the threshold. She seemed to breathe fresh air into the room, as though she were bringing the wind in with her.

"Ah, Aberforth, Albus," exclaimed Mrs. Longbottom loudly. Aberforth, owner of the Hog's Head, thought that she was surely the first person ever to call his name first—and for once, his brilliant brother was the afterthought. He smiled welcomingly.

"Nev, Nev!" cried a new voice, and Harry Potter ran down the stairs, an errant rose caught on the hem of his robe, its thorns embedded in the fabric.

The Boy Who Lived! We really are in for it now, thought Lucius, in a panic. If He ever finds out about this—

He won't. Maybe we should go… began Narcissa.

No, thought Lucius firmly. That would make things worse, at this stage. We'll just have to tough it out. He's only three, after all.

But Draco—Narcissa thought fearfully.

"Augusta!" welcomed Albus Dumbledore. Mrs. Longbottom gave him a supercilious glare. He sighed inwardly. Still not over the whole Sarah-Louise Perks fiasco. Ah, well—perhaps someday she would regret her selfishness in keeping the Boy Who Lived—and perhaps, then, it would be too late.

"We're just waiting for Lily and Snape now, I think," said Sirius Black jovially. He would have prefixed the names with his customary flair for the dramatic, but Josephine had insisted that polite people didn't call someone a greasy-haired Death Eater bastard at a wedding. Besides, Lily had already warned him. And he had already warned Snape that if he hurt Lily, he would live to regret it—Lily didn't have any brothers, so he felt the task fell to him.

Narcissa carefully avoided his eyes. Sirius wondered again just what the Malfoys were doing here. Surely Lily didn't know them—they wouldn't have given her the time of day in the ordinary course of things. It must be Snape. Friends with Lucius Malfoy—it figured.

Remus Lupin was not having a good time. It was impossible to entirely sink into the woodwork, even in a bar as dark as this one normally was. And whoever had heard of getting married in a bar? Trust Lily to carry it through, of course. Already he'd made forced small talk with Lily's awkward sister, who had a very nervous husband and a cocky child in tow. Then Breckenridge had been introduced to him, and Remus hated the calculating once-over the man had given him: shabby cloak, grey hair, grey, shabby wedding gift—he would never live up to the standards of a man like Breckenridge, even if he weren't a werewolf. Typically, James hadn't come—probably off getting drunk somewhere. Honestly, this was a bar and Remus was still stone cold sober. He wished they'd get this show on the road, so he wouldn't have to keep looking at all the happy couples. Snape and Lily, of course—they were upstairs, getting ready, but their happiness seemed to permeate the entire building, via those ridiculous floral arrangements—and Sirius and Josephine, who seemed surprisingly blasé about the whole situation; Lily's sister and her husband, and even the Malfoys. It was just so unfair.

Petunia shifted uncomfortably. She wondered if Lily had known it was going to be this awkward when she'd set this up—if she'd done it on purpose. All these people—magic, all of them, and so snooty, worse than old Mrs. Grapenny at the end of the road—the woman all Petunia's school friends had thought really was a witch. Even the minister had curled his lip and at her and Vernon, as though they were somehow inferior. She'd tried to explain, that day at the playground, just why it was so hard, even visiting Lily's world—always as a guest on sufferance, of course.

Lily had said thoughtfully, "You know, you're right. I hate that I belong to both worlds, but I don't fit in either. They—the purebloods, I mean—well, they're a bit set in their ways—even if they aren't evil. And there's definitely stuff James and Sirius don't get, because they're pureblood. Still, I suppose the converse is also true. I mean, there are things I'll never understand—and I hate cooking with magic. Some things simply shouldn't mix."

"You hate cooking," Petunia had pointed out, and the discussion had turned to less serious matters. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince Vernon to come to the wedding. And now, here they were, once again: on the outskirts, waiting for Lily.

The four youngest members of the party eyed one another speculatively. Draco beheld three strangers: the chubby Muggle boy who had already incurred his displeasure, a green-eyed boy who gave him back stare for stare, and a shy, quiet boy with a strange scar on his forehead. Suddenly, inspiration came to Draco Malfoy with blinding rapidity.

"You're the Boy Who Lived, aren't you?" he accused.

The shy boy looked embarrassed, staring down at his feet. It was left to his more confident, green-eyed friend to say cheerfully, "That's right. Nev is famous, you know. Who are you?"

"Draco. Draco Malfoy."

