Chapter Text
July had forgotten itself. That was the only explanation. Somewhere between the solstice and today, the entire month had lost its nerve, retreating into a sulky grey drizzle that belonged to March and had no business squatting over Surrey in what was supposed to be high summer.
To her misfortune, Petunia had moved the wedding from May to July because May weather was "simply too unpredictable, Lily, you wouldn't understand, you've never had to plan anything important." The irony of this decision was obvious. Lily had checked the forecast that morning: rain until evening, temperatures barely scraping fifteen degrees, with a chance of "bright spells" at best.
Lily felt the familiar squeeze of Apparition release her ribs and stumbled slightly on landing, her heels sinking into soft earth. They'd materialized between two overgrown privet hedges at the edge of the property, hidden from the road by dense greenery that dripped steadily onto their shoulders.
"Bloody-" She spat out a mouthful of hedge. A twig had lodged itself in her hair, and something small and many-legged was making its way up her wrist.
"Elegant," Severus muttered, extracting his shoe from a particularly soggy patch.
"Would you have preferred the living room? Petunia would have had me arrested." Lily pushed a branch away from her face and peered through the gap in the hedge.
She'd been here once before, three weeks ago, when her mother had insisted on seeing Petunia's new house. The visit had lasted exactly forty-seven minutes, during which Petunia had given them the grand tour with the breathless pride of someone who'd escaped a burning building and built a palace on the ashes. Vernon had been at work, thankfully.
Now she was back, with Severus in tow, for what promised to be the longest day of her life. Her fingers twitched toward her pocket before she remembered it was empty because she was quitting smoking. They simply couldn't afford her habit.
"Remind me again why I agreed to this," he asked.
"Because I asked very nicely." She turned to face him and bit back a smile.
"You asked while I was half-asleep."
"You could have said no." She'd learned, over the past months, that there existed a window of approximately ten minutes after they'd worn each other out when Severus would agree to almost anything. It felt slightly underhanded to exploit it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
"Could I?" The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough.
"You didn't." She reached up to straighten his collar, which didn't need straightening, just to have an excuse to touch him. "It's one day. A few hours, really. We'll eat some free food, watch my sister marry a man who sells drills for a living, and be home by dark."
"Fine," he said, in the tone of a man being led to the gallows.
Lily picked leaves from her hair and reached for her hat, which was no longer on her head. A glance back revealed it dangling from a branch, victim of the hedge.
The hat had been Petunia's choice. The dress too: brown grey, high-collared, buttoned to the throat, delivered with a note about Lily not being trusted to dress herself. She looked like someone's maiden aunt, the kind who collected commemorative plates and had strong opinions about Princess Margaret's divorce.
She rescued the hat and crammed it back on. It would photograph terribly. Good.
Then she stepped back to examine him properly and noticed the problem immediately. "Oh, for- hold still."
Black cat hair covered the left side of his jacket in a fine dusting, concentrated around the pocket where the beast liked to rub its face. She pulled her wand from the hidden pocket she'd added to the dress with magic and conjured a lint roller. The magic was simple, barely a flicker, but Severus's eyes darted toward the street anyway.
"Relax. No one's watching." She rolled the sticky paper over his lapel, his shoulder, down the arm of his suit, black as a funeral and slightly too large because he'd transfigured it from school robes and refused to adjust it further. "You'd think he did this on purpose.."
"I was sitting on the sofa. The beast climbed on me." He said this with the unconvincing indignation of someone who had been caught letting the cat sleep on his chest for an hour while pretending to read.
She finished with the lint roller, vanished it with a flick, and leaned up to press a quick kiss to his mouth. "There. Presentable."
He caught her elbow before she could pull away. "Lily."
"Mm?"
"If this goes badly-"
"It won't."
"If it does." His fingers tightened slightly. "I need you to know that I tried to warn you."
The thing was, she needed this. Needed to prove, to herself, to her family, to some invisible jury that lived in her chest and judged her constantly, that they could do this. That they could attend a wedding like any other couple, make small talk with distant relations, eat canapés and drink too-sweet wine and not cause a scene. That love hadn't made her strange, or stranger than she'd already been.
And if she was honest, she needed a day away from the wizarding world entirely, the fear, the headlines, the conversations she and Severus couldn't have without treading on old wounds. Even Petunia's wedding seemed preferable to another evening listening for bad news.
They emerged from the hedge in stages, first Lily, then Severus, both picking leaves off their clothes with the studied casualness of people pretending they hadn't just crawled through shrubbery. The front path was paved with the kind of pristine flagstones that suggested someone spent their weekends on hands and knees with a wire brush. Lily's heels clicked against them as she walked, the sound too loud in the quiet street.
Every house on Privet Drive looked exactly the same. They were surrounded by neat lawns, net curtains, cars in the driveways that probably got washed every Sunday. This was Petunia's dream made manifest: a place where nothing unexpected ever happened, where everyone was exactly like everyone else, where the word "magic" only appeared in cleaning product advertisements.
She pressed the doorbell. Quick footsteps approached from inside, and the door swung open before she could prepare herself.
Her mother stood in the doorway, resplendent in a dress Lily had never seen before, light blue, properly fitted, with a small corsage pinned to her shoulder. She looked beautiful, Lily thought with a pang, genuinely beautiful, her hair set in soft waves, a dusting of powder on her cheeks, the careful composure of a woman who had decided she would not cry until at least the speeches.
"Lily, you're-" Her mother's eyes moved past her and stopped. "Oh."
"Severus." Her mother's hand fluttered to her throat. "I didn't... Lily didn't mention..."
"Good morning, Mrs. Evans." The words came out starched, as though he'd rehearsed them.
Her mother stopped, shook her head, and visibly decided this was a problem for later. "Never mind. Come in, both of you. Wipe your feet properly, Petunia's just had the runner cleaned."
The hallway of her sister's home smelled of new carpet and artifical florals, lavender and roses, maybe, emitting from the air fresheners placed on the shoe cupboard. Family photographs lined the walls in matching frames: Petunia's school photo, a faded shot of their parents in front of a Christmas tree, Petunia's graduation, Petunia and Vernon at what looked like a work function, Vernon's family in front of a caravan. Lily spotted exactly one picture of herself, tucked away near the stairs, a childhood shot where she was missing her front teeth and her hair looked like she'd lost a fight with a bramble bush. Of course Petunia would choose that one.
Lily had barely made it to the sitting room, all cream upholstery and matching curtains and the sort of aggressive blandness that suggested strong opinions about what constituted taste, when she heard Petunia's sharp footsteps on the stairs.
Severus was just about to sit on the sofa, perched on the very edge of the cream cushions.
Before she could do something, Petunia already appeared in the doorway.
She was halfway into her wedding dress, the bodice half way done up but the back still gaping open, held together by her own arm twisted awkwardly behind her. Her hair had been sculpted into an elaborate construction of curls and pins that added three inches to her height, and she had the wild-eyed look of a woman who had reached the end of a very frayed rope.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Petunia made a sound like a kettle reaching boil, a high thin whistle of barely suppressed hysteria, and Lily braced for explosion.
"Mum." Petunia's voice came out strangled. "Mum, why is he in my house?"
Their mother appeared behind Petunia, slightly out of breath. "Now, Petunia, let's not-"
"Why is he sitting on my sofa?" The pitch of her voice rose dangerously. "On my wedding day? In my sitting room?"
Severus wisely remained silent.
"The invitation said I could bring a guest," Lily said, and was surprised by how steady her voice came out. "I brought a guest."
Petunia's head swiveled toward Lily and her eyes narrowed. "A guest," she repeated. "You thought, on today of all days, you thought the appropriate choice was him??"
"You said plus one. He's my plus one."
"I said plus one because that's what wedding invitations say, Lily. I didn't think you'd actually-" Petunia cut herself off, pressing her free hand to her forehead as though checking for fever. "I can't do this. I cannot do this right now. The cars are coming in an hour and…."
Lily felt the familiar defensive anger rising in her chest, the same anger she'd been swallowing down since she was nine years old. She lifted her chin.
"We've brought a gift," she said, and turned to Severus. "Sev, give her the gift."
