Author's Note: Firstly, I just want to apologise about the lack of update on Filthy Animals. It was meant to be up today, but I was really low on editing time during the week and there was a scene that I still wasn't happy with right up until this afternoon - unfortunately I am also quite unwell at the moment, so didn't have much energy to work on it. As a result, it has only just gone to beta, and so to make up for it I decided to post part 1 of this fic a little earlier than I expected.
This is a four-part fic, and the second part will be uploaded once I have finished posting Filthy Animals completely.
This story is set in the wizarding world, with elements of Muggle culture thrown in due to Lily's background. Aside from the fact that this story has a modern setting, there are a couple of other deviations from canon, the biggest being that Lily has no prior relationship with, or knowledge of, Severus Snape. There wasn't a way to make that fit organically into the story, but overall I don't think it matters much.
In any case, please enjoy! I've had a blast writing it!
part 1 - no more stillness, more sunlight
Mrs. Cole comes to Lily that morning and tells her, quite unexpectedly, that she's been fostered again, and will be leaving in the afternoon.
For Lily, it comes as a bit of a shock, especially since she had no indication that anyone was interested – in the younger kids, yes, but not in a sixteen-year-old encumbrance who makes people uneasy. She tries to question Mrs. Cole, but gets a vague, nonsensical response, and a few hours later finds herself standing in the main office, meeting her latest new family.
While the mostly-silent Mr. Potter has twinkling eyes and a plum suit, Mrs. Potter is unlike any foster mother Lily has ever met – and she's met a good handful of them – but seems happy to encourage the distinction. She has sleek, elegantly-set black hair, wears a string of pearls and says, 'call me Euphemia' to everyone she meets, and Lily can't place her age at all. When she's ushered out of the building and into their car – with minimal fuss, which is strange, because she's used to this process and it should be different – Euphemia joins her in the back seat, instead of sitting in the front with her husband.
The car is a Rolls Royce, and it's new. Mr. Potter dons a pair of leather gloves at the driver's seat. "Like a real chauffeur," says Euphemia, smiling girlishly at Lily, as if they're taking a trip to the spa. "I do enjoy a bit of theatricality, every now and then."
"You're rich, then?" says Lily baldly.
"Yes, dear," says Euphemia, adjusting her necklace. "We've done alright for ourselves."
"Is that why you were able to foster me so quickly?" she asks, picking at the cuff of her sleeve, which is chewed-down and threadbare. Children without guardians tend to go without good quality clothing, even in a Good Facility like she one she's been living in for the past six months. That term – Good Facility – was thrown around a lot, particularly by the staff, and the occasional MP, as if a penniless, unwanted orphan like Lily was supposed to feel lucky to be living there.
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because," she says, and shrugs. "Money can get you past obstacles, and rich people have advantages we ordinary folk don't."
"Let's not operate under the assumption that you're ordinary, dear," says Euphemia. She fingers Lily's sleeve. "We'll have to get you some new clothes."
The car moves out of the drive, but Lily doesn't turn back for any last, lingering looks. It's only a children's home – an orphanage, if you're in the mood for plain speaking – and she'll be back in a few weeks. No family has ever wanted to keep her for more than a couple of months. This one isn't going to be any different.
"I don't need new clothes," she responds, eyes on Euphemia's manicured fingers. "But thank you."
"Pardon my vulgarity, dear, but that's nonsense."
Despite herself, the corners of Lily's lips quirk upwards. "Where I come from, that wouldn't be considered vulgar."
"I'm aware," says Euphemia dryly. "We'll go to London tomorrow and freshen up your wardrobe. New jeans, shirts, dresses, that kind of thing. Shoes, too," she adds, and Lily tucks her scuffed, dirty trainers as far beneath her seat as they can go. "And dress robes. You'll need dress robes."
"What are dr—"
"Essential, dear, that's what they are. We throw a lot of events that require formal wear."
