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He struggles not to react to her apparent romantic overtures - she doesn’t mean it, it’s coincidence, you’re reading too much into it - but it doesn’t stop him from going home and behind the closed door of his bedroom, replaying every moment of her apparent flirtation over and over in his head. He lies on his bed and fantasises about what would happen if he dared react differently - about what would happen if when she brushed his hair behind his ear, he was brave enough to lean forward and kiss her - and it causes a thrill to run through him… Least, it does for a brief moment, until his brain pours cold water over his fantasy by playing out an alternate reality where she pulls away, horrified at his actions, and he’s mortified, their friendship ruined…and he puts the pillow over his head.
On the other side of the river, Lily’s equally frustrated - because she’s run out of ways that she can think of to seduce her friend. Maybe he really doesn’t fancy me? She even stole Petunia’s back issues of Jackie, scouring the problem pages for hints and tips of how to make her best friend fall in love with her - but nothing seemed to work; the worst being when she’d winked at him, and he’d stilled, staring at her intently. She gazed back into his dark eyes, certain he was finally going to kiss her…but instead he gently ran his finger across the underside of her eye. “I think I’ve got it,” he said, holding his finger away and blowing across the tip. He gave a crooked smile at her look of confusion. “Eyelash,” he explained. “It was making you squint.”
He invites her to the Saturday disco at the working men’s club. "I’m going in my school uniform,” he says, when she frets about what to wear. He doesn’t have much choice - he’s not got much else that’s halfway smart; trousers that are barely long enough because he grew another inch and half this year, and a greying white shirt. “It’s not posh or anything, down the club,” he reminds her - so she pulls on her grey skirt, and white blouse, and Gryffindor tie.
“I thought you both went the same school,” one of the other teens says, his tone full of accusation. She doesn’t know him, but recognises him as being one of a group from across the rec, and thinks he probably went to junior school with Severus. “Why’ve yer got different colour ties?”
And that’s when Severus flicks her tie with a grin. “It’s based on academic achievement. Clever kids get green and silver ties and the thick ones get red an-”
“You git,” she laughs, grabbing his tie and yanking it hard.
“As if you’ve just peanutted me!” He looks down, his brow furrowed in concentration as his slender fingers tussle with the tight knot.
The room is hot and stuffy and busy, and he slips behind the bar unnoticed when old man Jones is talking animatedly with Alf Bracewell, and draws off a pint. His movements are clumsy, and the resulting drink is more head than body, but he doesn’t have time to correct his error. The pair rush outside and stand by the bins, sharing the glass and gulping the bitter liquid down quickly - too quickly - before anyone catches them.
He does it twice more before his da clips him around the ear, and shoves a couple of 50ps in his trouser pocket. “Get ‘er a proper drink, soft lad,” he says. “Costin’ me a fortune y’are.” He frowns, and Tobias shakes his head. “Yer think yer gettin’ away wi’ it? Think Jonesy is blind, d’yer? I’m payin’ for yer shit pints yer keep pourin’. Now get yersel’ a proper drink, sit quietly at the back, and make sure yer mam don’t see the pair of yer suppin’.”
She laughs, and he flushes - the blush running to the tips of his ears - and they retreat to the back of the room, her feet tapping on the floor to the music, and he blushes again when she loops her arm in his when Stand By Your Man is played by the DJ. “I thought he was playing disco,” Severus half-heartedly grumbles.
“You don’t like disco.”
“I don’t like country either.”
Lily laughs, and taps his glass with her finger. “Drink up,” she says, and then she’s leaning over the DJ’s turntable, shouting something in his ear. There’s some gesticulating, and some pointing, and then the music mixes smoothly from country into Down Down, and she holds her hand out. “Dance?”
“To Status Quo?”
“Come on,” she says, pulling him up, and he only feebly protests. “He says he can’t play Zeppelin without clearing the floor, and I told him you’d dance with me if he played this.”
“And if I don’t?”
“He’s going to put that new Adrian Baker song on and tell everyone you asked for it.”
Dancing gives her the opportunity to fling her arms around him more than once, and he doesn’t pull away from her - not when the music switches back to disco, and not even when That’s the Way (I Like It) comes on. They’re hot and sweaty and tired when the bar calls last orders. He reluctantly pulls away from her to head to the bar, and she takes the opportunity to visit the loos.
When she comes back, the music has changed once more - the lights have dimmed, and Severus passes her an already half empty pint glass. “Drink up,” he says, and she rubs her hand across her eyes, because he’s looking at her as intently as he did when he found the eyelash. He jerks his head back towards the dancefloor. “Can you believe this didn’t beat Barbados?”
And then she hears the music in the background - really hears the music in the background. She remembers the pair of them watching Top of the Pops together, and him turning the volume up on the tv when Smokie came on, and how he scraped the money together to buy the record after a few weeks…but somehow, she never really heard the lyrics.
But now the room has darkened, and the song is playing loudly, and the rest of the room is dancing, and he’s staring at her, and she can taste the alcohol on her tongue - and she can see the hint of fear in his face - and as the lyrics tell her if you think you know how to love me, and you think you can stand by me, and if you really, really want me to stay, you’ve got to lead the way, she heeds the singer’s advice and captures his lips with her own.