DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of the honourable J.K Rowling

The Truth

OF MARRIAGE AND MOVIES

Thursday 12th of February

Well, that's it then. The knot has been tied, the vows have been made, there's no going back. Petunia Emily Evans is an Evans no more. At this moment she is probably glaring anxiously out of an aeroplane window as Vernon vomits into a paper bag (He freely admits that he has never been a traveller), hoping that she will reach Hawaii soon. I can't think why they decided to honeymoon in Hawaii. I tried to imagine Petunia reclining on the sand with a hibiscus in her a hair and failed completely. Despite having a complexion to rival that of any ghost, she's a compulsive neat-freak and will probably be unable to deal with anything of the sandy persuasion. I can just see the headlines now, 'Proper English Newlywed Attempts to Sweep Away Entire Beach into Waters off Honolulu'. Oh well. Maybe this holiday will loosen her up. Doubt it.

The big day, of course, was yesterday, though it felt more like a big month, or a big year. Petunia was frantic when I arrived home on Monday night – she didn't even stop to express her displeasure at my presence. She fretted over the imaginary people she had probably forgotten to invite, she fretted over the menu for the reception, and she fretted over the fact that the cake shop had been forced to decorate the cake with yellow sugar roses instead of pink because they had run out of pink food dye. I almost felt sorry for her. Vernon found it hard to comfort her, and (like the coward he is) he told Petunia he loved her, said something about Marjorie, his sister, and disappeared at around nine o'clock. I was going to follow his example and get an early night (My parents appeared to have missed the owl Dumbledore had sent informing all parents of recent events at the school, and I decided not to enlighten them at such a hectic time. They didn't notice that I'd arrived home a day early), but I had no such luck.

"Lily," said my Mother, looking almost as frenzied as Petunia, "Do you realise that the wedding's on Wednesday, and you haven't even tried on that dress we fitted you out for?" I nodded tiredly. As if I could forget.

"Well? Quickly, I'll go and get it now. You duck into the other room-"

"I'm sure that could wait for tomorrow, dear?" said my father suddenly, breaking out of the defensive silence he had been occupying all evening. I grinned at him gratefully, and my mother looked cross,

"Lily, this is your sister's wedding! Show a little-"

"Mum, she wouldn't come if I had a wedding!"

"She would to! I'd make her!" shouted my mother triumphantly, and then her face fell as a suspicion formed in her anxious brain, "You aren't going to…I mean you wouldn't just have a wedding, would you? Those boys who came before…I mean, you aren't…"

I stared at her incredulously, unable to speak, thinking that my mother was on drugs. There was a pause in which my father snorted into his cup of tea, spilling some on Ginger the cat, who promptly hissed angrily and bounded out of the room.  I resisted the urge to giggle,

"Why of course," I said, "I'm planning to elope with Potter, if you must know!" The look on my mother's face when I said this was worth a photograph. She glared at me,

"Very funny, Lily," she said coldly, "I'm just worried about Petunia, alright? It's not easy for her, you know-"

"What, not easy to get married to some rich drill guy, not easy to finally get rid of any association with me-"

"Lily, sisters sometimes don't get on, but you should think of the future, one day you will need each other-"

"Oh come on, she'll probably tell her children she never had a sister! I can see it now!" to my surprise, I was now feeling quite angry. My mum didn't look cross anymore, only sad. She sat down next to my dad and he patted her comfortingly. I scowled and flounced out of the room, feeling inexplicably furious.

"If only Petunia had gone to Hogwarts too…" I heard my mum mutter as I took the stairs two at time. Bah, it all boiled down to 'if only Petunia had gone to Hogwarts'. She had been jealous when I'd first gone, I was sure of that, but how was my eleven-year-old self supposed to deal with an envious sister other than to plant frogspawn in her bedclothes and flobberworms in her coat pockets? It wasn't as if were my fault that she wasn't a witch. Of course, now, Petunia isn't jealous, she just thinks I'm a freak. I suppose, if I really thought about it in any serious way I would say that this is a kind of defence she's talked herself into to protect herself from the jealousy, but she's said some pretty horrible things to me over the years, so I don't think I will.

