THREE
Her friend stared at her across the table with disbelieving eyes as a slow stream of purple smoke billowed from her lips. "Here? You brought a man here, days ago, and I'm only just hearing about it now?"
Lily grimaced. "Yes?"
Deft fingers tapped the cigarette over the ash tray. "Well, full report, Lil!"
She took a deep breath. "I met him through work." Which was technically true. "He's English." Also technical, also true.
Eyebrows rose before a quick interjection: "He was at that weird cocktails thing you went to?"
Lily nodded; her friend had always been too quick. "Yeah, that's when I met him."
Skipping over the afternoon in London, the explosion, the pair of owls that had appeared at her window ledge the next morning, one bearing the latest Daily Prophet and the other a sinisterly casual note (I think we both could use a beer after last night, yeah?), and her response to the latter (Make it a glass of wine and I'm in), Lily recounted the highlights of her recent evening with James Potter in that very café.
She wrapped her cashmere cape more tightly against her chest—an unsuccessful bid to ward off the chill that had crept into the air that week—and mused not for the first time over how quickly he'd agreed to come down to Paris. All it had taken was an initial suggestion, and his next note had read, Give me an address and a time, and I'm there.
Her heart fluttered anxiously, and not even because of all the baggage this situation carried. No, beyond the fact that she had to watch her words, diligently keep her mind closed, and remember her ulterior motive in moments when she doubted whether she should be doing this, Lily could not avoid the uncomfortable truth that it had been an embarrassingly long time since she had been on a second date.
First dates were easy, relatively speaking: one had nothing to lose and the promise of a one-night stand if the attraction was there and the wine was good. But a first date that didn't end in either a made-up excuse to leave or a random shag, but instead in apparent anticipation for a second? That was territory Lily hadn't entered in quite some time. Because second dates typically meant third dates, which typically meant feelings sufficient to start wondering about a relationship, which in turn meant that talking about the potential of a relationship was not far behind, and that was something Lily hadn't been interested in since her last relationship—a continuation of a school romance—went south rather horribly. And, having been single and enjoying the freedoms that gave her for awhile now, she wasn't terribly keen to give that up.
But was it really giving it up if it was all fake?
She chewed her lip and tried to banish the follow-up question her brain threw at her: But is it fake if you have a real crush on the guy?
Eyes closed, she forced a deep breath. She just needed to compartmentalize—focus on his bad qualities. He was a Death Eater, for starters. He'd killed people, for another. He followed a prejudicial, maniacal, and homicidal megalomaniac, for a third. She didn't like people like that. She was simply doing her job, nay, her duty. It was like being undercover. Like acting. She had to understand—empathize—with why a woman might fall for James Potter, but only so she could portray it. It didn't mean she had actual feelings for the man.
Even if she had to actively try to seduce him. Even if that meant going on more dates. Even if that meant entering a relationship with him—a relationship that would, without question, mean kissing and holding and shagging him.
Her stomach flipped anxiously at the thought, mixed with the memory of his arms wrapped around her and his mouth at her ear. He'd felt so solid, so warm, so comfortable. Though she knew, rationally, that physical contact—hell, physical intimacy—was part of the deal when one signed up to try to seduce somebody, she hadn't let herself dwell on that part just yet. It seemed far away, something distant behind a lot of what if's and unknowns.
Only now, the initial ice broken and one date already behind them, the prospect of a first kiss loomed closer. She knew this, rationally—had even taken a breath-freshening tonic before leaving that evening—but that didn't mean she was emotionally prepared for it to actually happen.
Compartmentalize. Compartmentalize. Compart—
With a pop! James appeared a few steps away from her, wearing a dapper wool coat with a popped collar and a grin that sent her chest fluttering, and just like that, all of her efforts in the last few minutes evaporated into thin air.
"Alright, Evans?"
She was already smiling back at him. "Not bad. And yourself?"
"Can't complain."
He held up a finger, giving her a playful look, and then asked, "Who am I?" before sniffing exaggeratedly in the air.
A laugh burst from her chest and she playfully shoved his shoulder as they started walking down the alley toward the road. "Stop it, I was not that bad—"
"No? Tell me, how did you smell the air, then?"
Lily rolled her eyes. "I breathed." He only smirked. "Deeply."
"Like this?" And he sucked in another exaggerated inhale through his nose before promptly coughing and gagging into his elbow.
Lily clutched her stomach, body shaking with laughter as she hid her own mouth behind her hand. "I—warned you," she choked.
"You call that a warning!" His eyes streamed behind his glasses.
"In London, you dolt."
She expected an eye-roll from him, maybe a snappy retort, but his eyes shone with warmth, like she'd just some high praise instead of teasingly insulting him.
"Alright," he said, sniffling and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, "so lesson one, Parisians really do piss in the streets—"
Lily snorted.
