Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soundproofing can only go so far, the overlapping cacophony of musicians persisting against the insulated barriers between practice rooms. Drum kits, pianos, strings, and brass create an off-balance symphony for anyone that walks through the corridor, each playing different pieces at opposing tempos.

There’s a voice student in the next room over, repeating the same phrase of the aria she’s practicing over and over again until she’s happy with it. Lily would have been happy seven minutes ago, the girl’s been consistent for at least that long, but she’s hardly one to judge after spending the last forty-six minutes on the same eight bars. Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz No. 1 is a dexterous piece of music, something she’s been working on during her own time, locking herself away in her preferred spot, practice room nine, on the corner of the building. It’s the best practice room because one side doesn’t have a neighbor adjoining it, and it’s away from the entrance, so most people won’t make it far enough to hear her flubs as they pass.

Lily’s fingers are agile, hitting the keys at a galloping pace, her eyes flitting between the piano, the sheet music, and the metronome she’s perched on top, clicking at one-thirty-two beats per minute. She could have it set to sixty-six, but Lily likes her clicks at double time, working as fast as her brain does. She thinks about her posture, her shoulder blades pressed together, her chin tilted just so. She could do with painting her nails again, a chip evident in the pale beige she’s got on. Part of her will always miss red nail varnish and the acrylics phase she had during secondary school, but it’s not practical to have long nails, and color is distracting. It’s why dancers wear tights the same shade as their shoes, nothing should divide their lines, and nothing should segment the length of a pianist’s fingers. She wears red lipstick for recitals, letting the audience appreciate a splash of color amongst her all-black outfits, and if she passes a mirror, she’ll let herself linger for an extra second to admire her crimson lips. People say redheads shouldn’t wear red, but Lily loves it. She misses her red nail varnish.

She flubs a note, too distracted by her own vanity. Shit. Lily pulls her fingers off the keys, rubbing them into her eye sockets and sliding them into her hair to tug at the roots. She glances at her watch, confirming that she’s only got the room booked for another eleven minutes. Theoretically, that’s enough time to play through the entire piece, if she manages to hit all the right notes at all the right times. She lets out a huff of air, rolls her shoulders back, and starts over from the beginning.

She makes it the first six minutes without any major mistakes, just over the halfway mark, when the door to practice room nine swings open, Remus walking in with no shame in interrupting.

“Lupin, I swear to god,” Lily manages, her fingers falling half a beat behind tempo. She grits her teeth, willing herself to focus.

“Sounds good,” Remus says, making himself comfortable by leaning on the piano, releasing his bag from his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor beside hers. “Better than the oboe in room four.”

“I’ve got five minutes, probably four now,” Lily says, sparing him an indignant glance as she reaches to turn a page. “Sit down and shut up.”

“I’m gonna be sitting for the next two hours,” Remus complains, staying right where he is.

Lily rolls her eyes. “Then make yourself useful and turn my pages.” She doesn’t need it, but it’s better to have Remus involved than to leave him free to pester.

He obliges, squinting to find her place on the page, nodding once he’s got it. “I still don’t understand why you don’t just use an iPad like everybody else.”

“You try watching an iPad die during juries with Malfoy, then tell me if you’d ever rely on digital music ever again,” Lily reasons.

Remus releases a huff of laughter that means fair enough, and he quiets himself for her to finish the piece. There’s a knock at the door a few bars before the ending, and Lily pulls her hands up from the keys without resolving the chord which gains her a death glare from Remus. She opens the door to crossed arms, the man’s face contorting from a scowl to something sheepish when he sees it’s her.

“I’ve got the room booked,” Severus says, eyes flitting to Remus who’s still leaning on the piano.

“No problem,” Lily says, collecting her binder and clicking off her metronome, stuffing both items into her bag. It’s an awkward shuffle, and the voice student next door must be taking a break. It feels utterly silent without her vibrato. “It’s all yours.”

He gives her a polite, closed lipped smile before sliding past her and holding the door while she and Remus vacate the room. Severus closes the door and pulls down the window blinds.

Remus is holding in a laugh, and Lily shushes him as they make their way to the lift, her red cheeks visible in the mirror along the back. She presses the button for the fifth floor.

“What was that?” Remus asks once the doors slide shut.

Lily hesitates, biting her lip. “We may have made out at a party once.”

Remus’ brows climb skyward. “You and Sev? When?”

“Freshman year,” she sighs. “We have quite literally not spoken since that moment.”

Remus lets his laugh out then, his chest rising and falling with the sound. “You’ve been able to avoid him for four years?”

“No.” The lift opens and Lily leads the way down the corridor. “I’ve avoided speaking to him. We’ve passed each other around campus and even had a couple classes together. It’s horribly awkward.” She pauses outside Morse Hall, the previous studio class with a few minutes left.

“It’s horribly bad ass,” Remus corrects. “This is the most salacious story I’ve even gotten out of you.”

“Stop,” Lily shushes him again. “You’re acting like this is some kind of slutty revelation”

“I’m serious,” he says. “By Lily Evans standards, this is slutty.”

“I’m not a slut,” Lily laughs.

“Slut-adjacent, then,” Remus concedes, and Lily nods her acceptance.