The next day passed in a flash. As  soon as I was up, my mother had me slaving over a hot stove cooking a late lunch and dinner for the various relatives who had arrived on afternoon flights, and in between times she forced me into my bride's maid's dress and went over exactly what I was supposed to do. I was scornful and flippant, for it wasn't as if I had to anything more than hold my bouquet and look pretty. It was rather a tedious day; my cousin Joella behaved obscenely for the greater part of it, bugging me to carry out small magics whenever I looked even vaguely idle and continually performing small annoyances like tipping cranberry sauce down the backs of guests (for which I was blamed, "Lily, if you can't even keep your little cousin under control…"). In the evening we all trooped down to the church for the rehearsal, and it went off without a hitch, much to the relief of all those present, because Petunia was so highly strung by now that even the slightest step out of line would have caused her to fly off the handle. Fortunately, my uncle Tim, who had been away on errands most of the day, had read Joey a stern lecture about how to conduct herself on his return, so she was a perfect little bridesmaid the entire time.

As you can imagine, I was very tired on Tuesday night, and went to bed as early as I could, as I was to be woken at the crack of dawn to have my hair done. At the hairdresser's my poor hair was brushed, sprayed, curled, glittered and beflowered to within an inch of its life, which I thought was unnecessary as Petunia couldn't care less how I looked. But my mother, however, did care, and when it was time to put my dress on, she made sure I stepped into it so as not to ruin my hair and make-up. The dress, by the way, was pink. Baby pink, made of that shiny, silky stuff. But I ask you, pink? A red head's worst nightmare. Ok, so at least it wasn't magenta or something, and at least my hair wasn't carrot coloured, but it was still pink. I do think my mother might have steered Petunia away from it when she was choosing the dresses. It was knee-length, with a loose drop-waist, a mildly pleated skirt, and a completely out-of-place row of embroidered roses around the neck line. It was sleeveless and it was done up at the top with a bow on each shoulder. A very strange looking dress. Actually, now I come to think of it, I don't think Petunia could have chosen it. It is completely not her style, she goes for more traditional clothes. In retrospect, I think our twenty-seven-year-old obscure-fashion-line-owning cousin Mabel must have had a hand in it. Possibly she even designed it. Anyway, with the dress I had to wear some shiny white high-heels and some white roses on my head, and carry my own little bunch. Together, Joey and I were pretty as a picture. Unfortunately, the other two bridesmaids (prudish friends of Petunia) were both strawberry blonde and succeeded in looking much better than either of us.

It was kind of fun, arriving at the church in our white bridal cars, listening to people I'd never even heard of before chat animatedly with my family, witnessing Vernon's face go purple when he did up his collar too tightly. And the actual ceremony was as nice as could be expected. When Petunia said, 'I do', and really smiled with genuine pleasure, I caught myself feeling happy for her, which was quite a shock. I must have looked a bit odd, because Joey, who was standing beside me on the altar, nudged me and nodded at the two strawberry blondes, who were shooting me disapproving glares.

The celebration afterward was a success, too. The food was great, particularly the ice-cream, and when Vernon made some sappy speech about how wonderful Petunia was, and how wonderful we all were, I was so bubbly from my several glasses of champagne that I forgave him his over-fed penguin-like appearance and grinned at him. I can't say he smiled back, because he didn't (actually he looked quite terrified), but I suddenly didn't care. When the dancing started I really got into it, and my relatives were surprised at my enthusiasm. My mother smiled proudly at me and winked, as if she were thanking me for something. I shrugged this off and, taking the copious amount of roses out of my hair, I threw them into the air. A Beatles song began to play, and I was reminded of Celine, which reminded me that I hadn't asked a friend to wedding as my mother had instructed me to. I suddenly wondered what James Potter was doing right now. Was he alone in his empty house, or were his friends there to keep him company?  I felt a lump form in my throat. I watched my mum and dad slowly rotating in the middle of the hall they had hired out, next to the happy couple. I sighed.

After the wedding, we were all tired, but oh so happy. Well, Petunia and Vernon were happy, anyway, and I suppose that's the main thing, it being their wedding night. They bid fond farewells to their friends, family and obscure acquaintances, and seeing as they only had eyes for each other, my presence did not mar their lovey-dovey mood. Like the dutiful daughter I was, I worked like a Trojan to get the hall cleaned up, along with my mother, my father, Joella, Uncle Tim, Vernon's parents, Vernon's sister, the strawberry blondes and several other people. At around eight o'clock, Petunia and Vernon went gaily off in their heavily beribboned vehicle to the wonderful new home they had acquired (after months of painful searching) where Vernon would, perhaps, carry Petunia tipsily over the threshold of her new life at number four, Privet Drive Little Whinging, Surrey. And then straight back out the door eight hours later to catch their early morning flight to Hawaii, of course. My mother sobbed piteously as we waved them off, and my father put a comforting hand on her shoulder and tried not to laugh. I felt a mixture of emotions. Firstly I felt relieved, because now there would be no snide little comments about my witchy nature, secondly I was happy, because now I would be able to perform magic around the house without causing certain family members to have apoplectic fits of rage, but lastly I felt a momentary pang of remorse, because now Celine would not be able to randomly show up in our living room and gush, "Oh, Pet, it's ever so good to see you again!"