"—is lesson two how to do it properly, then?"
Why was that so goddamn funny? Lily shook her head, pushing at his shoulder again, unable to control her laughter. "You're beastly," she scolded as she laughed.
He held a hand to his chest and declared in a lofty voice, "My dear Mademoiselle, I am but a mere Englishman trying to survive in this piss-filled city—"
Lily had never laughed so hard in her life; the man was ridiculous, an absolute clown, and she was wheezing so hard she had to slow her steps and slump into the nearest building.
James crowded into her space, ostensibly so they wouldn't be blocking the sidewalk, but something about the twinkle in his eye made her think he'd be using this opportunity to sidle up to her regardless.
"Sorry," he murmured softly, not looking it in the slightest, and actually looking rather pleased with himself. "Got a little carried away with the joke."
She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with her fingers. "No, don't apologize. Fuck, I don't remember when I last laughed that hard."
His grin spread even wider.
"My bloody abs hurt, Potter."
He lifted a hand to cup her elbow, and Lily worked to suppress a shudder as she felt the radiation of his his heat, smelled subtle hints of cologne.
"You have an incredible laugh."
You have an incredible voice, is what she wanted to say.
"You're just full of lines tonight," is what she actually said.
James only shrugged and answered smoothly, "You make me want to use them."
"Oh my god, there you go again!"
That same pleased smile filled his face and he rubbed a hand gently up and down the back of her arm. "I mean, I can try to rein it in if you want," he bantered, "but you just set me up so well, Evans."
Merlin, was she in for it. This was only their third time seeing each other, and she was already laughing and flirting like a schoolgirl.
She needed to pull herself together.
"Okay." She pressed a hand lightly on his chest, ignoring the flutter that caused in her own. "I clearly need more wine than I'd thought to deal with you"—did the man ever stop grinning?—"so let's get moving, shall we?"
He took a step back and swept his hand out in front of him, as if to say, lead the way. Between the outfit and the gesture and the dimple popping in his cheek, James Potter was the perfect picture of charm.
And damnit, she was already falling for it.
They chatted about Paris, Lily pointing out various buildings and monuments as she led them expertly to Montmartre and through the winding streets of Place Cachée to the lively Café Abringer. Ever the gentleman, he pulled out her chair, helped her out of her coat, and saw her settled before shrugging off his own coat and sitting across from her at the small, candlelit table.
He might not have been to Paris before, but James Potter was as posh as they come, and though the menu was in French, he needed no direction in ordering himself a vintage elvish burgundy.
"What's that smirk for?" he asked, leaning forward on crossed arms.
Lily shrugged nonchalantly. "You fit right in, Monsieur."
He smirked, and with his face illuminated by the candle, Lily couldn't help but notice how the dark navy of his jumper combined with his dark swath of hair made his eyes seem even lighter, almost gold.
She plucked a frite from the basket between them and asked as casually as she could, "King's Cross Station, huh?"
His eyes flashed, face turning cold for the most fleeting of moments, and his voice was stiff as he echoed, "King's Cross Station."
"I subscribed to the Prophet when I started working with Slughorn," she offered. She'd have to remember to subscribe for real the next day.
James nodded and swirled his wine glass, as if her explanation for knowing what she did was normal. "Do you, ah, remember what I told you the other day? About Quidditch? Chasing?"
"Yeah," Lily answered evenly. "I remember."
He arched a knowing brow and inclined his head in a look that indicated annoyed exasperation, and Lily thought she understood. That attack had been sport, then.
Her stomach knotted.
They both reached for their wine at the same time, resulting a momentary awkward silence. Lily licked her lips slowly, taking her time placing her glass back on the table, while James leaned elegantly back in his chair and popped a frite in his mouth.
He spoke next, voice smooth and normal, as if there was no tension at all. "So tell me about your work."
The transition was so natural yet so abrupt at the same time that she briefly faltered before answering, "Well…I'm a potioneer, as you know—"
Nodding, he interjected, "My dad was one."
"Oh?" Her eyes followed the column of his neck as he swallowed a sip of wine.
"Yeah, he invented a potion, started a company, made a fortune with it."
Well, that explained a lot. "What potion?"
James cleared his throat and recited, "Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment. And affiliated products."
Lily giggled. "Will you like me more or less if I tell you I've never heard of it?"
He chuckled into his wine glass. "Definitely more."
"Good, I've never heard of it."
"I mean, I'd tell you you're missing out, but you obviously have better hair than me, so…"
She rolled her eyes as she fought a smile. "Flatterer."
"I prefer truth teller."
The words tumbled out of her mouth from nowhere. "Oh, come on now, that wasn't the truth! You have very sexy hair."
For the first time, he looked taken by surprise, all his features widening. "Is that right?"
Fuck, fuck, what was that?
She fixed him with a Look. "I'm not going to repeat it."