"Harry. Harry Potter."

The two boys studied one another, each wondering if they had just made the acquaintance of a lifelong friend—or enemy.

"If I might ask you all to sit down," said Breckenridge loudly. Relieved, the mismatched guests made their way to their seats. Sirius put his arm round Josephine, and Remus, on his other side, sighed in frustration. The Dursleys hurried to the back, scooping Dudley up on the way. The Malfoys sat primly as far from Augusta Longbottom as they could possibly get. Albus and Aberforth sat next to one another—not an entirely felicitous arrangement, perhaps, but they were grown men and expected to be past that sort of stuff. Harry sat in the front, beside Neville, with whom he compared notes in an urgent whisper.

Breckenridge, standing on the platform, waited in trepidation. He was not entirely comfortable with this ceremony—although he couldn't honestly say he thought the bride and groom unsuited. No, it was their eclectic collection of guests that worried him. Anyone could see that grey-haired bloke hadn't two Galleons to rub together, whereas the Malfoys, straight-backed and proud, made more annually than he himself had ever seen at one time. Not to mention the Muggles in the back.

He forgot his misgivings the next moment, however. The quality of the light changed, becoming more golden; the bride and groom appeared simultaneously from opposite sides of the room. It was lucky, Breckenridge reflected, that the bar had two separate staircases so conveniently placed.

The bride wore gold, and it brought out more golden highlights in her red hair and green eyes. She was a Vision—gauzy material floated around her, and the very simplicity of her ensemble (she wore no jewelry save a small golden locket embossed with the letter 'L', and her long hair flowed down around her shoulders as though gravity were merely in the nature of a guideline) served to enhance her charm. Her shoes were golden sandals reminiscent of a bygone age (they had actually belonged to her grandmother); attached to the inseam of her left sandal, barely visible, was a piece of blue, Muggle notebook paper. On it were the words, doodled by a bored, redheaded ten-year-old girl once upon a time, 'Lily + Sevvie 4-ever!'—Though, naturally, this was unknown to her audience. Her only other ornament was a black rose. She smiled, and the effect was complete.

The groom wore black (it was doubtful, those who knew him reflected wryly, that he ever wore anything else) but his accessories shone polished gold, and the look in his eyes as he gazed at the bride was brighter than any artificial light in the world. His hair was clean (not greasy, for once, thought certain members of the audience) and pulled back severely with a gold ribbon. His robes were elegant, showing off his tall and straight, powerful figure. But his eyes were what anyone would remember—in that moment, the depths they concealed were laid bare. It was a intense, searing look that seemed to go straight through to the heart of things. Several audience members shivered.

Throughout the ceremony, individual fears and petty complaints were forgotten. Severus and Lily swept all before them, and made it look easy.

However, the reception was not so effortlessly harmonious.

"Augusta, we really must talk," began Albus Dumbledore, sweeping his long silver beard out of the way as he bent to consume a tempting sandwich. "Have you tried these? They're delicious—so, about Neville: he seems to be doing very well—"

"He is," said Augusta Longbottom frostily. "And I'll thank you to keep out of his affairs. Neville is my grandson, and nothing you can say will reconcile me to the idea of traveling everywhere with Aurors, or worse, Dementors, as the Ministry seems so determined to foist on me. What could be worse for a growing boy than Dementors, I should like to know?"

"As to that, I am entirely in accord with you," murmured Albus.

"Why did you come?" Sirius asked his cousin Narcissa. Josephine was enjoying a comfortable chat with Lily, while Remus made painstaking conversation with the Dursleys. Lucius had pulled Snape aside for 'congratulations'—evil scheming and recriminations, more like, Sirius thought bitterly. Snape seemed to have gotten over the whole 'Mudblood' thing (and so had Lily) but that Lucius Malfoy was similarly forgetful of what he felt he owed to his pure blood was singularly unlikely.

"What do you mean?" she inquired coldly. She seemed loath to talk to him—which wasn't really a surprise, given that he'd been disowned from the family for being a blood traitor, and all.

"This isn't just a social event for you—what are you and Lucius planning on getting out of it?"

"What gives you this…erroneous impression?" she asked, raising her eyebrows superciliously.

Sirius laughed. "Oh, right, like you really don't mind attending a wedding where pureblood ideals have gone out the window, down the street for two blocks, and into the lake. Haven't heard from Andromeda lately, have you?"