He looked at her with an expression that clearly communicated his feelings about being volunteered for this task. But he stood, crossed to where he'd left his coat, and withdrew the wrapped box from its pocket, still shrunken to the size of a matchbox. He restored it to its proper dimensions with a flick of his wand that made Lily wince. Not the moment for casual magic, but done was done.
Severus crossed the room and held out the box. The wrapping paper was pale pink, chosen specifically because Lily knew Petunia would like it.
Petunia stared at it like he was offering her a severed head.
"It's a gravy boat," Lily supplied, when the silence stretched too long. "You mentioned you didn't have one. For the roast dinners. Vernon likes roast dinners, you said."
Severus had called it the most pointless gift he'd ever heard of. A boat for gravy, he'd said flatly, when she'd shown him the object. Instead of just... pouring it from the pan like a normal person. This creates extra washing up for no reason for the muggles. She'd thrown a cushion at his head and told him he'd never be invited to a posh dinner party with that attitude, which had started a playful argument that carried them through the evening.
Petunia ,of course, didn't take the gift. She stared at Severus's outstretched hands, then at Lily, then at the box again.
"There's a gift table," she said, her voice gone high and tight. "At the reception. Where all the gifts go. That's what the gift table is for, Lily. What kind of wedding doesn't have a gift table?"
"We didn't know-"
"Everyone knows about gift tables! Everyone who's ever been to a wedding in their entire life knows about gift tables!"
Severus lowered the box slowly, uncertain, then passed it sideways to Lily without looking at her. Clearly this was not the moment.
From upstairs came the sound of a door opening, followed by concerned voices. One of the bridesmaids. Yvonne, Lily thought, the one with the aggressive perm, called down: "Petunia? Everything all right down there?"
Petunia's face contorted through several expressions before landing on a bright, brittle smile. "Fine!" she shouted back, her voice suddenly cheerful. "Just fine! Don't come down! Stay up there, I'll be right back!"
The door closed again. The smile dropped from Petunia's face quickly.
Their mother stepped forward, taking charge of the crisis. "Kitchen," she said firmly. "Both of you. Now."
She herded them through the hall with a hand on each daughter's elbow, the firm, practiced grip of a woman who had once separated two screaming children fighting over the last bottle of fizzy drink and had never quite stopped.
The kitchen was too bright after the sitting room, all those white surfaces reflecting the grey light from the window. Petunia stood with her back against the counter, arms crossed over her half-done dress, looking at Lily like she was the source of everything wrong with this morning.
"Did you curse it?" Petunia demanded.
"What?" Lily said, genuinely bewildered.
"The gravy boat. Did you curse it?" Her voice had dropped to a hiss. "Like you cursed that teapot? Is it going to start singing in the middle of Christmas dinner? Or will it just explode?"
Lily felt her patience fraying at the edges. "The teapot wasn't- I didn't curse the teapot, Petunia. It was enchanted."
"Oh, there's a difference, is there?"
"Yes, actually. A curse is-" She stopped herself. This was not the time for a lecture on magical theory.
"It's just a gravy boat. Look." She took the box and tore off the wrapping paper, the pale pink she'd asked the shop assistant to make especially neat, knowing her sister, and extracted the gravy boat itself, white china with a delicate blue pattern around the rim, perfectly ordinary, aggressively normal.
She flipped it over, shaking it for good measure. "See? Nothing. It's just a gravy boat. It pours gravy. That's all it does."
Petunia's eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me?"
The Cokeworth was creeping back into Petunia's voice, the way it always did when she lost her temper. She'd always had to work harder at losing it than Lily, more years there, deeper roots, and Lily took a petty, private satisfaction in hearing it resurface now.
"What? No, I'm showing you-"
"Do you think I'm stupid?" The words came out sharp enough to cut. "You think I don't know a curse wouldn't just fall out if you tipped it over?"
"Petunia."
"He never apologized, you know." The words came from somewhere much older than this morning. "That awful boy in my sitting room. For the branch. He never once said he was sorry."
The branch. Lily remembered. It had been an accident, mostly, but Severus would sooner have drunk poison than apologise to Petunia, and Lily had never made him.
"That was almost ten years ago," Lily said. "We were nine. And it's not like a tree branch is going to hunt you down and fall on you in the middle of the church."
"It's not about the branch." Petunia's voice cracked on the last word.
"It was never about the darned branch, Lily. It's about-" She gestured wildly, encompassing the kitchen, the house, the world beyond. "It's about everything. It's about you and him and-"
Lily heard them anyway, the words Petunia wouldn't say: magic, witch, freak. They sounded ugly even unspoken.
"And since when are you two even-" Petunia waved her hand again, a sharp dismissive gesture. "Together? When did that happen? Did you just decide to spring this on me today, of all days?"
"We've been together since Easter."
"Easter." Petunia's laugh sounded like their mother's when she was truly furious. "Easter. And you didn't think to mention it? In all those phone calls where you pretended to care about my wedding?"
"I didn't pretend-" Okay, maybe she had pretended a bit, it was hard not to.
"Even you could do better than him, Lily. Even you." Lily flinched before she could stop herself. How dare she? "That greasy, skulking, strange boy from Spinner's End. The one who used to watch you from the bushes like some kind of-"
"We live together." The words came out before Lily could stop them, defensive and defiant. "We're very happy, actually."
Petunia looked at her as though she'd just announced she'd taken up ritual sacrifice. "You live together?"
"Yes."
"Unmarried?"
"Yes." Lily drew herself up, trying to channel every modern woman she'd ever read and heard about. "It's 1978, Petunia. People live together. It's not scandalous."
She thought about Severus sitting alone in the other room. About his ‘you could live here, if you wanted’, and how it had meant everything even though it came with no ring, no ceremony, no promise beyond the next day and the day after that. Which was all that she really needed, wasn’t it?
"Mum." Petunia turned to their mother, who had been busying herself straightening the tea towels, adjusting the position of the kettle, doing everything possible to avoid being drawn into the conversation. "Mum, did you know about this? Did you know she was living in sin with that-"
"Petunia, that's enough." Their mother's voice was tired.
Petunia sputtered. "She brings her miserable boyfriend to my wedding without asking, she's apparently been carrying on with him for months, and it's her own business?"
"Sit down." Their mother said as suddenly Petunia’s face was fading from red into grey. She was guiding her toward the kitchen table, one hand firm on her shoulder. "Sit down before you fall down. Your face has gone all red, if you sweat now, we'll have to start over with the hair, and there isn't time."
"I can't sit down, the dress will-"
"Perch, then. Carefully." Their mother pulled out a chair. "I mean it, Petunia. You already nearly fainted once. We can't have that again."
Petunia lowered herself onto the edge of the chair, still holding her dress together at the back. "It was Marge," Petunia muttered, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.
"She insisted on staying here the night before with those horrible bulldogs, because the hotel wouldn't accept dogs, as if that's my problem, and it got into the flowers, ate half the boutonnieres, and then she had the nerve to say they probably disagreed with his stomach and could I get him some bicarbonate of soda. As if I keep bicarbonate of soda for dogs." Petunia's voice had taken on a wobbling, dangerous quality.
"And then the bakery called to say the cake topper had arrived damaged, and I had to send Fiona out to get a different one last minute, and it's raining, it's July and it's raining, and now this."
Her breathing had gone strange, Lily noticed. Quick and shallow, her chest rising and falling too fast beneath the bodice of her dress.
"Petunia?" Their mother leaned down, concerned. "Petunia, breathe. Slowly. In through your nose-"
"I can't-" Petunia's hand flew to her chest. "I can't breathe, I can't- this corset is too tight, I told the seamstress it was too tight, but she said it was supposed to be-"
"Mum, she's-"
"I know, I can see." Their mother was rubbing Petunia's back, making soothing sounds. "Petunia, love, you need to calm down. Think about Vernon. Think about the honeymoon. Two weeks in Costa Brava, remember? You've been looking forward to it for months."
Lily looked around the kitchen, searching for something that might help. A paper bag, maybe, wasn't that what you were supposed to breathe into? But she didn't see one, just the-
There. On the counter by the window. A bottle of wine, already opened, probably from whatever pre-wedding celebration the bridesmaids had been having upstairs.