Friday 13th of February

Ah, what an ominous date. As is befitting, today was overcast and rainy. Nothing much happened. Most of the relatives have left and we've been clearing up the their subsequent mess. I told my parents about Voldemort. They didn't really understand. How could they?

Saturday 14th of February

Quiet without Petunia around. Nothing much to do. Reorganised my bedroom four times today. I wonder if this is what is known as 'being driven to distraction'?

Sunday 15th of February

Bloody hell. Still no word from the school. Still no word from anyone. Been thinking about Potter's little secret a lot. Thinking about Voldemort. You'd think Celine or Tory could've sent me a letter, wouldn't you?

Monday 16th of February

Finally, I actually did something. My state of permanent homework-lessness and boredom got to me when I woke up at seven-thirty this morning with nothing to do and a horrible ill-temper that caused my mum to drop and smash her favourite tea-cup in surprise. Guilt over this did nothing to quell my despairing sense of injustice. Why hadn't I taken my apparition test? Then I could simply zip across to the other side of London and visit Celine. Why hadn't I purchased an owl? Then it could simply zip across to Celine's. After I had spent a good few hours venting my spleen, when my mother was on the point of throwing me out of the house to cool down, my salvation (or doom, whichever way you want to think about it) finally arrived. I was in the midst of telling my father that his favourite football player from ten years ago was nothing but a money-loving, ugly, perverted old sod when there was a knock at the door. I stomped down the hall and quite rudely flung open the door, fully expecting one of Petunia's snotty friends here about one or another of the many misplaced items from the wedding. We had become a kind of public lost property bin, and I was getting sick of it. And so you can imagine how the look of angry disgust I had procured for Petunia's friend's benefit turned to one of embarrassed surprise when I saw that the person on the doorstep was none other than James Potter himself. I blushed, of course, as I am wont to do, and the awkward silence that followed his nervous 'hello' was mortifying. When I felt the silence could not go any longer without causing reality to crack under the strain, I stammered,

"Uh…Potter…wasn't expecting you…thought it would be one of my sister's friends, you see…"

"Oh, that's alright…I just came around to-"

"Oh well, I suppose you can come in if you want-"

"You suppose? Oh, Evans-"

"Sorry, sorry, not in a very good mood today-"

"We are still friends, aren't we?"

"Well, yes…have to think about a few things…"

"Look, I'm-"

"Sorry-"

"Oh, hello! James Potter, wasn't it? How lovely to see you again, dear!" Yes, you guessed it. My mother had come up behind me, pushing past me to show that she had not yet forgiven me for my foul disposition all morning, but was willing to put it aside for the sake the Potter. After being assured he wasn't about to whirl me away to get married in some foreign country never to be heard of again, my mother had quickly regained her enthusiasm for my 'getting to know him better'. It was quite uncanny, actually, and I had voiced suspicions to my father that perhaps the wondrous Potter had cast some sort of spell on her.

"Oh, hello Mrs Evans," said Potter, looking slightly taken aback. I groaned inwardly. I had to take control of the situation before it escalated.

"Would you like some tea, James? You could meet Pete, that's Lily's father, of course-"

"Oh," I said desperately, prepared to go to drastic measures to prevent my mother from spending the next few hours interrogating Potter in the living room while I sat by and squirmed. Anything would be better,

 "I don't think we have time, do we Potter?" I squeaked, "If we want to see that movie-"

"Movie?" Potter looked confused, but thankfully my mother didn't notice,

"Yes, Potter," I glared at him and smiled falsely, "The movie you're taking me to. It starts in half an hour, doesn't it?" My mother was looking rapturously from one of us to the other, and then Potter suddenly clicked, and to my horror a broad grin manifested itself on his face,

"Oh, yes, the movie. Well, we can't be late, can we? Good to see you, Mrs Evans. Come along, Lily," gesturing for me to follow, he waved brightly to my mother and began to walk back down the garden path. I now had no choice but to follow, and glancing behind me, I saw a worried expression flicker across my mothers face. So now she was finally coming to her senses. Silly woman. But there was nothing she could do now, so she waved back. Father, who had probably been listening to the entire doorway conversation, joined her at the door, doubled over in fits of laughter, and waved too. I sent him a despairing look, and he nodded, but continued to laugh quietly.