"Right," says Lily, frowning. "But what are dress ro—"
"Don't worry about finding an escort, either. I've got two boys your age, and Merlin knows they'll jump at the chance to usher a pretty girl about the place. She is pretty, isn't she, Fleamont?" she says, addressing her husband, who doesn't have a moment to respond before she's off again, smiling at Lily with her white, white teeth. "Quite uncommon. Beautiful eyes. James is going to be quite wild about you, dear."
"You think so?" says her husband, chuckling, while Lily tries in vain to come to terms with the name Fleamont.
"He'll be catching flies with that big gob of his for a week," says Euphemia confidently. "I'll stake five Galleons on it."
"Galleons?" Lily repeats, and she's growing more and more confused. "Like, pirate ships?"
"I'll explain everything at home, dear, but first you should get some rest."
Lily is about to say that she's not tired – a lie, because she's been sharing a room with five other girls, two of whom snore like rabid beasts – but Euphemia murmurs something under her breath and there's a whoosh of warm, fragrant air, and Lily's eyelids flutter gently shut. After that, she knows no more.
She dreams of her father, of how he'd hoist her onto his broad shoulders to pick horse-chestnuts from trees, of the smell of his worn leather jacket, of flowers that open and close in the palm of her hand, of finger paints and an old paddling pool and of her mother dancing in the kitchen, her red hair streaming out behind her like fire. Her senses are still full of that warm, sweet-smelling breeze, and she's never had such a beautiful sleep.
She wakes at the sound of a car door opening, and finds Euphemia Potter's handsome, ageless face peering at her from the next seat over.
"I'm sorry for sending you to sleep, Fleamont gave me a real telling off," she says, and pats Lily's hand. "But you just looked so exhausted, bless your heart. I've got no concept of personal space, James always says. Tell me if I'm too much in future, okay?"
She's still drowsy, and confused, and a small, stubborn voice in the back of her head tells her that this is all very strange, and you should be more worried, but she feels oddly calm, like she's skirting around the edges of a discovery that will make sense of everything again. And Mrs. Potter seems so kind.
"Who's James?" she says, and suppresses a yawn. "Why is he catching flies?"
"You'll meet him soon enough, dear. We're home, come have a look."
Blinking, Lily steps out of the car and into the sunlight, and her heart gives a queer little spasm because she's stepped into another dream.
She pictured the Potters in a stylish, imposing townhouse in the centre of a bustling city, but this – a huge, whitewashed stone farmhouse, set amongst an endless expanse of trees, with a bubbling stream and ivy creeping up the walls – this is nothing like she expected. This is straight out of a Jane Austen novel. This is the house of her childhood fantasies. This is a fairytale.
Euphemia must notice her awed reverence, for she puts her arm around Lily's shoulders.
"It's nice, isn't it?" she says. "Come along inside, dear, and I'll tell you a lovely story."
Mr. Potter goes to his office almost immediately – urgent business with the company, his wife says – but not before patting Lily on the arm and telling her to make herself comfortable, and not let those boys terrorise the life out of her when they get back from school.
Lily follows Euphemia to the kitchen, her feet echoing on the spotless flagstone floor, her rucksack hanging limply from one shoulder. Euphemia sits her down at the breakfast bar, takes her rucksack and brings it to another part of the house, leaving Lily to sit and gaze at the garden through the large, glass door in the back wall. It's just as lush as the rest of the grounds, bursting with wildflowers, home to a grand old oak, and with the stream cutting right through the middle of it all. She's standing at the door, palms flat against the glass, craning her neck to see as far as she can see, when Euphemia comes back and offers her a cup of tea.
She has one, and then another, and is halfway through a bacon sandwich and an airy, meaningless chat about the weather when Euphemia cocks her head to the side, and clears her throat.
"I know, of course, that you're magic."
A clock ticks somewhere in the background, and Euphemia's face remains impassive, and Lily has to fight to swallow her sandwich.
"I'm – what?" she says, her throat smarting from swallowing too quickly. "What are you talking about?"
"Magic, dear. Look," says Euphemia, and from a fold within her dress she draws a long, thin strip of wood. She slashes it through the air like a conductor's baton and suddenly the breakfast bar is on fire and Lily is reeling backwards out of her seat, though she can't feel any heat, and her new foster mother is quite calm.