Lily grabbed it and thrust it toward her sister. "Here. Drink this."
Petunia's hand shot out and seized the bottle with the desperation of a drowning woman grabbing a rope. She brought it to her lips and drank, great gulping swallows that made her cough and sputter because she was still breathing too fast at the same time.
"Slowly," their mother urged. "Petunia, slowly-"
The bottle tilted too far, her shaking hands unable to control it. She gasped as red wine splashed down the front of her wedding dress in a dark crimson wave.
For one frozen moment, nobody moved.
Lily watched the stain spread across the white silk, blooming outward like blood from a wound. The dress, the dress that Petunia had spent months choosing, that she'd had fitted four separate times, that she'd shown Lily photographs of with pride, was ruined.
Lily's hand was moving before she'd consciously decided to act, reaching for her wand where it was hidden up her sleeve. A simple cleaning charm, that's all it would take. Three seconds, maybe less, and the dress would be pristine again.
Her fingers closed around the wood just as Petunia's scream split the air. She stared at the spreading stain like she couldn't understand what she was seeing, her mouth open, her fingers trembling an inch above the ruined silk.
Their mother stood frozen, one hand still on Petunia's back, staring at the ruined dress with an expression of dawning horror.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs.
"Petunia? Petunia?" Yvonne's voice, shrill with alarm. "What's happened? We heard-"
The kitchen door burst open and the bridesmaids poured in, Yvonne with her perm, and two others Lily vaguely recognized from the engagement party, their matching lavender dresses creating a pastel wall of concern.
"Oh my God," one of them breathed.
She raised her hand to her head instead of casting the spell, scratching at her scalp with the wand's tip like it was a pencil she'd forgotten she was holding. Just a piece of wood. Just an absent-minded gesture. Nothing to see here.
The bridesmaids rushed forward, exclaiming, reaching for Petunia. Their mother was saying something about cold water and salt. Petunia had started crying, great heaving sobs that shook her whole body.
"Upstairs." Their mother's voice had gone calm, she was barely holding herself together. "Bathroom. Now. We need to get that dress off before the stain sets."
She hauled Petunia up from the chair, one arm around her waist, already steering her toward the door. Petunia moved like a sleepwalker, staring down at the crimson bloom spread across her bodice with the hollow expression of someone watching their house burn down.
"Lily, come with us. I'll need help with… the buttons."
Lily followed them through the sitting room, painfully aware of Severus still perched on the sofa, where she had left him, watching the procession with the wary stillness of someone who'd wandered into the wrong room and couldn't find the exit.
The bathroom was at the end of the upstairs hallway. Their mother guided Petunia inside and immediately started working on the buttons at the back of the dress, her fingers moving with the efficiency of someone who had dressed and undressed children for many years.
"What have you got for stains?" she asked, not looking up. "White vinegar? Bicarbonate of soda? Salt, at least?"
Petunia shook her head, a jerky motion that sent one of her carefully pinned curls tumbling loose. "I don't… we only just moved in, the boxes aren't even all unpacked yet, I don't know where anything-"
"Have I taught you nothing?"
"The cleaning supplies are still downstairs somewhere…" Petunia's voice cracked. "I don't know, Mum."
The bridesmaids clustered in the doorway, craning to see, too many bodies for the tiny space.
"Help me get this off her. Carefully, don't pull, you'll tear the fabric."Their mother said tersely, finally getting the last button undone.
They maneuvered the dress over Petunia's head in a complicated operation that required four pairs of hands and the kind of teamwork usually reserved for bomb disposal. Petunia emerged from the silk cocoon in just her slip with her elaborate hairdo now listing dangerously to one side.
"My dress," she whispered. "My dress."
The bathroom had never been meant for this many people. Lily pressed herself against the sink, out of the way, while the bridesmaids surrounded Petunia with tissues and murmured reassurances. Petunia sat on the toilet lid and wept, her sobs coming in small hiccups that shook her bare shoulders.
"We'll fix it." One of the other bridesmaids assured her. "It's not that bad. Maybe if we soak it in cold water-"
"You can't soak silk in cold water, it'll water-mark."
"What about club soda? My mum always uses club soda."
"Does anyone have club soda?"
"I don't think Petunia has anything, she just said-"
"Lemon juice? Vinegar? There must be something in the kitchen."
The blonde bridesmaid, was rubbing Petunia's back in slow circles. "It's going to be fine, darling. It's going to be absolutely fine. We'll sort it. Nobody will even notice."
"It's on the bodice," Petunia whispered. "The front. Everyone will-"
"The bouquet will cover it," another bridesmaid offered. "You'll be holding your bouquet and nobody will-"
"I'm not holding my bouquet for ten hours, Karen."
Guilt sat in her stomach heavy as a stone. She'd known this would happen. Not this exactly, but something. She'd known and she'd come anyway.
"Everyone out." The words left her mouth before she'd fully decided to say them. "I need… we need a moment. Family only."
Yvonne's head snapped up. "But we're trying to help-"
"I know. And we appreciate it. But we need to discuss something privately." Lily met her mother's eyes over Petunia's bowed head, trying to communicate please, just go along with this. "Family discussion."
"She's right," she said, straightening up with the dress draped over her arm. "Give us five minutes. Go check on the flowers or something."
The bridesmaids exchanged uncertain glances, but something in their mother's tone didn't invite argument. They filed out one by one, Yvonne shooting Lily a sharp look as she passed, and then the door clicked shut behind them and it was just the three of them.
Their mother hung the dress on the back of the door, where the stain was fully visible in the harsh bathroom light, an ugly dark splotch that covered most of the bodice, the red wine already oxidizing to a brownish purple at the edges. She turned to Lily.
"Fix it."
Lily blinked. "What?"
"The dress. Fix it." Their mother's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I know you can. I've seen you mend things before, that time you burned a hole in your jumper with a cigarette and it was perfect again by morning." She gestured at the ruined silk. "This is just a stain. You can fix a stain."
"No."
Petunia's voice cut through the bathroom like a blade. She'd stopped crying, Lily realized. Her face was blotchy and red, her mascara ruined, but her eyes had gone hard with something that looked almost like hatred.
"Absolutely not." Petunia stood up from the toilet, drawing herself up to her full height in her slip and ruined hairdo, somehow still managing to look formidable. "I won't have it. Not today. Not on my wedding day."
Lily had known she would say that. Had known it from the moment the wine hit the silk. But hearing it stung.
"Petunia-" their mother started.
"No, Mum. I mean it." Petunia's chin was trembling, but her voice stayed steady. "I have spent months planning this wedding. Months. Every detail, every flower, every napkin fold, I did it myself because I wanted it to be perfect."
She looked at Lily with an expression that was almost pleading beneath the anger. "Can't you understand that? Can't you give me just one day where everything is ordinary?"
"I wasn't trying to-"
"You brought him." The word dripped with contempt. "To my wedding. Without asking. And now…" She gestured at the dress, at the bathroom, at the whole catastrophic morning.
Her eyes found Lily's and held them. "After this, I never want anything to do with any of this freakishness again. Ever. You can live your life and I'll live mine, and we'll pretend the other doesn't exist."
The words hit Lily harder than she'd expected.
"Fine." Lily forced the word out past the tightness in her throat. "Suit yourself."
A knock at the door made them all jump. Yvonne's voice came through, muffled but urgent.
"Mrs. Evans? We've had an idea. Sandra knows there's a Waitrose about ten minutes away, and there's a Sainsbury's in the other direction. If we split up, we can check both, one of them's bound to have proper stain remover. The kind for silk, maybe, or at least-"
Their mother was already opening the door. "That's good thinking. Yes, do that."
The bridesmaids clattered downstairs, already sorting themselves into groups, debating cars and directions with the renewed energy of people who finally had something useful to do.
"What about Boots?" Their mother had switched into organizational mode. "Lily and I will try Boots. They might have something in the chemist section, fabric treatments, maybe, or, it's worth checking."
"And I'll stay here." Petunia's voice was small, defeated. "In case, in case Vernon calls, or the car arrives early, or-"
"You'll stay here and rest." Their mother said. "Put a cold flannel on your face to bring down the swelling."