When Potter and I were finally down the street and around the corner, he turned to me, his face surprisingly serious,

"If I didn't know better," he said in a low voice, "I would say that you just willingly sent yourself on a date with James Potter. Congratulations, you have achieved the unachievable-"

"It is not a date! I was getting us out of spending the afternoon locked in the house with my mother-" Potter cut me off by raising a hand,

"I have of course never seen a 'movie', but I am smart enough to know that it is a muggle entertainment often engaged in by boys and girls who-"

"Potter, people who are just friends can see movies together, it doesn't have to be a date, and anyway, it was just an excuse, we don't have to see a movie – and what did you come to my house for in the first place, anyway?" I said this all in one breath, rushing to get it all out whilst trying not to look at his face, or think about the incident on the train…

"Oh, well," Potter was blushing now,  not looking so sure of himself, "Just to see how you were…I mean, you can't apparate, and I knew you probably wouldn't be seeing anyone…and I was all alone at home…thought I'd-"

"Wait a second, I thought that git Sirius lived with you-"

"Yeah he did, but he's been at his cousin's all week…something to do with money….don't know the details," Potter looked a little sad for a moment, but then recovered himself, "Don't call my best friend a git!" he said, pretending to be offended,

"It's his own fault," I said, trying to sound self-righteous, "He is toying with the emotions of my friend-"

"Oh, that's bullocks. She knows what she's doing. She's got Sirius strung up and right where she wants him, if you ask me, he's been pining for her. Sirius never pines, Evans-"

"Oh, right. As if Tory would ever string someone up!" I saw Potter hesitate, saw him measure the consequences, and decide,

"Wouldn't put it past her. That's one sly bitch you've got there, Evans!" I gaped at him, and saw red,

"How dare you!" I cried hotly, "How dare you come to my house and start insulting my friends! You arrogant-"

"Evans-"

"Flippant, ill-mannered-"

"A joke Evans! Have mercy! I was merely winding you up for my own perverted pleasure!" I stopped mid-tirade, and glared at him sullenly,

"Twerp," I said, coldly. I wished I had better control of my temper. And was perceptive enough to deduce when I was being deliberately stirred. He laughed, and said,

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"Stay away from you!" I said promptly,

"No, seriously, what-"

"Oh, we could go to the movie, I suppose," I said childishly,

"Oh, alright, if we have to!" said Potter, imitating my dulcet tones. I glared at him, and then, feeling curiously enlightened (even though I was about to sit through a movie with James Potter), I actually laughed and said,

"Alright, come on then. Only if you really don't want to, though,"

"Oh, I assure you I don't. The very idea repels me,"

"Well, as long as we have that straight,"

"Oh, you're right. It would be a terrible thing if you and I began to enjoy each other's company for prolonged periods of time,"

"Don't push it, Potter," I said gruffly, realising that I had left the house without a jacket and consequently was getting very cold. Potter began to scuff at the ground with his sneaker. It seemed, I thought dimly, that he fluctuated between being confident and witty to being nervous and bashful in mere seconds. It appeared that whenever the conversation did not revolve around some sort of mockery of a person/place/thing (primarily me) that he lost his nerve, as it were.

"Call me James, then?" he said suddenly, taking his spectacles off and staring straight at me. I blinked. The thought to call him by his Christian name had never occurred to me. It did not seem a natural course of action. I decided to try to change the subject,

"How often do you clean your glasses per day, because honestly-"

"I – I would like it if you called me James-"

" –Tory has glasses – only reading glasses, granted – but she hardly ever seems to clean them-"

"It's just, well, when you say Potter, it just seems so-"

"Do they fog up all the time, then?"

"Please?" This last, beseeching plea halted my steady flow of inanity, and I was forced to look him in the eye. The beautiful, green-flecked eye, with its oddly long lashes…

"Um," I stared helplessly. Could I call him 'James'? There didn't seem to be any reason not to…but it seemed a little bit like giving in, for some reason…I'd been calling him the derogatory Potter! For the past six and a half years…

"I'll call you Lily…that's if you don't mind…and you could call me James, or even 'Prongs', if you want," he was talking in an odd, husky voice, and it looked like it cost him a lot to plead with me. I blinked again.

"Well," I said, slowly, "I suppose I could try…sometimes…sometimes you could be James." Potter made an excited noise, and was about to open his mouth when I said,

"The subject is closed. You are not one up on me or anyway. I can retract my kind offer at any time." This got an exasperated sigh out of him,

"It's not a competition anymore, you know. I'm not about to run away to Sirius and brag about how I got you to say my name. But… I suppose it's my fault, I was such a prat-"

"Yes, you were. And besides, I haven't said your name yet, have I?" I grinned, satisfied, and he ran a hand through his hair bemusedly.