"Oh my god," she breathes, both hands pressed against her heart. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. You're—"
"A witch," says Euphemia. "That's the technical term for it."
She waves her wand again and the fire vanishes, and she laughs, a posh, lilting sound.
"Sorry about that. Again," she says, and pockets her wand. "As I said before, I'm quite theatrical. You'll get used to it. Do sit back down, dear."
Lily does not sit back down. Nobody in their right mind would sit back down, after that.
"I should leave," she says, and her voice is thin, and she thinks of those flowers in the palm of her hand, and of the vase in Mr. Cooper's living room, and of leaping from a swing, as carefree as a bird, and floating to her feet like a feather in the wind. She should be more shaken, and it scares her that she isn't. "I should leave right now. I should be – I should be terrified."
"And yet, you're not," says Euphemia calmly. "Not one bit. Why do you think that is?"
But Lily can't bring herself answer that. Her throat still hurts.
"How many foster families sent you back?" Euphemia continues, and her tone is light, but her frank, hazel eyes are all compassion. "And your sister? She's old enough to be your guardian now, yes? But she won't have you either. Why?"
The mention of Petunia nearly sets her to tears, but she's not going to cry. She never cries, makes a rule of it. "Because I-" She swallows again, nothing but air this time. "Because I frighten them."
"Because things happen around you that you can't explain?"
She nods stiffly. "How do you know all of that?"
"You poor, dear little thing," says Euphemia. "You've grown up believing there was something wrong with you, but you've always been just fine."
She stands up and circles the breakfast bar, coming to a halt in front of Lily, and takes her hands in her own.
"You're just like me," she says, smiling. "A witch. A very powerful one, I'd reckon. You simply need to learn to control it. That's why I'm here." She squeezes Lily's hands. "To help you."
It's too much to take in, and magic shouldn't - doesn't - exist, and these people are mad.
And yet, Lily's not a fool.
She never felt like a bad kid. She never rebelled or ran away, or tried to be anything other than pleasant. She never wanted to hurt anyone or frighten anyone, but it always seemed to happen anyway. Everyone else insisted that she was the bad one, and sometimes she's believed it. It's all been so confusing, and she's been so tired.
So she meets Euphemia's hazel eyes with her own green ones, and nods.
"Why, though?" she whispers. "Why do you even want to help me? I'm nobody to you."
"Sit down, dear, come on," Euphemia instructs, and leads her back to her seat like a sleepwalker. She does not return to her earlier position on the other side of the bar, but takes the stool next to Lily and pushes her plate towards her.
"I love children," she says. "Eat the rest of your sandwich. Flea and I always wanted children. Desperately. Tried for years. We'd just about given up when James came along - he's your age, you'll like him - and he made our lives an utter joy. Do you know what an utter joy feels like?""
Lily shakes her head, because perhaps she does, but it's been so long since her parents died that she's simply forgotten.
"You will, dear, I'll see to it that you do," Euphemia promises, and pushes a lock of hair behind Lily's ear. "Anyway, last year, James's best friend, Sirius, ran away from home over Christmas. He's got a terrible family, bless him - but I digress. Fleamont and I took him in and that was another kind of joy altogether. We decided recently that we'd like to help other children in similar situations, so we've looked into fostering, but it's been very, very difficult. We can't show ourselves to non-magic folk, you see, and how do you bring a Muggle child into a house like this? Your sandwich, dear."
Lily picks up her sandwich and takes a large, indulgent bite. It's really delicious, the combination of salty, crispy bacon and melting butter, and it strikes her how motherly it is of Mrs. Potter, to be concerned about Lily's appetite at a time like this.
"Anyway, we were at our wits end for a while," she carries on. "But then we found you, and it's all come together quite nicely!"
"How did you - sorry," says Lily, through a mouthful of bread, overeager. She swallows her food. "How did you find me?"
"We have ways of tracing our own kind - it looks like your then-foster parents rejected your Hogwarts letter, another one really should have been sent after - but that's no matter, we'll sort out your education once you're settled in."
"My education?"
