According to Dumbledore, Snape has gotten more active with the purebloods - but not enough to regularly work his way into their social circles. Without the heritage to show for it, they're more than happy to involve him in their dirty work but reluctant to bring him to their parties.

Which would seem massively unfair treatment to her in any other set of circumstances, but is to her benefit in these ones.

She's in deep blue dress robes tonight, crystals sewn into the slinky fabric so that it sparkles against her every curve. It's one of her showier ones, the tightly laced bodice and high slit leaving even less to the imagination than usual. One of the Avery sisters complimented it as soon as Lily made her entrance, and the other just glared at her.

She's not sure which family was responsible for the idea of this event, all of these insanely wealthy families flashing their art collections in one collective space for the night. It's nothing but a competition amongst them - comparing the size of each's collection of rare works the way teenage boys compare dick sizes. Just ten times more pretentious.

All of the art pieces in the event hall have gold plates in front of them, clearly announcing which Sacred Twenty-Eight clan is responsible for this particular contribution.

She's standing in front of a strangely-proportioned depiction of a herd of abraxan moving across a meadow when Rovena Avery - the sister who'd complimented her earlier - appears at her side.

"I wonder who was responsible for the guest list for this," she says, leaning in almost conspiratorially. "I've seen some interesting faces so far tonight."

Lily hasn't noticed anything particularly strange about the other attendees so far - thus far, it's been much the same roster of people who are always found at these sorts of events. "Oh?"

"It seems they've cast a broader pureblood net," she replies, punctuated by a sip of champagne. "Which isn't bad, per se, but I'd expected this affair to be a bit more exclusive."

Content with her contribution of gossip, Rovena slips away again, likely off to find her sister again.

Lily doesn't know what to make of the comment, but ultimately, it doesn't matter much. She doesn't care much what those additional guests might be up to - she's focused on Irving Mulciber tonight.

Who is, conveniently, at least two glasses of firewhiskey deep. After a third, Lily will almost certainly get some information out of him - he's a talkative drunk, but he doesn't seem to have the self-awareness to know that of himself.

For now, she'll continue her slow lap around the hall, collecting what extra information she can in the interim.

Will is here, but she hasn't spoken to him yet tonight - only made eye contact from the other side of the room, which he quickly broke. He's not yet entirely past her spurning of his advances, it would seem.

She turns away from a painting, and nearly collides with three people in conversation.

Two of them are familiar enough, the sorts of purebloods who she regularly speaks to at events like these, but who aren't ever significant enough that she has any need to work them for information.

The third is intimately familiar, but in all the wrong ways.

"That's a shit painting, isn't it?" Lucan Nott remarks, addressing her directly, leaving her little route to duck away. "Honestly, it's embarrassing that the Carrows even thought it worth showing."

"It certainly leaves something to be desired," she replies, but she's not looking at him.

No, instead, she's looking straight at none other than James Potter, who is staring right back at her.

The look of recognition in his eyes is unmistakable, and it terrifies her.

But he must recognise that fear as well, because when he opens his mouth, no doubt getting ready to say her name aloud, he abruptly changes course and no sound comes out at all.

She uses it as an excuse to slide perfectly back into character. "Are you new here? I don't think I've seen you around before, and you don't seem like the type I'd be able to forget about."

James is taken aback for the briefest of moments, clearly still trying to figure out what's happening in front of him.

"I - I don't come to these sorts of functions all that often," he eventually manages, then extends his hand to her. "James Potter."

She could kiss him for how effortlessly he's caught on, how he somehow understands what's at stake here. How he's managed to keep his mouth shut.

"Calypso Selwyn," she replies, putting her hand on top of his. He brings it up to his lips, the gentlest brush against the back of her hand, and it feels like a lightning strike. "Perhaps you'll need to make an appearance at more of them."

"We'll see."