She flinched, as though his words physically hurt her. "That is irrelevant. If you will excuse me—" she left him on the words, pinning an artificial smile to her beautiful lips. Sirius frowned. What was she thinking? If only his Slytherin relatives were a bit more transparent. Were they all accomplished Occlumenses?

Elsewhere, the four three-year-olds sat down at a small table specially set aside for them. Each boy lowered himself into his chair slowly, deliberately—his eyes never wavering from the faces of his companions.

At first, there was silence, as they consumed what was set in front of them with the single-mindedness of those who haven't eaten for several hours and mean to make the most of what they can get.

Gradually, however, the tension level rose. Harry glanced from Draco to Dudley and back, then bent to whisper conspiratorially to Neville. Dudley got up, intent upon quarreling with his cousin then and there; accidentally, his foot jabbed into Draco's, who rose indignantly; Harry got up, too, preparing to defend himself in case Dudley and Draco should decide to form an alliance; Neville, nervous, rose also, and his foot caught on a corner of the tablecloth; Dudley reached greedily for the last cupcake, and Draco's hand shot out, colliding with Dudley's forearm; Dudley howled in pain while Harry, seeing the danger, made a desperate grab for the pumpkin juice; Draco jostled his elbow as he and Neville got into a tussle over the abandoned cupcake, and the entire jug of pumpkin juice flew out of Harry's hand. It shattered upon impact with the table, drenching all four boys in juice and shards of glass.

"Mummy!" wailed Dudley at once.

"Mother!" complained Draco imperiously.

"Mom!" cried Harry, somewhat ruefully surveying the wreckage.

"Gran!" called Neville uncertainly.

As one, Petunia Dursley, Narcissa Malfoy, Lily Snape, and Augusta Longbottom rushed forward. Everyone began talking at once:

"My son, are you all right?"

"Talk to Mummy, Diddykins. Where does it hurt?"

"Harry, sweetheart. Here, everything's fine. Scourgify!"

"Neville, what happened?"

Harry, somewhat bemused by the crash, was still able to give his mother a tolerable account of what had occurred. Neville told his Gran he didn't like Draco or Dudley much, but it wasn't anyone's fault.

Meanwhile, Petunia Dursley and Narcissa Malfoy had listened to tearful, garbled stories of an 'accident' involving the Boy Who Lived and Harry Potter. They were both furious. Nerves already stretched to the breaking point from the strain of attempting to fit in where they didn't belong, they lost control.

"This is all your fault! That bratty son of yours deliberately punched my poor Diddykins!" screamed Petunia, pointing a shaking finger at Narcissa.

"'Diddykins'?" Narcissa repeated scathingly. "May I remind you that it was your son who kicked mine first, thereby causing this entire upset? I have allowed my son to fraternize with your kind, much against my better judgment, and this is the result! He could have been seriously injured, thanks to your incompetence! How dare you speak disrespectfully to me? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"No, I don't, and I don't care! 'My kind,' is it? Well, it wasn't my kind who ruined that table! Probably more of your 'special powers,' is that it? Your son cursed Dudley, or the pitcher, getting glass shards everywhere—look, he's hurt! I'll thank you to keep your son away from mine! You freaks are all the same, thinking you can get away with anything just by waving a piece of wood around—you think you're so much better than us—you have no idea how decent people behave!"

Petunia glared at Narcissa. Narcissa's eyes, at the word, 'freak,' had narrowed. Now she drew her wand menacingly. It was at that moment that Lily Sunshine Evans Potter Snape sent her own son hurrying to the other side of the room (out of the line of fire) and threw herself, in fine dramatic style, between her sister and Narcissa.

Petunia fumed, but this momentary distraction was enough to recall Narcissa to her surroundings. Reluctantly, she put her wand away. However, if looks could kill…

Lily swallowed hard, and her eyes found Severus. He was bending over Harry, assuring himself that the boy was unhurt, and Lily had a smile for that; she was so glad Sev had been able to look past Harry's remarkable resemblance to James, and to love him for his own sake. Still, at the moment, she needed more immediate assistance. His eyes met hers in that curious way they always seemed to—it was as though neither could look away from the other too long—and she mouthed, "A little help, here!"

Severus hurried over at once, placing a hand on Narcissa's arm and drawing her a few steps to the side. "Narcissa, I assure you, the accident was minor…" he began soothingly.

Relieved, Lily turned to her sister.