"Yes, dear. Your magical education. The sooner we start, the better."
Lily blinks. The rest of the sandwich lies forgotten on her plate. "I can have a magical education?"
"That's why I brought you here," says Euphemia, and encircles Lily's thin wrist with her fingers. "Well, that, and to make sure you eat a little more. I'll speak to my son's headmaster - James is at Hogwarts, you see, that's the school for children of our kind. He and Sirius will be back in two weeks. You know, it's been an age since I attended, but I'm sure they'll be happy to tell you all about it."
Lily can barely hear her, because the words 'magical education' are hanging in the air, whizzing past her eyes, glittering like pixie dust.
"We'll need to arrange for private lessons," Euphemia is saying, twirling her lovely, elegant hands. "At school or here, I wouldn't like to stick you in with the first years, but Dumbledore and I will come to some arrangement. We have to get you a wand, firstly, so we'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow, after we've been to Muggle London for some new clothes. I know you said you don't need any, dear, but I have to insist-"
But she's cut off, because Lily throws her arms around her neck.
"Thank you," she sighs, and Mrs. Potter hugs her in return, and Lily is left with an utterly novel feeling that someone actually cares. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"You're very welcome, dear," says Euphemia, and pats her gently on the back. "Finish your sandwich."
Her bedroom has a large window seat that looks over the garden, scattered with colourful cushions, and a four poster bed with a white, wooden frame. Euphemia wakes her at the crack of dawn the next morning. "Let's have a girly day together," she says, sounding almost gleeful. "Before those rotten boys get back for the summer."
Except Lily sees a fair few photos of those 'rotten boys' over her scrambled eggs and toast, and they don't – outwardly at least – seem close to rotten at all. Especially one of them, the one who appears in most of the photos, but she keeps that thought to herself.
Instead, she exclaims over how the photos move by themselves, and teaches Euphemia how to take a selfie on her phone.
Mr. Potter is working again, so it's Euphemia who shows Lily how to travel by Floo powder, which is a thrill in itself, and a little frightening. Magic seems to involve a lot of fire, which Lily points out after she steps from the hearth of a grubby old pub on Charing Cross Road, brushing non-existent soot from her shoulders.
"Fire is a good thing," says Euphemia simply. "Imagine a romance without it?"
They go to Muggle London first – Lily has learned what 'Muggle' means – and she discovers that Euphemia is a champion shopper. She drags Lily from store to store, piling her arms with jeans and dresses, and makes her try everything on before they buy. She gets a proper bra fitted for the first time in her life, new boots and sandals and sensible running shoes, several pairs of pyjamas and fresh underwear, and Euphemia pays for everything, ignoring Lily's repeated protests. Though they buy a boutique's worth of clothes, Euphemia manages to fit everything in one bag that feels as light as a feather in Lily's hand.
They return to the pub, The Leaky Cauldron, for lunch, and the food is delicious despite the pub's dark, dingy interior. Euphemia talks a lot about her son and his talents, and his accomplishments, and the strange bond he shares with his cat. Lily suspects that she's exaggerating his brilliance, but she doesn't begrudge her.
Afterwards, they step into Diagon Alley, and this is what Lily has been waiting for all day.
The winding, cobbled street is an explosion of colour and sound, of odd puffs of smoke, cheerful shopfronts, broomsticks and cauldrons, and interesting people wearing interesting clothes. It does not disappoint her wildest hopes.
They peruse books in Flourish and Blotts, where a knowledgeable shopkeep has a word with Euphemia and presents Lily with a stack of what he calls 'the basics,' and buy a cauldron in Potage's, where Lily is informed that Fleamont's lab has everything she'll need to get in good practice. In Twilfitt and Tatting's, where they stop for dress robes, she's fitted in the most beautiful gown she's ever seen. It's made of an impossibly light, flowing material, in glittering midnight black, and is sleeveless, but with a long cape and train. It's a gown made for movie star, or a princess, but it's hers, and no one appears to snatch it away.
She stares at herself in the mirror while Euphemia and the seamstress admire the colour of her hair, and feels like a different person.