This blatant flirting act is perfectly in character with the faces they each wear individually, hers fully artificial and his still somewhat connected to his reality. But it's entirely out of character for the two of them together - she's found herself the target of his frustration, or found him the target of hers, far more often. Even the heated kisses and then some they've shared haven't been particularly romantic affairs, have been spurred on more by a furious and blistering spark than anything else.

She doesn't know what to do with this energy now.

Lucan clears his throat beside them, and Lily realises that she's been staring at James for far longer than one would expect of a first-time acquaintance.

James drops her hand, and she lets it fall by her side again, the skin on the back of her hand still tingling with the memory of his lips against it.

"I'm going to get a drink," he says. "Would you care to join me?"

She's not sure if the empty champagne glass held between her fingers is a blessing or a curse.

"That would be lovely," she replies, and follows him away from the larger group.

The bar is positioned in the back of the venue, making guests really work to get their hands on their liquor of choice, but before they make it that far, James abruptly veers into a small offshoot of a room, empty sans for a few dimly-backlit sculptures.

He still doesn't speak her name aloud - he doesn't have to, she knows from the look on his face that he knows exactly who he's speaking to underneath all the makeup and beauty charms.

"What are you doing here?" he says, his voice quiet but strangely furious.

"I could ask you the same."

He looks baffled at that, stammering out a response to little success at first. "I - what do you - I belong here. Nonsense high society events like this are what I was raised on."

"Oh, what, and I don't belong?"

"It's just that you're - " he trails off when she raises her eyebrow challengingly. "You know what? I'm not even going to bother trying to finish that, because you'll find a way to get offended somehow."

"Well, what you're implying is offensive."

"And you know damn well I don't mean it like that," he snaps back.

She knows he doesn't. He's never been anything like that type of pureblood, and she's really only snapping at him because it's a natural defense. There aren't any true allegations in her words.

She sighs. "It doesn't matter why I'm here. All that matters is that you keep your damn mouth shut about it."

"I think I've proven myself capable of that, thank you very much," he replies.

She is, suddenly, aware that even in this secret moment in a crowded room, they aren't entirely hidden from view. They aren't exactly attracting attention, but she can never be too careful. She steps forward, placing her hand on his bicep, another boldly flirtatious gesture.

"Well," she says, sweetly now, "don't fuck it up now."

His hand comes up to caress her cheek, torturously slow, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a delicate way that sets her skin ablaze everywhere his fingers touch. Her body betrays her, leaning closer of its own accord. Maybe it's partially an act, but she wants, and she has no doubt that he knows it.

He leans in, so close to her that she can smell the expensive cologne he's got on tonight, and when he speaks, his voice is hardly above a whisper. "You know, I think red hair suits you better."

With that, he turns around and walks away, leaving behind a profound sense of frustration building within her - whether it's of the sexual variety or just from him being a massive prick, she can't quite distinguish. Likely, it's some combination of the two.

But this isn't over. Two can play at this game.

First, however, she has a target to speak with. Unexpected guest or not, she's here tonight on very clear instructions. Mulciber has nearly downed his third drink, and he greets her appearance in his vicinity with a satisfied grin.

"Miss Selwyn, a pleasure," he says by way of greeting, making little effort to hide the way his eyes drag over her dress, no doubt fantasizing about what she might look like out of it.

She's long grown to suppress the wave of disgust that comes with the way she's so readily objectified. It's despicable and gross, but she knows how to wield it. It's a power reclaimed, even if none of them will ever know it.

"I hope you've had a pleasant evening so far," she says simply, ingratiating herself in the group of his conversational companions.

"I fucking hate art," he replies, pausing for long enough to down another swig of whiskey. "My wife collects all sorts of shit for our manor, and I can't stand any of it."

"It's certainly not the most interesting thing here," Lily agrees, if only to appease him.

"That's the truth. We were actually just talking about…"

Somehow, the next ten minutes get Lily nearly all the information she'd shown up here to gather tonight. A tiny Muggle town they plan to terrorize, the means by which anything that occurs there will magically slip entirely under the Ministry's radar.