And why did he have to look so damn hot when he was so annoyingly smug?
Pull. It. Together.
Lily cleared her throat lightly and swirled her wine glass, returning to her professional tone as she told him, "I'm not a commercial potioneer, I'm in private research."
He looked genuinely interested as he prodded, "Meaning…"
"Meaning," she explained, "we do contracted research projects. If we think it's a promising idea and it's able to be funded, we're interested."
His eyes darted over her face as he studied her across the table. "You keen to do some networking?"
Lily smirked and leaned onto her elbows until her face was halfway across the table and she could whisper, "We're more of a…people come to us kind of thing."
James mimicked her stance, leaning in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered back, "Truth?"
"Obviously, truth teller."
He didn't miss a beat. "That's really fucking hot."
Lily wished she could control her blush but that was an aspect of her body she'd never been able to master, so she ducked her head under the pretense of running her hands through the long ponytail that draped over her shoulder.
"And"—she looked back up at him through her lashes—"it means I can ask you to this for fun, and not business."
He was holding out a small scroll of parchment between his fingers, and at his subtle prompting, she took it and untied its delicate velvet ribbon.
"An invitation to a dinner party," she narrated as she read. "This weekend."
His face had that playful look. "Interested?"
She surveyed him over her wine glass. "Bold of you, asking me on a third date before the second date's even over."
James merely shrugged. "I don't date much, so I don't know the rules."
Lily hummed as she sipped her wine. "I find that hard to believe."
"Which bit?"
"That you don't date."
"I said I don't date much, there's a difference."
Lily rolled her eyes. "Semantics, Potter. Call it what you want, you know the rules, you just don't care about them."
He nodded at the parchment still in her hand. "Don't need 'em when I know you're going to say yes."
God, he could be such a cocky prick. "And how could you possibly know that?"
It was somewhat weak, as retorts went, but she hoped her stiffened posture and cool tone made up for it.
James only grinned, eyes crinkling behind his glasses, and whispered, "Because you think my hair's sexy."
Goddamnit, why did he have to do that? She chuckled despite herself, feeling her cheeks warm under the force of his gaze, and exhaled a breathless, "Fine, my answer's yes," before she took a deep drink of her wine and told that too-handsomely-smug face a very weak, "Fuck you."
Lily frowned and shook her head. "He didn't seem to want to talk about it."
Albus nodded, seeming unsurprised.
"Is it…can you…"
The headmaster spread his hands in a shrug. "It is difficult to say. Of course the Ministry could magically restore King's Cross in a matter of minutes, but given the number of eye-witnesses and the international spread of Muggle media coverage…" He shook his head gravely. "There is no way to manage the scale of memory modification that intervening with magic would require. No, for now, we must leave it in the Muggles' hands, though there is no telling when the station may become operable."
"And…the Hogwarts Express?"
Albus smiled gently. "Untouched," he assured her. "And there remain many other, albeit smaller, stations we may use to shuttle the students to and from school."
Lily twisted her fingers in his lap, running over her conversations with James in her mind. "He seems…nostalgic when he speaks of Hogwarts. Of that time in his life."
Sadness crossed over the old man's face. "His years here were…golden."
"I just…I don't know why, but I just have this feeling that he didn't even know about King's Cross."
Albus nodded slowly. "He was with you when it happened, which suggests his lack of awareness. But I must admit that surprises me. He seems to have ingrained himself deeply enough that I expected him to be a part of premeditated attacks."
Lily didn't know what to say to that, as all she had to go off of was the nagging of her gut and James's cryptic clues in the face of the headmaster's intelligence.
"He invited me to a dinner party," she offered. "This weekend, at the Rosiers'."
Albus's eyes narrowed. "You will want to prepare yourself, Lily," he warned. "And be on your guard."
She swallowed hard, but she reassured him, "I will."
Fleetingly, she wondered if she had done the right thing in leaving out the minor detail of what had happened after they left the café, but truthfully she was feeling a little embarrassed about it, and it's not like she had any concrete intelligence to share.
Regardless, it was too late, she was in the fireplace in Hogwarts, then exiting her own mantle. She placated herself with rationalizing that she would just figure out a way to work her little tidbit of a suspicion into her next meeting with Dumbledore—just in case.
She had no idea how much wine she'd drank (damn Café Abringer and their charmed refilling glasses) but it was enough that she thought pulling a James Potter and Apparating him to her city's greatest landmark was a brilliant idea.
So that's what she did. Or at least, she'd Apparated them on the lawn first—one had to take it in properly before going up top. Obviously.
"Beautiful, isn't she?"
James's arm tightened around her shoulders, drawing her closer into his side as his lips brushed her forehead. "She is," he murmured.
"James," she scolded.
"Hmm?"
"The Eiffel Tower's that way."