Finally, it's time to buy her wand.
Mr. Ollivander is a strange man, with snow white hair and bright, silvery eyes. Euphemia greets him as she would a member of her family, but he remembers her by a wand he sold her decades ago, and not by her name. If this is odd behaviour, Euphemia doesn't show it.
"And your son," he says, with his eyes on Lily's face. "Eleven inches, mahogany, dragon heartstring, particularly suited to Transfiguration."
"It's his best subject," says Euphemia proudly.
"Naturally. They never lie." Ollivander hasn't taken his eyes away from Lily's. "We'll find one for you, too."
Lily is asked to hold three wands before she finds one that satisfies Ollivander – and herself, as it sits in her hand like an old friend, and sends a warm, pleasant tingle up her arm and along her spine. It's ten and a quarter inches, made from willow, and with a phoenix feather at its core. "Good for charm work," Ollivander tells her, not that it means much, but her heart is soaring through the clouds because finally, she feels a sense of belonging, even if it's only with a small strip of wood.
Ollivander watches her as she and Euphemia leave the shop, and Lily wonders if he'll remember her again, if she ever has a child of her own.
"Phoenix feather is the rarest core there is," Euphemia tells her, when they stop for an ice cream, and sit together in the sun.
"It is?"
"Mmhmm," she says, and spoons a heap of whipped cream into her mouth. "You must be very special."
The next two weeks pass in a pleasant blur. Lily spends a lot of time exploring the grounds of the house, clambering up trees and skipping across the stream, enjoying the remnants of a childhood she'd lost, and going for runs through the forest, accompanied by the chirping of birds and the smell of earth. She eats three good meals a day and the hollow spots in her cheeks fill out a little, and almost starts to agree when Euphemia calls her pretty. She insists on helping out around the house, though Euphemia insists that it's quicker to use magic, because she has nothing else to offer and no words to express her gratitude.
Lily learns that underage wizards aren't permitted to use magic outside of Hogwarts, but that Euphemia secured a special provision from the Ministry so that she can practice at home, and throughout the summer - under supervision, of course. She devours her books and sits on the window seat in her bedroom, draining cups of tea and practising her wand work. On her first day, she levitates a chiffon scarf into the air, and Euphemia presents her with a treacle tart - her favourite pudding - to celebrate her achievement.
Mr. Potter turns out to be a lovely man, albeit much quieter than his wife. In his lab, he takes her through the basics of potion making and pronounces her unusually adept. "He says you're better than James was, when he started out," says Euphemia over dinner, as if there can be no higher praise than surpassing James at anything.
Indeed, James dominates the house, despite never being there at all. On the night before his return from school, his mother buzzes around like an industrious bee, giddy with excitement, and buys enough food to feed several families. Lily smiles, but says nothing. She's a little nervous - nothing too serious, but a slight turn in her stomach, because the past two weeks have been perfect, her and the Potters and their little bubble. Part of her wishes it could stay that way for longer, but that's a selfishness she doesn't want to encourage. The Potters are wonderful people, so surely, their son must be nice, too.
She almost feels as if she knows him.
Or doesn't, because Euphemia is too generous in her praise, and no mere boy can be such a model of perfection.
Except for his face, she reflects, as she passes his photo at the top of the stairs. His face is pretty close to perfect.
They take the car to King's Cross the next day, and manage to get from Pembrokeshire to London – a journey that should have taken close to five hours – in less than two, and Lily laughs because the sat-nav on her phone can't keep up with them, and Mr. Potter keeps insisting that he's a really talented driver. While Fleamont waits in the car, Lily and Euphemia get to the platform by running directly through a brick wall, something that would have thrown Lily a fortnight ago, but she's seen so much since then that she barely flinches. Still, she's not without a sense of wonderment that rarely leaves her alone, these days.
She hangs back when they get off the train.
There's four of them, three tall, one short and round, and she spots him the moment he steps onto the platform without realising that she'd been looking for him the whole time. He's laughing, with his head thrown back, his hair's an ebony disaster and his voice carries easily over the crowd of waiting parents and excited kids. He's a boy who attracts attention, with or without expending effort.