When one of the ladies loudly announces that dinner will be served, directing everyone to the adjacent dining area, Lily separates from the group of increasingly drunk men, determined to find better dinner companions now that the dirty work she'd come here for has been mostly handled.

The dining room is set up in one long table, chairs neatly lined up all the way down. About a quarter of the party has found seats already, and the rest are trickling in along with Lily.

About a third of the way down, on the side closest to her, is James. Her feet move towards him almost of their own accord.

She knows that it's foolish, that she shouldn't let herself fall into the gravity of a man who's only ever burned her, but what can she say?

She's always liked to play with fire.

The seat next to him is conveniently unoccupied, so she settles herself in it, adjusting her dress robes so that the slit in her skirt exposes her entire leg to him. She knows he notices it too, his eyes fixated on the newly exposed creamy flesh until someone at the table addresses him and he tears his eyes away.

She leaves it at that until the second course. At which point one of her hands drops from the table into her lap, and then slowly, undetectably to anyone else at the table, moves from resting atop her thigh to resting atop his.

His hand tightens around his fork. She resists the urge to grin in triumph.

Over the next few minutes, she gradually moves her hand higher up his leg. He's taunted her once tonight, so it's really only fair to return the favor. She can see, out of the corner of her eye, when a muscle in his jaw jumps. He refuses to look over at her.

She's just about at the top of his thigh, when abruptly, her hand is wrapped in his and very firmly relocated from his thigh back onto her own.

That could be the end of that, but it isn't, because his hand doesn't return back to his own lap after moving hers. Instead, it spreads across her exposed thigh, his thumb tracing small circles on the outside of her leg. In similar fashion to her own movements, he follows a slow path up her thigh, all the way up the slit in her skirt and then underneath it.

Across the table, the eldest Nott brother and his wife are discussing their latest philanthropic contribution to St. Mungo's, and Lily pretends to be caught on their every word. Realistically, only about a third of the words even register; James' fingers are tracing along the place where lace meets skin at her inner thigh, a featherlight touch that has heat coiling low in her stomach, a rush of anticipation flowing through her veins.

She wonders if he'll commit to it, if he'll touch her the way her body so desperately wants him to touch her in the middle of this room, surrounded by all these people.

Dessert is served, but Lily couldn't give a single damn about the perfectly-scooped chocolate mousse and sugar-crusted berries in the crystal glass in front of her. James' fingers are still hovering just a few inches from where she wants them - and part of her knows it'd be worse if he actually touched her properly, that she'd have to forcibly bite back every instinct to react to it, but this teasing is its own form of torture too.

But the thought of that - the idea of James' fingers coaxing a moan from her lips - gives her an idea for retaliation. She dips her spoon into the mousse, placing the confection on her tongue and letting out a soft, borderline-indecent noise of pleasure at the taste of it. It's the sort of reaction no one around them is bound to chalk up to anything other than an enjoyment of the cuisine and perhaps a momentary lapse in decorum, but it has the intended effect on James.

For the first time since that initial touch, he looks at her, and his eyes are burning. There's utterly no mistaking what he wants - and thank Merlin for it, because it's precisely what she wants too.

He makes one deliberate drag of his fingers over her lace-covered center, then removes his hand from her body entirely. She feels a flash of annoyance at the sudden loss of contact, the abrupt pulling-away, but she's willing to play the long game, particularly when James' eyes have already told her that she'll get her satisfaction before the night is up.

When it seems as though all the women are going to retire to the sitting room and a sizable portion of the men are discussing going outside with cigars and whatever collection of drugs they've managed to get their hands on tonight, Lily figures it's as good a moment as ever. With everyone standing up at once and moving, it's nearly impossible to notice the way she lingers just a little bit too long, waiting until she feels James directly behind her, his hand on the small of her back.

"If you're going to finger-fuck me," she says softly, leaning back so that no one else but him can hear her, "at least do it properly."