Lily followed her mother in a daze, her mind still stuck on Petunia's words.
In the sitting room Severus had found a copy of Good Housekeeping from somewhere and was clearly not too impressed with the article about casserole dishes that the cover had advertised. He looked up, his expression questioning.
She opened her mouth to ask if he wanted to come, to rescue him from the cream damask purgatory of Petunia's sitting room, but her mother's hand closed around her elbow before she could get the words out.
"Come on," her mother said, already pulling her toward the front door. "We haven't got time to waste."
Lily looked back over her shoulder as she was towed outside.
The Boots on the high street was well-lit and smelled of soap and cheap perfume. Lily followed her mother down the aisles, past the cosmetics counter where a bored-looking girl was restocking lipsticks, past the pharmacy queue where an elderly man was arguing about his prescription, toward the cleaning supplies section at the back of the store.
"What about this one?" Lily picked up a bottle at random, something called Stain Devils, with an optimistic devil mascot on the label.
Her mother took it from her, examined the back, and set it down again with a sigh. "That's for cotton and polyester. Don't you know anything?"
"I thought stain remover was stain remover."
"And that's exactly the problem, isn't it?" Her mother moved down the aisle, scanning the shelves. "You've never had to learn any of this. Wave your wand and everything's fixed. Why bother knowing what works on silk versus wool versus-"
"Mum."
"I'm just saying." She picked up another bottle, squinted at the instructions, put it back. "There are consequences to not knowing how the normal world works. Today being a prime example."
Lily bit the inside of her cheek and said nothing.
Her mother stopped in front of a display of specialty fabric treatments, her back to Lily. "You shouldn't have brought him."
"Severus hasn't done anything wrong." The words came out more defensive than she'd intended. "He's been perfectly acceptable. He sat quietly on the sofa, he didn't say an unkind word to Petunia, he's been the most well-behaved person in that house, and that includes the bridesmaids, one of whom suggested putting lemon juice on satin-"
"That's not what I mean, and you know it."
"He's my boyfriend, Mum. He's practically family at this point."
Her mother turned to face her, and the expression on her face made her feel about six years old.
"It's your sister's wedding day," she said quietly. "Her big day. And you knew how she felt about him. About all of it. And you brought him anyway."
"The invitation said-"
"I don't care what the invitation said." Her mother's voice was still quiet, but there was steel underneath it now. "You could have come alone. And it's not kind, Lily, making Severus sit through all this just so you can make a statement."
Lily opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Because her mother wasn't entirely wrong, was she?
Her mother selected two bottles from the shelf, one promising to work on "delicate fabrics," another specifically mentioning silk, and headed for the register without waiting to see if Lily followed.
The queue was short, just one woman ahead of them buying nappies and formula. Lily stared at the impulse-buy display next to the till, travel-sized shampoos, breath mints, novelty keyrings, and tried to think of something to say that would make this better.
"You know," her mother said, not looking at her, "you and Petunia might have been closer if your father were still here."
She hadn't expected her father to be brought into this, not today, not in the middle of Boots.
"It started well before Dad died," she said, and her voice came out too flat. "You know that. It started when I met Severus. When I was nine."
"It started before that." Her mother moved forward as the woman ahead of them finished paying. "But he wouldn't have let it get this far."
The cashier rang up the stain removers, and her mother paid with exact change from her purse, the coins clicking against the counter one by one. The ordinary sounds of the transaction felt very far away.
"Come on," her mother said, tucking the paper bag under her arm. "We haven't got time to stand about."
They pulled up to Number Four, Privet Drive to find the other cars already back, parked haphazardly along the kerb. Her mother wrestled the Austin into a space at the end of the row, her parking as uncertain as ever. Through the front window, Lily could see movement, figures in lavender clustered around something, their body language suggesting excitement rather than crisis.
"Looks like someone found something that worked," her mother said, but her voice remained cautious.
Inside, the atmosphere had transformed. The bridesmaids were gathered in the sitting room, clustered around the wedding dress which now hung from the picture rail, displayed like a trophy. They were making sounds that Lily associated with baby mammals and engagement rings, soft oohs and aahs and little gasps of amazement.
"-completely gone, can you believe it-"
"-like it never even happened-"
"-must have been the cold water, I told you cold water was the trick-"
Lily stopped in the doorway, staring. The dress was returned to immaculate. Not just clean, like it had never happend. The wine stain had vanished entirely, leaving the white silk pristine and unmarked, as though the last hour had been nothing but a bad dream.
Petunia stood to one side, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression sour despite the miracle. She was calmer now, but she wasn't happy. She was watching the bridesmaids fuss over her dress with the tight-lipped tolerance of someone accepting a gift she hadn't wanted.
Movement on the sofa caught Lily's eye. Severus sat exactly where she'd left him, his expression the perfect mask of someone who had done nothing whatsoever and would swear to it under Veritaserum.
He looked up and met her eyes.
She knew. Instantly, completely, without him having to say a word. She knew what he'd done.
She smiled at him, a real smile, the first one she'd managed all morning, and he smiled his little one back. It was a small smile, barely a twitch of his lips, but she saw it.
She turned to her mother, who was still staring at the dress with an expression of confused relief, and raised her eyebrows slightly. See? He's not the problem.
Before she could cross the room to sit with him, Petunia's voice cut through the bridesmaids' chatter.
"Lily. Upstairs. Now."
The bedroom had been transformed into a beauty salon. Every surface was covered with makeup bags, hot rollers, hairspray cans, and the scattered bobby pins and tissues and the emergency sewing kit someone had thought to bring. The air was thick with competing perfumes and the chemical smell of Elnett.
The atmosphere, Lily noticed immediately, was tense. They were walking on eggshells.
Petunia sat at the main vanity, watching in the mirror as Yvonne applied her lipstick carefully. Her instructions had been specific and repeated: nothing too dark, nothing too bright, nothing that might look "common" or, the word had been deployed like a weapon, "slutty".
"Natural," Petunia had said. "Elegant. Like Princess Anne. Do you understand?"
The bridesmaids understood. They'd been understanding all morning, their own makeup muted and tasteful, their hair arranged in styles that complemented rather than competed.
Lily hovered near the door, feeling out of place in her unflattering dress and the wide-brimmed hat, miraculously still pinned in place. One of the bridesmaids, noticed her and gestured toward an empty chair.
"Come sit. We'll do your face before we run out of time."
Lily lowered herself into the chair, settling the hat in her lap, watching in the mirror as Sandra assessed her. The makeup spread out on the table was extensive, foundations and powders and things Lily couldn't name, all in shades of pink and peach and subtle coral.
"You've got good bone structure," Sandra said, selecting a brush. "This won't take long. Close your eyes."
Lily closed her eyes and tried to relax as Sandra began applying foundation with quick, practiced strokes. The brush was soft against her skin, almost soothing. She could hear the other bridesmaids murmuring to each other and Petunia issuing quiet corrections about eyeshadow color.
"Wait a moment."
The voice came from across the room, one of the other bridesmaids, a girl with a round face and a slightly nasal voice that Lily didn't recognize. She was staring at Lily with an expression of dawning recognition, her mascara wand frozen halfway to her eye.
"I know you."
Lily's stomach dropped.
"I've been trying to work it out all morning," the girl continued, moving closer, her head tilted to one side.
"I kept thinking, where do I know her from? And then just now, when you took the hat off, it clicked." She turned to Petunia with a smile that was clearly meant to be friendly.
"She came to Grunnings! Back in, when was it? 1976ish? She came to the office looking for you, and you said-"
The room went quiet and still.
Lily remembered. Of course she remembered. The typing pool, the blue carpet, the way Petunia had looked at her colleagues and said, clear as day: I don't know her.
"You said you didn't know her." The girl's smile was faltering now, confused by the sudden tension. "But this is your sister, isn't it? Lily?"
"Shut up."
Petunia's voice cracked. She'd risen from the vanity, her half-finished makeup giving her an oddly asymmetrical appearance, one eye done and one bare. Her hands were clenched at her sides, and Lily could see the familiar signs of an approaching storm, the white knuckles, the rigid spine, the high spots of colour on her cheeks.
"Petunia, I wasn't trying to-" the girl started.