He catches sight of his mother and removes himself from his group of friends, throwing himself at her with a joyful yelp, locking her in a bone-crushing hug. A fluffy ginger cat appears at his feet, and rubs against Euphemia's legs.
Lily's heart flutters, and it's ridiculous, because you can't have a crush on someone you've never met.
Well, not unless they're famous, but James Potter isn't famous. He's just a boy, a boy who has been overestimated at every turn by his adoring, affectionate mother. She's probably been taken in by Euphemia's stories. It's probably nothing.
She's watching him, though he hasn't noticed her at all, but his friend has – the other one from the photos, a tall boy with long, silken black hair and brooding grey eyes. He's standing directly behind James, watching her with a slight frown on his handsome face, and raises an eyebrow when he catches her gaze.
"Who's this?" he says, with a London-bred accent, as Euphemia lets go of her son.
"Oh, yes, I've got a surprise for you both!" she says, and clutches her son's hand. "James, Sirius, this is Lily Evans. Lily, these are my boys."
James Potter looks at Lily for the first time, and his eyes – hazel like his mother's, but framed by a pair of spectacles – widen like saucers.
"I wanted it to be a surprise for when you got back," Euphemia chatters away, ignoring the fact that her son's mouth has dropped open, and that Lily is quite unable to stop staring back at him. "We've been fostering Lily for the last few weeks. She's Muggle-born, and missed her chance to go to Hogwarts, bless her, so she'll be having private lessons. She's doing quite well, aren't you, dear?" she says to Lily, beaming. "And now the boys are home, you'll have some friends for the summer!"
James's only response is to shake his head slightly, as if he's a dog ridding its ears of water. His friend, though, has not been afflicted by the same ailment. He springs forward and extends his right hand, dragging his case behind him with the other.
"I'm Sirius," he says, and Lily offers her hand, her attention drawn from James by this other boy. He shakes it rather vigorously.
"Lily," she says.
"Don't make jokes about me being serious."
"Alright. Don't make jokes about flowers."
He grins at her, and turns back to Euphemia. "I like her."
"Good," says Euphemia emphatically. "Lily, dear, feel free to fall in love with either of them, but not both."
Lily sneaks a look at James, and he's turned scarlet.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi," he says back, looking very agitated.
He doesn't say another word until they reach the car, when all of a sudden he drops his case and darts past her to open the door to the backseat.
"I, er - after you," he says, not looking at her, which is almost pathetically sweet, but very strange. She can't help but give him a befuddled look when she climbs into the car. When she sits by the window, he bends to climb in after her, but is unceremoniously shoved aside by Sirius, who ends up sitting next to her with a wide, evil grin on his face. James follows him in, face burning, and the ginger cat leaps into his lap.
"So," says Sirius to Lily, when Fleamont starts the engine. "What's your life story?"
Sirius is alright. He's full of opinions, quite blatantly vain, and a little morbid at times, but Lily likes him anyway. By the time they pass Swindon, she wins him over with her knowledge of motorbikes – her parents were enthusiasts – and a mutual love of reading, though he prefers classic Russian literature, while she's a fan of folklore and historical fiction. James barely speaks for the whole drive, which prompts his mother and father to ask him why he's being so quiet.
He mutters something about feeling ill, so Sirius calls him a liar. Then they elbow one another, much to the irritation of the cat, who moves into Lily's lap and stays there for the duration of their drive, purring happily when she scratches his head.
"Algernon likes you," says Sirius, and nudges James in the ribs. "What do you think of that, Prongs?"
"Algernon has manners," he loftily replies. "Unlike you."
Things don't improve once they get home. James barely says a word through dinner, and when he does speak, it's always to his parents or Sirius, and never to her. He watches her a lot, though. Since she's watching him - she can't seem to keep her eyes off him for an extended period of time, which is very bothersome - it's not difficult to miss. By the time they start on pudding, she's convinced that he's offended by her presence. She goes to her room that night feeling a little disappointed, and annoyed with herself for being disappointed in the first place.