He looked up to where Lily was indicating—as if he could miss the blinking tower taking up nearly all their field of vision—and then returned that piercing gaze to her face as he said, "I know."
Lily grabbed a fist of his collar. "Such a fucking flatterer."
And then, thinking he didn't deserve the warning, she Apparated them to the top. Or, at least, as close to the top they could get, which was a good way's above where the Muggles were allowed to go.
Brisk air swirled her coat, lifted her ponytail, skimmed her cheeks, and as she hugged herself, momentarily lost in the sight stretching out before her, James's arms came around either side of her body, gripping the railing in front of them. Lily let herself lean back into him like she had before, relaxing into that solid, comforting warmth he radiated and inhaling that minty, woodsy scent he carried.
Hot breath tickled her ear. "You know, I think I might prefer your skyline to mine."
She chuckled and teased, "Why, am I turning James Potter into a romantic?"
He smiled against her ear. "Who says I wasn't one already?"
Her head tilted instinctively toward him, but any start to a retort she might have had evaporated as her eyes landed on his mouth and she realized just how close they were.
"Lily…" he breathed.
She suddenly felt fourteen again, heart hammering, palms sweating, mind racing over nonsensical worries in the moments before her very first kiss. Vaguely, she thought that Sober Lily would have been in much more control of this situation; Sober Lily was compartmentalizing. Tipsy Lily was capable of no such thing, and all of this stupid, childish crush—racing heart, ragged breath, trembling fingers—was consuming her freely at the sight of that shadowed jaw.
Merlin, she wanted to kiss him. And the way his eyes darted between hers and down to her lips told her that was exactly what was about to happen.
Maybe it was the wine (it was probably the wine), but it felt like they moved in slow motion, leaning in hesitantly, the air around them thick with anticipation. At the last second, Lily let her eyes flutter closed, felt the lightest brush of his lips against hers—
"Ah!" He hissed between his teeth, jerking back from her, and as her eyes flew open she saw him draw his left arm into his side.
Panic immediately woke her senses, clearing her head despite the fact that she was incredibly confused. "What is it?"
His left hand clenched into a fist. "Shit, I'm sorry."
"James—"
"I have to go."
Lily stared at him. "Right now?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Right now. I—I can't explain, but—fuck." He turned her to face him fully, hands squeezing her upper arms. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'll make it up to you."
She didn't say anything, being rather used to hearing empty promises, but if her reaction worried him, he didn't let on. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, stepped back from her, and disappeared.
With nothing else to do, she turned on the spot and Apparated to inside her front door, where she hung up her bag and coat before going straight for the kitchen to pour herself one last generous glass of wine and then taking it into her en suite, where she ran a bath.
A half hour later, submerged in warm lavender-scented bubbles and with half her glass gone, Lily realized with a mixture of frustration, exhaustion, and self-loathing that her thoughts were focusing on two things. One, that James's bizarre behavior with his arm, like he'd been in pain, had to be related to Voldemort. And two, that she still wanted to kiss him.
"Don't look at me like that," Lily admonished before taking a sip of her current glass of the same wine he'd ordered that night. (For all his apparent faults, he did have excellent taste.)
"Like what?" her friend teased. "Like you're utterly smitten? Worse than even your Benedict Dumont phase?"
Lily rolled her eyes, trying to ignore both the truth and the embarrassing reminder of the past in those statements, but Dahlia Fleur-Peri, ever the astute friend, was not to be deterred. Blue-green eyes glittered at Lily from across the small bistro table, a curving smirk that Lily knew all to well spreading behind her glass of Chardonnay. "You know, I have this distinct memory"—God, this couldn't be good—"of you being down and out about men after that Claude cretin"—Lily's face wrinkled in disgust; she'd rather forget that one—"and saying to me, 'Prince Charming can walk through the door any damn time now.'"
Drat, she had said that.
Dahlia arched a knowing brow. "I think he's arrived, non?"
Lily swallowed hard, an uncomfortable feeling—not exactly guilt, not quite regret, either—settling like a rock in her stomach. If James was not a Death Eater, not her target in a secret espionage mission for Albus Dumbledore—if he were an ordinary wizard she'd met in the ordinary way—she would have been inclined to agree.
"I don't know, Dahl." She dropped her eyes to her wine, swirling the glass gently. In the dim light of the restaurant, the liquid looked like blood. "I don't want to get my hopes up."
Even as she said it, she heard the lie in her voice, courtesy of that annoying, stupid, unfortunate, and nonsensical crush that had only blossomed further since their almost-first-kiss atop the Eiffel Tower. But she needed to force her walls up, needed to stay in control, needed to not fall for him like he was a walking, talking composite of, in any other normal version of reality, her dream man.
As expected, Dahlia saw right through it. Her friend blew a circle of purple smoke with a smirk and teased, "Oh, I think it's a little late for that."