"How dare you." Petunia advanced on her, and the girl took an instinctive step backward, bumping into the dresser. "How dare you suggest there's something not normal about my family. How dare you imply-"
"I wasn't implying anything! I just thought it was funny that you said-"
"My family is perfectly normal." Petunia's voice had gone ice-cold.
"Perfectly ordinary in every way. And that includes my sister." She seemed to struggle for a moment, searching for the right words. "I was obviously joking that day at Grunnings. Obviously. Anyone with half a brain would have known it was a joke."
The girl, Lily still couldn't remember her name, looked desperately around the room for support, but the other bridesmaids had suddenly become very interested in their own reflections. No one was jumping in to save her.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice small. "I didn't mean-"
"No." Petunia cut her off with a sharp gesture. "No, you've made your feelings quite clear. You think there's something wrong with my family. You think we're strange."
"I don't! I really don't, I just-"
"Take off the dress."
The words fell into the room like stones into still water. The girl blinked, uncomprehending.
"What?"
"You heard me. Take off the dress." Petunia's chin was raised, her expression imperious. "You're no longer a bridesmaid. My sister will take your place."
Lily felt the blood drain from her face. "Petunia, that's not-"
"I didn't ask your opinion." Petunia didn't even look at her.
The room had gone absolutely silent. The girl, the former bridesmaid, stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing without sound.
"Better hurry. We haven't got all day."
What followed was the most uncomfortable five minutes of Lily's life. The girl retreated behind a changing screen, her quiet sniffles audible to everyone, and emerged in her slip clutching the lavender bridesmaid dress to her chest. She handed it to Lily without meeting her eyes, then put on the clothes she came in and gathered her things, handbag, coat, the small gift bag she'd brought, and left without another word.
The front door slammed. Through the window, Lily watched her hurry down the garden path, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Well?" Petunia had returned to her seat at the vanity, examining her reflection as though nothing had happened. "Put it on. We're running out of time."
Lily changed behind the same screen, her hands shaking slightly as she struggled with the zip. The dress was too big, the other girl had been taller, broader in the shoulders, and when she emerged, she could feel the excess fabric pooling at her waist, the high neckline gaping where it should have sat snug.
She looked ridiculous. She'd traded one disaster for another, really. At least this one hadn't been specifically chosen to make her look terrible.
A knock at the door made everyone freeze mid-motion: a bridesmaid with a pin between her teeth, another halfway through blending Lily's eyeshadow, Petunia examining her reflection yet again. Lily knew that knock. She'd heard it through through bedroom doors and bathroom doors and the door of every room she'd ever occupied while he waited on the other side.
"Cars are here." Severus's voice came through the wood, slightly muffled. "Your mother says it's time to go."
Lily moved before anyone else could react, slipping toward the door and opening it just wide enough to squeeze her upper body through, blocking the gap.
He stood in the narrow hallway, still in his dark suit, his expression the carefully neutral mask he wore in hostile territory. His eyes flickered over what he could see of her, the unfamiliar colour at her shoulder, the way she was hiding behind the door, and one eyebrow rose slightly.
"What happened to your dress?"
"Change of plans." She kept her voice low, conscious of the bridesmaids just feet away. "Petunia's made me a bridesmaid."
The eyebrow climbed higher. "She what?"
"Long story. One of the other girls said something, Petunia got upset, and now-" She gestured vaguely at herself. "Now I'm a bridesmaid. Apparently."
"She's punishing you."
"She's not-" Lily started, then stopped. Because maybe he was right. Maybe this was punishment, Petunia's way of putting her in her place, of making her ridiculous in front of everyone. Making her wear a dress that didn't fit, stand up in front of a church full of strangers, to play a role she'd never been honestly offered.
"She's my sister," Lily said quietly.
"You shouldn't have to-"
"I know." She reached out and touched his arm, just briefly, a stolen moment of contact. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
"I always worry." The words came out almost grudging, like an admission he hadn't meant to make.
Something warm bloomed in her chest. "About me?"
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course about you. Who else would I worry about?"
Her heart did the thing. The stupid, fluttering, teenage thing that she'd assumed would fade with time and hadn't, that she suspected would still be happening when she was forty and going grey and he was still sighing at her like she was the most exhausting thing he'd ever encountered.
"We'll be down in a minute," she said instead. "Don't wait for me, go with Mum. I'll see you at the church."
He nodded, his hand brushing hers as he turned to go, and then she was slipping back through the door into the chaos of the bedroom.
"The cars are here," she announced. "We need to go."
What followed was a flurry of last-minute adjustments, a final spray of hairspray, a touch-up of lipstick, someone's heel strap that had come undone. Petunia stood at the center of it all, being fussed over by three bridesmaids at once, her expression distant and rigid with tension of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long.
Then they were moving, a parade of lavender and white down the narrow staircase, through the sitting room and out the front door into the grey mist.
The threatened drizzle had finally arrived, not proper rain but a fine mist that clung to hair and fabric, too light for umbrellas, too persistent to ignore.The bridesmaids clustered on the front step, arms wrapped around themselves, shivering in their thin satin dresses.
Petunia was shivering too, Lily noticed. The wedding dress, for all its elaborate construction, was clearly not designed for an English July masquerading as the bleakest parts of April. Goosebumps had risen on Petunia's bare arms, and her jaw was set tight against the urge to let her teeth chatter.
A line of cars waited at the kerb, gleaming black Daimlers with white ribbons on the bonnets, looking almost absurdly formal against the backdrop of identical suburban houses. Lily spotted her mother climbing into one of the rear vehicles, Severus following behind her.
"Lily. You're with me."
Petunia had already reached the lead car, where a driver in a peaked cap was holding the door open. She stood waiting, her train gathered over one arm to keep it from the wet pavement, looking like a queen who expected her subjects to hurry up.
Lily hurried. Brides had their own kind of magic, she supposed, the kind that made everyone else orbit around them, at least for a day.
The interior of the Daimler was cream leather and polished wood and she settled onto the seat beside her sister, arranging her borrowed dress as best she could, trying not to take up too much space. The driver closed the door, sealing them into a bubble of quiet, and then they were moving, pulling away from her sister's new home.
Petunia stared straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap, her bouquet, white roses and stephanotis, resting on the seat between them. She hadn't stopped shivering.
There had to be something she could do.
Lily reached for the pendant. Her fingers found it where it always was, resting in the hollow of her throat, warm from her skin. The chain was delicate, the oval small enough to sit in the centre of her palm, the relief of St. Hedwig more memory than image now under years of wear.
She unclasped it. Closed her eyes. Focused.
The warming charm was simple, something she had mastered before Hogwarts. She'd done it a thousand times with a wand, a hundred times without. The magic came easily, flowing through her fingertips and into the metal, heating it gently, steadily, the kind of warmth that would seep through fabric and into skin and settle into bones.
She reached over and fastened the chain around Petunia's neck.
Petunia startled, her hand flying up to touch the unfamiliar weight.
"What-"
"You're cold," Lily said, and gently tucked the pendant beneath the high collar where no one would see it. "It'll help."
Petunia's fingers traced the outline of the medallion through her dress, pressing it against her sternum. The shivering was already subsiding, the magic doing its work.
"I should have fought you for this." Petunia's voice was strange, instead of cold and angry it was just tired. "He was my father too."
"I know."
"You just, took it. Like everything else. Like it was yours by right."
Lily could have argued, but she didn't.
"You can keep it," she said instead. "Have your turn."
"How very kind of you." But she made no move to remove it, and her fingers remained curled around the shape of it.
Lily said nothing and just watched the rain streak down the window.
The Daimler pulled up to the lychgate, and Lily could see the other bridesmaids already clustered in the covered porch, their lavender dresses bright spots of colour against the ancient stone. They were huddled together like penguins, arms wrapped around themselves, their carefully styled hair already beginning to wilt in the damp.
No sign of her mother. No sign of Severus. They must have already gone inside.
The driver came around to open the door, umbrella at the ready, and Petunia emerged in a careful maneuver that involved gathering her train, protecting her veil, and somehow maintaining the serene expression of a woman who had never experienced physical discomfort in her life. Lily followed less gracefully, the too-big dress threatening to trip her with every step.