"Did you see what that woman did?" exclaimed Petunia at once, eyes blazing. "First, that brat of hers hurt my son—he has a cut, did you see?—and then she had the nerve to accuse my son of causing the 'accident,' and then she nearly did something to me! I've seen you people, with those sticks, or wands, or whatever—what was she going to do?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Lily lied, "but I'm sure it wouldn't have been anything too dreadful…and anyway, Tuney, the accident was just that: an accident. A purely non-magical accident. It's fine, really—it's all right, Tuney. Dudley's fine. I can heal his cut right now, if you want—"

"No thanks," interjected Petunia quickly, alarmed.

"Okay, your choice, but I'm telling you, Dudley's fine. And I really appreciate you coming here today, and not being too freaked out about the whole magic thing. Thanks, big sis." Lily leaned over and gave Petunia a quick hug.

Petunia, surprised, returned it after a moment, rather awkwardly. "It's all right, I guess," she conceded. "But I think we'll go now, if you don't mind. This is really hard for Vernon, you know."

"I understand." Lily pulled away, scrutinizing her sister. "It means a lot that you came."

Petunia gave her a little nod. Then she picked Dudley up (quite the feat, although he was only three) and turned to collect Vernon (who stood in one corner trying his best to look like a piece of furniture). Then she turned back for a moment, and said, before she could change her mind, "Stay in touch."

Lily nodded. The Dursleys left as unobtrusively as they could, but nonetheless, several pairs of eyes watched them go: Lily's bright green ones, thoughtfully; Harry's identical green ones, in satisfaction; Draco's hard blue-gray ones, with similar satisfaction; and Albus Dumbledore's electrifying blue ones, also thoughtfully. Albus Dumbledore was wondering if the Dursleys would ever be useful to him and his campaign for truth, justice, and the Wizarding way. After all, they were rather unusual Muggles—knowing about the magical world, yet content to leave it alone as much as possible. And their connection to Miss Evans—Mrs. Potter—Mrs. Snape—was undeniably intriguing.

Meanwhile, Severus Snape had been carefully explaining to Narcissa Malfoy just why she should refrain from chasing after Petunia Dursley and hexing her into next week. At first, his efforts met with little success: "That Muggle bitch! Going on and on about my Draco as though it were his fault her brat made such a mess—and the nerve, not giving me the proper respect—honestly, Severus, Lily is one thing (especially now that I've met her properly and since she does seem to be Someone though I'm sure I don't how that makes any sense) but that sister of hers is a Muggle! That is expecting too much! I mean, really, were you thinking Lucius and I would come here and suddenly decide to give up everything we've ever been taught or worked for just like that?"

"Well," Severus said lightly, "Not just like that…"

Narcissa gave him a direct look. "Do you know, I believe you mean that. Well, be warned: I'm no Lily Evans."

Severus glanced over at Lily as if by reflex, and Narcissa was shocked at how much love she saw in his eyes. Usually, he was a much more accomplished Occlumens than that. If the Dark Lord ever saw that look—"All right," she said abruptly. "I won't curse the woman. Make this worth my while, Severus. And remember, you may be Harry Potter's stepfather, but you're still Draco's godfather. Don't abandon us."

He looked back at her, his eyes unreadable again. "I don't mean to."

Later, when the three of them (Lily, Sev, and Harry) were alone, headed for a blissful week or two in the south of France (they were traveling in a flying carriage, which had already lulled Harry to sleep), Severus asked, "Is this what you wanted?"

Lily leaned her head against his shoulder. "Well, it doesn't suck…" she murmured, her breath hot against his cheek.

"I fear it's no bed of roses," pursued Severus wryly. "What happened at the reception…"

"Sure it's a bed of roses. Roses have thorns," Lily said firmly, putting him in his place. "And, anyway," she continued softly, "you're worth it." She kissed him gently on the mouth.

At length, Severus raised his head to look into her bright green eyes. "I love you," he said happily. It occurred to him that happiness had seemed such a rarity in his life—until Lily had come back into it.

Lily gave him a self-satisfied smirk from where she still nestled against his shoulder (like she really belonged there, Severus thought wonderingly). "I know," she said complacently.

And, as it flew over hills and forests and streams, the flying carriage echoed with Professor and Mrs. Snape's joyful laughter.

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And that, said the author, taking a deep breath, was the end of Part 1 of Harry Potter and the Evans-Snapes. The story continues, but with a significant shift to Harry's point of view, in about eight years time…