"Well," he said, after a while, "This movie…where is it?"

"It's in town. We'll have to catch a bus,"

"A bus? A muggle bus?"

"Yes. What's wrong with a muggle bus?"

"Nothing. I was just relieved we weren't catching the Knight Bus,"

"The Knight Bus?"

"Oh, it's wizarding public transport. Terrible thing. I've been sick every time I've gone on it."

After that we made our way to the nearest bus stop, and caught a rattling old double-decker to the local cinema. On the way, Potter, James, chivalrously offered me the use of his jacket, as the bus windows seemed to be stuck open, but I politely declined. I did not think it was appropriate. The film was an all right sort of a story, though I don't remember too much about it. I am ashamed to say that I was a little two preoccupied with the person next to me, who, whilst attempting to seem completely engrossed in the movie, kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking. When he did this again for the umpteenth time, nearing the end of the movie, I laughed outright and threw a handful of popcorn at him. Unfortunately some of it landed on the trio of ten-year-olds sitting beside him, and they took this as an invitation to start something. Let it suffice to say that the cleaner whose job it was to vacuum that particular cinema really earned his money today. I don't think I have acted more immaturely in years (without the influence of Celine Varaten, of course). I giggled uncontrollably until the people sitting behind me told me to shut it and James tried to stuff popcorn down the back of my shirt. The ten year olds probably thought the pair of us were regular basket cases, but, surprisingly for me, I found I didn't actually care. It was invigorating. I was on some king of popcorn high. We left as soon as the credits began to roll, receiving disapproving glares from behind and a thumbs up from the ten-year-olds. It was around five o'clock. When we got out onto the street, I looked at James,

"You've got popcorn in your hair," I said,

"So have you," he replied, looking flushed,

"That was embarrassing," I said, grinning, and brushed myself off. I shivered, realising it had become extremely cold.

"D'you want a lend of my jacket now?" he asked. I immediately felt self-consciousness again,

"No," I said, "You would be cold, then." And then we got on the bus, which, luckily, didn't have a dodgy window.

When we got back to my house, dark clouds had gathered overhead and it was starting to spit. We stood outside my gate, facing each other.

"Well…" I said, feeling fluttery in the stomach, "That was nice." Pretty pathetic thing to say, really.

"It – it was," agreed James, cleaning his glasses, "Glad we did it-"

"Yes…yes-"

"Well…"

"Well, d'you want to come in or anything…?" I couldn't believe how nervous I felt. It was hard, being civil to James Potter, after all these years of having obligatory, invariably rude exchanges with him. James looked at the ground,

"Better not…Sirius is actually coming back to night…my house might attack him or something if I'm not there…"

"Oh, well, that's quite all right-"

"Lily?"

"Yes, Po-James?" I felt a pleasurable shiver go up my spine. He smiled.

"Thanks. And all that I said on the train…you all right with that?" I gasped. We'd been together all afternoon, and not mentioned it (or Voldemort, for that matter) once. What could I say?

"Well…I suppose. It's your business what you do. I'm not about to tell anyone." He looked me in the eyes, and nodded solemnly,

"I trust you, Lily Evans," he proclaimed, as if bestowing a great gift upon me. I gave a small smile. Six months ago I would have found this small arrogance irritating. Now it made me laugh,

"Thankyou. I shall do my best to uphold the honour," I said, seriously. He stared at me, wide eyed, for a second, and then snorted,

"Ha, well, you know, you can't go much better than the Great James Potter Code of Honour," he said. I sighed.

"Why am I talking to you?" I asked plaintively, "Why did I just go and see a movie with you?"

"I just don't know," he said, seriously, "Perhaps you're mad."

"I'm starting to think so,"

"Ah well, can't be helped. I'll see you. Sirius'll be into to the cellars if I don't hurry." And with that he gave me a wide smile and disappeared with a soft pop. I sighed, my emotions a mixture of contentedness and horrible gut-wrenching confusion. Then a thought occurred to me. I stamped my foot in frustration. I was back in the position I had started, with no way to contact anyone. And I was at James' beck and call, too, because even if I did have an owl, I didn't know his address. Damn. I went back into the house, wondering if I would be able to get past my mother without being simultaneously pounced on, gushed over and grilled about exactly where I had been and what movie I had seen.

No such luck.