"Finally," Yvonne said as they approached, her teeth chattering slightly. "We've been standing here for ages. It's absolutely freezing-"
"It's not cold at all." Petunia's voice was calm, almost pitying. "I don't know what you're all complaining about. It's perfectly pleasant."
The bridesmaids exchanged glances, the kind that questioned someone's sanity without saying so directly. Sandra had gone slightly blue around the lips, and the remaining bridesmaid whose name Lily still couldn't remember was visibly shaking.
Lily bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.
"Stop slouching," Petunia snapped at no one in particular. "We're about to walk into a church, not a chip shop. Shoulders back. Chins up. And for God's sake, stop shivering, it looks common."
From inside the church, the first notes of the processional began to drift through the heavy oak doors.
"Right," Petunia said. She drew herself up to her full height, adjusted her veil one final time, and turned to face the doors. For a moment, she looked almost like a stranger. Then she looked like their mother. Then, just for a heartbeat, she looked like their father.
The music swelled, and Petunia began her walk.
The church was smaller inside than Lily had expected, somehow, the kind of place that looked impressive from the outside but revealed itself as intimate once you were within its walls. Stone pillars marched down either side of the nave, and the light filtering through the stained glass windows cast patterns of red and blue and gold across the worn flagstones.
Every pew was full on the right side of the aisle, Vernon's side, Lily realized, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces. Vernon's family, his colleagues, his friends from the rugby club or the golf course or wherever it was that people like Vernon spent their weekends.
The left side, the bride's side, was noticeably emptier. A scattering of faces Lily half-recognized: A scattering of faces Lily half-recognized from photographs and stilted visits: women from the Grunnings typing pool, perhaps a few from Petunia's secretarial course, others she couldn't place at all.
And there, in the very front, sitting very straight in a pew that was otherwise empty: Severus and her mother.
Severus looked deeply uncomfortable, which was to say he looked the way he always looked in social situations. His dark suit stood out among the lighter colours around him, and his expression suggested he was enduring rather than participating.
Lily was supposed to keep her eyes forward, she knew. Supposed to glide serenely down the aisle like the other bridesmaids. But she couldn't help it, as she passed their pew, she raised her hand and wiggled her fingers at Severus in a small wave.
His expression shifted into something incredulous, a look that clearly communicated: What are you doing? Have you lost your mind entirely?
She grinned at him.
Yvonne shifted closer, her bouquet somehow managing to whack Lily's arm. Pay attention, that glare said. This is a wedding, not a joke.
Lily faced forward again, still smiling.
The altar was decorated with white flowers, roses and baby's breath, arranged in elaborate sprays that must have cost a fortune. Candles flickered in their holders, and the vicar stood waiting with his prayer book, looking exactly like every Church of England vicar Lily had ever seen.
And there was Vernon.
He stood at the front of the church like a boulder that had somehow acquired a morning suit. The suit was clearly expensive, probably the most expensive thing he'd ever worn, but it didn't quite fit. The jacket strained across his shoulders and back, the buttons pulling slightly, the fabric stretched tight over his considerable bulk. His face was red, whether from nerves or the warmth of the church or something else entirely, and when he caught sight of Lily among the bridesmaids, his small eyes widened in obvious surprise.
The ceremony proceeded according to its ancient formula. The vicar spoke the familiar words, dearly beloved, gathered here, holy matrimony, and the congregation responded in the expected ways. Vernon's voice boomed when he made his vows, too loud for the intimate space. Petunia's was quieter, almost trembling, but steady when it needed to be.
Lily stood with the other bridesmaids, holding her little bouquet, watching her sister become someone's wife.
They caught her by surprise, a sudden tightness in her throat, a prickling behind her eyes, and then moisture spilling down her cheeks before she could stop it. She wasn't even sure what had triggered it. The words, maybe, those ancient phrases about love and honour and forsaking all others. Or the way Petunia's voice cracked, just slightly, when she said "I do." Or the expression on her sister's face when Vernon slid the ring onto her finger.
Two people standing before God and everyone they knew, promising to build a life together. Promising to choose each other, every day, for the rest of their days.
Till death do us part.
Her eyes found Severus without meaning to, as they always did.
The vicar was calling for the final hymn. The congregation rustled to its feet, prayer books opening, throats clearing in preparation for the one part of the service where participation was expected.
Jerusalem. Of course. What else would Petunia choose but the most traditional, most English, most aggressively normal hymn in the entire Anglican repertoire?
The voices rose around her, some confident, some mumbling, Vernon's baritone drowning out everyone in his immediate vicinity. Lily sang the words she'd known since primary school, letting the familiar melody carry her along.
She looked toward Severus again. He was standing with everyone else, holding a hymn book that her mother had clearly thrust into his hands, but his mouth was barely moving.
Her mother noticed. Of course her mother noticed, she noticed everything, especially when it came to social impropriety. Her elbow shot out, catching Severus in the ribs.
The Daimler had been decorated while they were inside for photographs, an awkward affair, the whole wedding party crammed into the nave because the rain made outdoor shots impossible, everyone jostling for position while the photographer grew increasingly flustered. Now white ribbons streamed from the mirrors, paper flowers stuck to the bonnet, and a string of tin cans tied to the rear bumper clattered and clanged against the wet road as the car pulled away from the church. The guests lined the church steps, cheering and waving, arms raised as they threw the last handfuls of confetti. Somewhere in the crowd, an elderly woman was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
"Bit silly, isn't it?" Severus said, watching the car disappear around the corner, tin cans bouncing in its wake. "The reception's just round the corner. They could have walked."
"It's romantic."
"It's a waste of petrol."
"It's tradition." Lily slipped her hand into his, twining their fingers together. "The grand departure. The start of their new life together. The tin cans are meant to ward off evil spirits, you know. Or maybe bring good luck. I can never remember which."
"Muggles," Severus said, but there was something almost fond in his voice. Or at least less contemptuous than usual.
They walked to the reception together, following the stream of guests down the high street toward the hotel. Around them, other guests huddled under inadequate umbrellas or hurried along with newspapers held over their heads. Lily and Severus strolled at a leisurely pace, the rain subtly parting around them in a way that was entirely coincidental and not at all magical. Her hand stayed in his the entire way.
Some of Vernon's relatives shot them curious looks as they passed. Whether it was the dryness, the hand-holding or the ill-fitting bridesmaid dress or Severus's general air of not belonging, Lily couldn't tell. She kept her chin up and her grip firm, and after a while she stopped noticing the stares at all.
The hotel was the nicest in the area, the sort of place Petunia had probably been dreaming about since she'd first started planning her escape from Cokeworth. All manicured hedges and uniformed doormen and the quiet hush of money being spent without being discussed.
The gift table stood just inside the entrance, already groaning under the weight of wrapped packages. Lily deposited the gravy boat among them, its pink paper the only spot of colour on the whole table.
"Do you think they'll actually use it?" Severus asked, eyeing the pile of gifts with the expression of someone calculating how many cauldrons could be purchased for the same amount.
"Probably not. But that's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is-" Lily paused, trying to articulate something she'd never really thought about before. "The point is showing up. Being part of it. Even if what you bring isn't perfect, even if they don't really want it, you showed up. You tried."
Severus looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded, just once, and didn't ask any more questions.
The receiving line stretched from the function room doors halfway back to the entrance, a queue of guests waiting to offer their congratulations to the happy couple. Lily took her place at the end, Severus beside her with his arm stiff under her hand, and tried to prepare herself for the gauntlet ahead.
"Not difficult to spot the Dursley side, is it?" Severus murmured.
"Shh."
"There's a certain... consistency of form."
Vernon’s family was impossible to miss, and she couldn't argue. They dominated the line like a herd of well dressed elephants, large and loud and taking up more than their fair share of space. The men had Vernon’s ruddy complexion and thick necks straining against their collars, while the women wore floral prints that strained across their ample bosoms and spoke in voices that carried across the entire lobby.
The line crept forward. As they drew closer to the front, Lily became aware of a sound that made her stomach clench, a wet, snuffling noise, punctuated by the occasional yap. There were dogs in the receiving line.