And then she starts walking forward with purpose, except, instead of turning to the left out of the dining room like everyone else is, she turns to the right, heading towards the bathroom she knows is just around the corner.

She doesn't have to look behind her to know that James is following, lingering behind her just far enough so that it doesn't look like they're going to the same place.

When she walks into the loo, she doesn't even bother fully shutting the door behind her, leaving it ever-so-slightly ajar as she walks over to the counter and looks at her reflection in the ornate gold mirror. The heady flush she knows is spread across her cheeks and collarbones is fully concealed by the layers of makeup, but there's no hiding the way her pupils are blown wide, dark and lustful.

She can see James enter the room in the mirror's reflection; he does so almost silently, the door softly clicking shut behind him the only indicator of his presence. Lily barely suppresses a smile when she thinks on the massive difference in his arrival this time and the last time they'd shagged.

When he walks up behind her and leans down to whisper in her ear, his voice is low and burning, and his hot breath against her neck sends a shiver down her spine.

"How about I do you one better than a finger-fuck?"

As he speaks, his left hand reaches around the front of her dress, up the same slit he'd had so much fun with at dinner. His gentle touch against her thigh is already maddening, and she can barely bite back a moan as his fingers start to trace the lace of her knickers again.

"I would - like that," she says, barely managing to get the words out as he kisses the exposed skin on the side of her neck.

She can feel him grin against her skin at that, before the hand he's got under her dress abruptly changes course, pulling her knickers down entirely. When they reach her ankles, she steps out of them, and James grabs them off the floor and pockets them. She's about to protest that, but then he's gently running his fingers all the way up her leg, teasing her, stopping to squeeze her hip as he stands up again, ducking his head down to press his lips against the curve of her jaw.

"You look so stunning in that dress," he whispers against her skin, and she flushes at the praise. "Of course, you look even more stunning with it off."

From him, the words mean something entirely different than they would from anyone else.

"Take it off then," she replies boldly.

She can't think of anything else this dress was meant to do; surely it was only ever created for this moment, to be taken off by him.

He follows her directions immediately, practically jumping to the task of untying the laces at the back of the dress, pulling them loose so that when he pushes the straps off her shoulders and pulls it down, it falls to the floor in a neat puddle.

"Fucking hell," James swears, his gaze alternating between her and her reflection in the mirror in front of him.

She basks in his attention, but snaps nonetheless, "We don't have much time - I'd like it if you did more than just ogle me."

He spurs into action almost immediately, one hand sliding down her stomach as his mouth meets the juncture between her neck and shoulder. He touches her, finally, making good on all the teasing he'd offered up at the table, and she surprises even herself with the way her hips jerk against his fingers.

"Eager, aren't we?" he asks, his voice light and teasing.

"Shut it, Potter, and fuck me like you promised."

It's always like this when they touch, an endless fight for power, a push for who can get the upper hand, knowing just how badly they want each other physically. The competitiveness of it is strangely intoxicating.

"Put your hands on the counter," he instructs, and she watches as his reflection undoes his belt and trousers.

As fun as it might be to argue with him, to demand his manners, they are on a bit of a time crunch, and she wants him just a little too badly to fully indulge her impulse to make him struggle. She braces her hands on the counter as instructed.

He's inside of her a few moments later, firmly holding her hips against his and causing her head to fall backwards, lost in the sensation of finally getting what she's been after all night.

He uses the new angle of her head to meet her lips in a kiss, no doubt smudging her lipstick enough that she'll need to fix it later, but right now she'll opt to messily kiss him back, the sweet taste of sugar-crusted blackberries still lingering on his tongue.

When he starts to move, it's at a relentless pace. After the Cannons match, she'd wondered, vaguely in the back of her mind, if fucking James was destined to only feel incredible the first time, or if it'd be just as addicting every time thereafter.

She's found her answer now, and it's almost certainly the latter.