She reads a little of her Potions textbook and goes to the bathroom before bed, finds it locked and waits outside until its occupant comes out. After a couple of minutes, James emerges, holding Algernon, and with a fleck of toothpaste on his lower lip.
He drops Algernon when he catches sight of her - the cat lands gracefully on his front paws and scurries away - and hurriedly wipes his mouth. "Hi."
"Hey," she says, and hugs her arms to her chest.
"I was just in the bathroom."
"Er, yeah," she agrees, and part of her really wants to laugh, but she holds it in. "I've just seen you come out of there."
"Right," he says. He runs a hand through his hair, which doesn't seem to know which direction it wants to travel in. "Well, er... goodnight, then."
He side-steps around her and makes for his bedroom, which is next to hers, and Lily should really let him go and forget about it, but she doesn't want to be at odds with him, not when his parents mean so much to her. She clears her throat and spins on her heel, facing his retreating back. "James?"
He stops, and turns back around. "Yeah?"
"Look, I'm really sorry if you - I sort of get the impression that you're not exactly happy to have me here," she begins, wringing her hands. "And I understand, really, your parents are amazing, and I'm just some strange, random girl who's turned up in your-"
"No!" he yelps, his voice rising half an octave, and suddenly his face is the colour of merlot. He moves as if he's preparing to step towards her, but thinks better of it, and bounces unsteadily on the balls of his feet. "Shit, no, no, definitely not. I'm such a - I'm not unhappy at all, promise, and I'm so sorry if I made you feel that way."
"Oh," she says. There's a long, awkward silence. "Then..."
"You're not going to leave, are you?"
She's taken aback by this line of questioning. "Pardon?"
"Only that'd be awful," he says, looking at her feet. "For Mum. She really likes you, and I'm not - honestly, you should ignore most of what I say and do, because I'm a prat, and I make absolutely no sense most of the time."
"Really?" She raises an eyebrow. "From the way your mum talks, you're some kind of genius."
"My genius is specific to, y'know, schoolwork," he says. He still can't look at her. "And plotting. Mostly plotting, with a bit of schoolwork thrown in. What else did she say about me?"
"That you're perfect, in a nutshell. You know, child prodigy, handsomest boy on earth, that sort of thing."
"Right," he says, and expels a breath. "Good to know she's got a healthy amount of scepticism. I wouldn't want to get a big head."
She laughs at that. "You're funny."
"Thanks," he says, blushing again. "And you're, er, lovely. You seem lovely." He looks up, his eyes focused on a point near her ear. "I'm really sorry if I made you think otherwise."
"Alright," she says, and she feels a little better. She jerks her thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "Well, I'm going to go in here."
"And I'm going to go in there," he says, pointing behind him. "To my bedroom, not yours."
That makes her laugh again. "Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight."
She turns to enter the bathroom.
"Lily?"
She pauses, with her hand on the door frame, and looks over her shoulder. "Yes?"
He bounces on his feet again, looking pained, as if he's suffering from heartburn, and when he speaks it's as if the words have been forcibly torn from his lips. "Do you want me to teach you to fly tomorrow?"
Then she's right away from the door and standing in front of him, her earlier wariness forgotten, eyes shining with excitement because he's offering to let her fly. "I would love that so much," she says warmly. "You're really good, right? Your mum says you're captain of your school Quidditch team."
"I - my house team, yeah." He seems a little confused by her enthusiasm, but rather pleased with himself. "You really want me to show you?"
"Yes," she says. "Honestly. All of this is second nature to you, I know, but it's a shiny new penny for me and I'm still amazed by it all so, you know, whatever you want to show me, please do." She spreads her hands wide. "I'll be there with bells on."
"Alright. Cool," he says, and slants a smile at her, a boyish, cheeky thing. It transforms his whole face, that smile. His mother might not have been lying when she said he was the handsomest boy on earth. "Tomorrow, then. And I'll think of other stuff, too."
"Great. Thank you," she says happily, and then she really does have to go, before she starts dancing to hold it in. "Bathroom, need to go."
"Oh, yeah, go and do your thing," he says, shooing her away. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
She has butterflies.