Marge Dursley stood just ahead of them, unmistakable in a tweed suit that spoke of shooting parties and prize-winning hounds. She had a bulldog tucked under each arm, their wrinkled faces peering out at the world with expressions of squashed contempt. A third dog sat at her feet, straining against its lead, drool pooling on the hotel carpet.
"Basher, sit," Marge commanded. The dog ignored her entirely, its beady eyes fixed on Lily with what she could only interpret as malevolent interest.
Lily pressed closer to Severus, her hand tightening on his arm.
Marge was moving forward now, depositing the dogs on the carpet,enveloping first Petunia (who endured the embrace with visible discomfort) and then Vernon (who seemed genuinely pleased to see his sister) in suffocating hugs. The dogs yapped and squirmed.
Then it was finally their turn.
Petunia and Vernon stood side by side at the head of the receiving line, positioned in front of an elaborate flower arrangement that probably cost more than everything Lily owned. Petunia had refreshed her makeup since the ceremony, the tear tracks were gone, her lipstick perfect, her expression carefully composed. Vernon beamed beside her, his face still flushed, sweat beginning to bead at his temples despite the air conditioning.
"Congratulations," Lily said, and was surprised to find she meant it. "Both of you. Really."
Petunia's eyes flickered to Severus, standing silent at Lily's shoulder, then back to her sister. "Thank you for coming."
It was the closest to warmth they'd managed all day.
"And you must be-" Vernon had turned his attention to Severus, his small eyes taking in the dark suit, the sallow complexion, the general air of someone who would rather be anywhere else. "I don't think we've been properly introduced."
He thrust out his hand. It was large, pink, and slightly damp-looking. Lily watched Severus calculate whether refusing to shake it would cause more trouble than it was worth.
Lily caught his eye and gave him a look. Please. Just this once. For me.
Something in his jaw tightened, but he reached out and took Vernon's hand. The handshake lasted about as long as politeness demanded and not a second longer.
"Vernon Dursley," Vernon announced, puffing up slightly. "Assistant Manager of Production at Grunnings. We make finest drills." He said this as though it were an achievement on par with curing disease or landing on the moon. "And you are?"
"Severus Snape."
A pause. Vernon waited, clearly expecting more, a title, a company name, some indication of status and respectability.
Petunia had been watching this exchange with an expression Lily didn't trust, a small, sharp smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The kind of smile that usually preceded something unpleasant.
"Vernon, darling," Petunia said sweetly, "I ought to say, Severus isn't one of those magical people. Despite appearances." She let the pause hang in the air, let the implication sink in. "He's perfectly ordinary. Aren't you, Severus?"
Lily saw Severus go rigid, saw the colour drain from his face and then rush back in an angry flood.
Before Lily could respond, before she could think of something to say that wouldn't start a scene, Vernon was clapping Severus on the shoulder forcefully.
"Good man!" Vernon's voice boomed across the receiving line. "It takes a certain kind of character, doesn't it? Looking past the... the strangeness." He nodded toward Lily, not bothering to lower his voice.
"Can't have been easy, taking her on. All that peculiar business. But you've looked beyond it, haven't you? Very decent of you. Very decent indeed." He leaned in conspiratorially, though his whisper was loud enough to carry. "I hope she's properly grateful, eh? Not every man would be so understanding."
Lily couldn't help it. The giggle escaped before she could stop it, a small, startled sound that she tried to disguise as a cough. Because this was absurd.
Severus's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Vernon nodded sagely, as though Severus had agreed with him. "I said the same thing to Petunia when we first started courting. I said, 'Pet, I don't care about your family's... peculiarities. I can see that you are perfectly ordinary underneath all that.' And look at us now!" He gestured at the flower arrangements, the white tablecloths, the entire elaborate production of normality surrounding them. "She's very grateful for it, aren't you, Pet?"
"Very," Petunia said, obviously very pleased with herself.
Vernon nodded approvingly. "Well, we shouldn't hold up the line. Enjoy the reception! Open bar until nine, and Petunia's insisted on a chocolate fountain for pudding. Very modern, apparently."
Severus's expression had gone through several phases, shock, outrage, confusion, and finally settled on something that might have been bewildered amusement. His black eyes met Lily's, and she could see the same realization dawning in them. Is this man serious? Does he actually believe…?
She grabbed Severus's hand and pulled him away before he could recover enough to say something that would ruin the rest of the afternoon.
Their table was positioned at the very back of the function room, tucked into a corner near the service doors where waiters appeared and disappeared with trays of glasses. Table fourteen, according to the little card with the calligraphed number, the last table, the furthest from the head table where Petunia and Vernon sat in state surrounded by immediate family and important guests.
Lily suspected this placement was not accidental.
A feedback squeal from the microphone at the head table made everyone wince. Vernon's father had risen to his feet, a sheaf of papers clutched in one meaty hand, his face already flushed from the pre-dinner drinks. He was an older, heavier version of Vernon, the same small eyes, the same thick neck, the same air of self-satisfaction that seemed to be a Dursley family trait.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, "if I could have your attention please..."
The speech was long. Interminably, excruciatingly long. Vernon's father spoke about the proud Dursley family history (solid, respectable, and blisteringly dull for at least a century), about Vernon's many accomplishments (Assistant Manager of Production at only twenty-six!), about Petunia's beauty and grace and what a fine addition she would be to their family. He made jokes that weren't funny and paused for laughter that came too late and too thin.
When he finally turned to acknowledge her mother, And of course we must thank Mrs. Evans for raising such a lovely daughter," he announced. Lily raised her glass with everyone else, watching her mother beam at the head table. Such a lovely daughter. Singular. She kept her smile fixed and drank.
Vernon's speech was mercifully brief, a few words of thanks, a declaration of undying love for his "Pet", a nickname that made Lily cringe even after hearing it hundreds of times, a toast to the bridesmaids that she was apparently now included in. He raised his glass, everyone drank, and then it was the best man's turn.
The best man was one of Vernon's colleagues from Grunnings, a nervous-looking man named Gerald who kept adjusting his tie and clearing his throat. His speech was an attempt at humour, gentle ribbing about Vernon's obsession with company targets, some innuendo about dipping pens in company ink, a joke about a mishap with a drill demonstration that fell flat, some wordplay about "boring" that made Severus actually groan aloud.
"And now," Gerald said, visibly relieved to be nearing the end, "I have some telegrams from those who couldn't be with us today."
He produced a stack of cards and began to read. Congratulations from Vernon's aunt in Devon. Best wishes from a school friend now living in Australia. Then a message from someone at Grunnings head office that was clearly a form letter with the names filled in.
"'Wishing you a lifetime of happiness and a partnership as solid and reliable as Grunnings' product line,'" Gerald read. "From the board of directors."
Vernon looked genuinely moved, and Severus raised one eyebrow approximately half an inch, which for him was equivalent to howling with laughter.
"Shh." She squeezed his arm in warning, but her heart wasn't in it.
The telegrams eventually concluded, the applause scattered, and finally the waiters began to emerge from the kitchen with plates of food.
The chicken was overcooked and the vegetables had been boiled into mushiness, but Lily didn't care. She was hungry enough to eat the tablecloth, and from the way Severus was attacking his plate, he felt the same. They ate in companionable silence while the conversation at other tables rose and fell around them.
Halfway through the main course, Lily noticed Severus doing something odd with his napkin. He'd carefully separated a portion of chicken from the rest of his plate and was wrapping it in his handkerchief with the furtive movements of someone committing a minor crime.
It was for the cat, she realized. Of course it was for the cat.
She wanted to kiss him. Right there, in the middle of her sister's wedding reception, surrounded by Dursleys and drills and overcooked chicken. She wanted to grab his face and kiss him senseless because he was stealing food for their cat and acting like it was the most normal thing in the world.
She ate her vegetables instead, but she was smiling.
The cake was a towering confection of white fondant and sugar flowers, impressive enough to draw murmurs of appreciation from the crowd as it was wheeled out on a trolley. Petunia and Vernon posed beside it with a ceremonial knife, hands clasped together, smiling for the photographer. The flash went off. Everyone applauded.