The hand holding her hip is squeezing tight enough to leave fingerprint-shaped bruises, leaving a mark on her, a golden tattoo. It's a delicious bite of pain amidst the pleasure, and James' other hand finds her clit again, working that sensitive spot perfectly in time with his thrusts.

It's so much, so fast, and Lily tumbles over the edge almost as soon as she's aware of an impending orgasm.

When she comes back into herself, she can tell that James is close too, pulls his hand from her clit to her breast, meets his eyes in the ornate mirror in front of them. And that, it seems, is what does it.

For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom is their heavy breathing, James' cheek resting against the slope of her shoulder, the pounding of his heart palpable against her skin.

Amidst all the events of tonight, the weight of him against her is almost grounding, calming. A brief reprieve, as if his presence has temporarily washed away all the expectations and stressors of being here, surrounded by all these purebloods.

She supposes it makes sense, in a way - he's the only person that knows her at all, after all, and right now, alone with him, she doesn't have to pretend to be anything else. Even in her worst lies, he's seen the truth.

But such moments of bliss were never meant to last forever, and eventually James pulls away, pulling his trousers up and straightening his dress robes, leaving Lily with her hands still braced on the bathroom counter, all too aware that she needs to get out of here.

"You still haven't told me why you're here tonight." He leans against the wall casually, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he watches her put her dress back on.

She pulls the dress up over her hips, perhaps a little more roughly than she should, before sliding the straps onto her shoulders. Unbidden, a wave of frustration washes over her, largely aimed at him for so thoroughly shattering her temporary illusion of peace. James may know her as Lily even through her cover-up, but he doesn't - he can't - know everything.

Her voice is frosty when she answers him. "I came into the loo so that you could fuck me, not ask questions," she replies. "Tighten this for me, will you?"

He obliges her request wordlessly, tugging the corset tight and tying the laces together. It's only when she's quickly fixing her makeup that he speaks again, and even then, it doesn't last long.

"Evans - "

"I'm not talking about this with you," she snaps, cutting him off entirely. "Both of us were here, if you hadn't noticed. I'm not asking you questions about why you were here, and I expect you to do the same."

He closes his mouth at that.

"Now," she says authoritatively, "I'm going to walk out of here, and make my way to the sitting room. Give it at least three minutes, and then I don't give a fuck what you do for the rest of the night. Just don't get caught."

"Seven years at Hogwarts really gave you no faith in my ability to sneak around?"

"Your detention record speaks for itself," she answers. "Not to mention, you had a magical map to cheat with for the last few years. Unless you've got one for every magical building in the United Kingdom, I think my concern is warranted."

She doesn't give him a chance to answer that - rather, she slips out into the dim, empty hallway. After a cursory check of her surroundings, she makes her way to the sitting room.

She is, predictably, one of the last to arrive, grabbing a glass of red wine from a plate nearby and promptly downing half of it. It's not enough to get her buzzed, but it's enough.

Just as with all of their rendezvous before, she can't bring herself to regret anything - but she can't deny that James seeing her here, James knowing even just the tiniest bit of what she does here, significantly complicates things.

She trusts him, yes, but secrets are always easier to keep when only one person knows them. That's been Dumbledore's philosophy all along with the Order, after all. It's what's kept her alive this far.

She refuses to give James any more information about her role, no matter how many times he tries to ask.

The Avery sisters are seated with Narcissa Black and a few other purebloods, and Lily takes one of the few remaining seats in their circle.

The conversation is largely about boys, which is simultaneously Lily's area of expertise with this crowd and the topic she'd least like to talk about right now.

Rovena, however, doesn't seem to catch onto that at all, and instead turns her attention straight onto the newest arrival to their circle.

"Oh, and James Potter seemed enamoured by you this evening, Calypso," she says, reaching out to pat her arm. "He's a bit wonky with some of his beliefs, but god, that's some serious money to marry into."

"I'm not sure he's my type," Lily answers, and it's almost not a lie.

Though her present lack of underwear might suggest otherwise.