"Good thing we're sitting back here," Severus murmured, leaning close enough that his breath tickled her ear. "If that suit of his finally gives up the ghost, we'll be safely out of range of the buttons."
She elbowed him in the ribs, but she was laughing. A few heads turned in their direction, and she pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to contain it.
"You're one to talk. Yours is practically falling off you."
He didn't argue, which was as close as he ever came to admitting she was right.
The cake was being cut now, Petunia guiding the knife with white-knuckled grace while Vernon hovered beside her looking vaguely dangerous with a sharp implement in his hand. Slices were distributed to the waiting crowd, passed from hand to hand until everyone had a plate.
The cake itself was traditional fruit cake, dense, dark, studded with candied fruit and soaked in alcohol. Lily took one bite and felt her face contort involuntarily.
"Not a fan?" Severus asked, already halfway through his slice.
"It tastes like Christmas died and they preserved the body in Brandy."
Severus was now eyeing hers with transparent interest. "Are you going to eat that?"
"Merlin, no." She pushed her plate toward him. He accepted it with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose evening was improving, and proceeded to demolish both pieces while she watched half impressed, half nauseated.
The evening reception began as the daylight faded and the room filled with additional guests, people who hadn't merited invitations to the ceremony but were welcome for the drinking and dancing portion of the festivities. The atmosphere shifted, loosened, the stiff formality of the wedding breakfast giving way to something more relaxed as alcohol flowed and ties were loosened and uncomfortable shoes were kicked under tables.
Severus had gone to investigate the buffet, a sprawling arrangement of sausage rolls and vol-au-vents and other beige foods that appeared to be mandatory at English social functions.Lily watched him navigate the crowd, shoulders hunched, moving through the press of bodies like a man trying not to touch anything. A crow in a cage of canaries.
She was still watching when someone dropped into the empty chair beside her.
"Bit boring, isn't it? These things always drag on."
The voice belonged to a young man she vaguely recognised. One of the ushers, she thought, a friend of Vernon's with sandy hair and a smile that had clearly opened doors for him before. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, the universal signal of a man settling in for a long night of drinking. He'd angled his chair toward her and was leaning in with the confidence of someone who'd already had enough drinks to think himself interesting.
"I'm Martin," he said, extending a hand. "I don't think we've been introduced. You're one of the bridesmaids, yeah? I noticed you during the ceremony."
"Lily." She shook his hand briefly and let go quickly and hoped he would take the hint. "I'm the bride's sister."
"So you're the sister, then?" His brow furrowed. "Petunia's sister? Are you sure?"
She gave him the look that question deserved. Of course, she was sure.
"Okay, that was a stupid question." He leaned closer, breath sweet with champagne. "She never mentioned she had a sister. Funny, that. You'd think it would come up."
"Would it?" It shouldn't have surprised her. It did anyway.
"Beautiful girl like you, I'd mention you all the time. If you were my sister, I mean. Not that I-" He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "That came out wrong. Very wrong. What I meant was-"
A plate appeared between them, deposited on the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. Martin looked up to find Severus looming over him, visibly calculating which curse wouldn't warrant Ministry attention.
"You're in my seat."
"Oh, I was just-"
"Leaving." Severus's voice was flat, final. "You were just leaving."
Martin looked at Lily, perhaps hoping for rescue. She offered none. After a moment that stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable, he mumbled something about needing another drink and retreated toward the bar.
Severus took the vacated seat and slid a plate toward her, a careful selection from the buffet, arranged so that nothing touched.
"Friend of yours?"
"Never met him before in my life."
"Mm." He stabbed a cocktail sausage with unnecessary force. "He seemed very interested in getting to know you."
"Jealous?"
"Somewhat." But the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly. "Eat your food before it gets colder."
The first dance was announced with great ceremony, a calling for everyone to clear the floor, the lights dimming to something meant to be romantic, Petunia and Vernon taking their positions in the center of the room. The song was something slow and traditional, strings swelling through the speakers as they began to sway in what might generously be called a waltz.
Lily and Severus had retreated to chairs along the wall, most of the tables having been removed to create space for dancing. They sat side by side watching the spectacle with weariness and unease.
They watched as other couples joined Petunia and Vernon on the floor, parents, wedding party members, guests emboldened by alcohol and romance. Even Lily's mother was persuaded onto the floor by Vernon's father, who turned out to be surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his dimensions.
"We should probably-" Lily started.
"No."
"I was going to say we should probably stay exactly where we are."
"Then we're in agreement."
The dancing was mostly terrible, a lot of shuffling and stepping on feet and enthusiastic spinning that threatened nearby furniture.
"We'd be worse than that," Lily observed.
They sat in comfortable silence as the music changed, something more upbeat now, and the dance floor filled with bodies.
The bouquet toss was announced with a squeal from one of the bridesmaids, Yvonne, pink-cheeked from dancing, grabbing Petunia's arm and insisting it was tradition, she had to do it, all the single girls were waiting.
Petunia looked like she'd rather swallow glass, but the bridesmaids were persistent and the DJ was already calling for unmarried women to gather on the dance floor. A cluster began to form, giggling and jostling for position, hands raised in anticipation.
On the dance floor, Petunia had been maneuvered into position with her back to the crowd, the bouquet clutched in her hands like a weapon she wasn't sure how to deploy.
She stayed in her chair, pushed against the wall where the tables had been, her empty plate balanced on her knee. Around her, the room surged forward, a press of women in party dresses and heels jostling for position, hands raised, laughter sharp and competitive.
Because catching it would mean turning around, bouquet in hand, flushed and laughing, and looking for him. And he would be sitting exactly where he was now, and his face would do whatever his face did when confronted with the implication of marriage, and she wasn't sure she could survive what that expression might be.
Because she did want to get married.
Petunia threw the bouquet. A shriek went up, a brief scuffle, and then one of Vernon's cousins emerged victorious, clutching the flowers while her competitors tried not to look as disappointed as they clearly were.
Lily pressed a smile onto her face and clapped along, and then the music started again and the moment passed and she was still in her chair, still beside him.
"Would you want to get married?"
The question came from beside her, quiet enough that she almost missed it under the noise of the reception. She looked up to find Severus watching her, his dark eyes intent on her face.
Her heart stopped. Started again too fast.
The plate on her knee tilted and she caught it, the last crumbs scattering, but she barely noticed. This was it, she thought. This was the moment he told her that he couldn't imagine it, that marriage wasn't for him, that she needed to accept the limits of what they had or find someone else.
She could lie. Could say no, marriage doesn't matter, I don't need a ring or a ceremony or any of that. Could protect herself from the rejection she could feel coming.
But she couldn't really say no. Because no was a lie, and she had promised herself years ago that she would never lie to him about the things that mattered. She would lie about finishing his biscuits and about how much she'd spent on boomslang skin and about whether his hair looked all right, but not about this.
She sat there, caught between the two impossibilities, wanting and terrified in equal measure. The Fleetwood Mac song was building to its chorus.
"Yes," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. "I would. Want that."
She braced herself for the withdrawal. For the careful step backward, the change in him, the beginning of the end. She would lose him, not all at once but by degrees, the way she'd almost lost him before, the slow fade of someone walking away down a very long corridor.
Instead, he nodded slowly, as though she'd confirmed something he'd been calculating.
Severus looked down at his hands, folded in his lap, and said: "I can't give you a wedding like this."
Lily blinked. "What?"
"This." He gestured vaguely at the reception, the flowers, the cake, the hundreds of guests in their expensive clothes. "Any of this. Not now. Probably not… not for a long time. I can't afford it."
"Severus-"
"But after we've finished our apprenticeships." He still wasn't looking at her, his voice stiff and formal, like he was reciting something he'd rehearsed. "Once we're both established. After there's enough. If you wanted to plan something. I wouldn't... I could..."
He trailed off, apparently running out of prepared speech.
Lily stared at him. The noise of the reception seemed to fade, the music and laughter and clinking glasses all going distant and muffled. She was having trouble breathing.
"Are you-" She had to stop, swallow, try again. "Severus, are you asking me to marry you?"
A muscle twitched in his cheek, and he looked to her for an answer. "If you wanted to."
Lily stared at him.
She'd known him for nearly ten years. He still found ways to surprise her.