The studio class finishes, and students pour out of the auditorium, a collective sigh coming from the lot of them after sitting through hours of critique and the presentation of works. Professor Lovegood teaches both of her composition sections back to back, so the expressions on the faces of exiting students act as a premonition of her mood. The exiting students look optimistic today, so Lily lets her shoulders relax, sinking back down to their resting height.

Once the auditorium empties out, Remus and Lily find their usual seats for presentation days— house right, a few rows back. Lily would have liked to sit in the center, but Remus is the TA for this course and needs to sit on the aisle in case he has to get up and assist. Composition for Non-Majors is an elective that’s a mix of lectures, studio time, and days like today, where selected students showcase their current works in progress.

Lily is filling her last elective with this class, and she’s only taking composition at all as a direct suggestion from Professor McGonagall— an influential presence for Piano Performance majors, and a mentor figure for Lily. McGonagall insisted Lily take composition to find her own voice because even when playing another composer’s work, we should be able to tell it’s you playing. Lily has a tendency to mimic the greats, a skill in its own right, but one that means she’s lacking her own point of view. If McGonagall is to be believed, taking composition will get Lily in the headspace to approach existing works from her own unique perspective. It’s going alright so far, even if Remus is no real help— he’s a comp major, but insists that she sign up for his extra help hours if she wants his commentary.

Professor Lovegood takes her place at the front, reminding students of the order for today’s presentations. She’ll listen and give critique, then ask for comments from the class. Alice Fortescue is up first, and she takes her place at the piano to play her thirty-two bars of original music— something fast and jaunty, a piece that could be played at a regency ball.

“How’s your piece coming?” Remus whispers, leaning close to Lily, his eyes still facing front.

“Fine,” Lily says, swallowing down her urge to complain. It’s not quite going at all. She has a bunch of fragments, but nothing good yet. Nothing she’d share in class. “I don’t share until the next cycle.”

“You’ve got time,” Remus says, writing a few notes on Alice’s piece in his journal, something well-worn and leatherbound.

They quiet down while Lovegood offers critique, Alice taking diligent notes. A few eager students contribute comments of their own, but Lily stays quiet for this one. She really should raise her participation grade, but everyone always says what she’s thinking before her hand can go up.

“Nicely said, Arthur,” Lovegood says, punctuating something a brass major had to say about dynamics. “The left-hand dynamics are subtle, which works in some moments, but I’d encourage you to push the contrast a little more. Here—” she carries on, leaning over Alice to make some notations on her music. Professor Lovegood is hands-on like that, which takes getting used to, and she’s the only professor Lily’s had that accepts resubmissions after critiques. She cares more about growth and improvement than she does about letter-grades. Pandora Lovegood is rather young for a professor, petite and wiry, always wearing flowing fabrics and dangling jewelry. Her white-blond hair almost reaches her waist, and she lets it hang freely most days, only clipping it back occasionally.

Alice’s critique is over, so she sits in the house while the next student takes their place onstage. Emmeline’s piece is on the violin, the melody carving through the space like tavern music, making Lily want a pint.

“You busy tonight?” Lily asks Remus, mirroring his lean from earlier. “Wanna grab drinks? I think Hagrid’s is doing twofers again.”

“My roommate’s got a gig,” Remus says. “You should come. It’s at Rosie’s.”

“Where’s that?” Lily chews on the tip of her pen, a bad habit that always leaves spots of black ink on her lips.

“West Village.” Remus pulls her hand down, forcing the pen away from her mouth. “Not far from my place.”

Lily has been to Remus’ apartment a few times. She’s never met the roommate though, he’s always out when she’s there, so tonight could be fun. A window into Remus’ world outside of school.

“I’ll swing by,”  Lily decides, and Remus promises to text her the details.

Two hours of comp class makes Lily’s brain feel too heavy for her skull. By the time she gets home her shoulder is aching from the weight of music binders, and her stomach is gnawing at itself from hunger, the crumbled Nature Valley bar at the bottom of her bag lost to the subway platform after it burst open.

Lily kicks her shoes off at the door, flinging her keys into one of the handmade ceramic bowls Sybill made during her pottery phase. “Hey.”

“How was class?” Sybill asks. She’s standing at the stove flipping pancakes, her boyfriend— Peter, of Hunter College nursing school fame— resting on a stool at the high top counter. The man may as well be their third roommate with how often he’s crashing at their place.

“Fine,” Lily says, moving through their flat to her bedroom.

“Want some pancakes?” Sybill offers. Their place is small enough that her voice carries through from the kitchen— two small bedrooms and a living area with a kitchenette. Enough for two girls in their twenties, and even though the commute is far by Manhattan standards, Lily enjoys living in the East Village.

“Yes!” Lily shrugs her bag off her shoulder and onto the floor, leaving the door open a crack so she can continue the conversation while she changes. “I’m so hungry. I had no time to eat today.”

Sybill and Peter pick up their own conversation, and Lily hears a few tidbits here and there about Marlene and the NYU crowd. Sybill’s part of the Gallatin School of Individualized Study, or as Lily calls it, the DIY program, a section of NYU that lets student’s build their own major. Sybill has created her own path of study, something she’s dubbed Modern Witchcraft and Human Empathy— a combination of anthropology, theatre, and history courses. Marlene’s a performing arts major in one of her acting classes this semester, the pair of them inseparable when Sybill’s not with Peter.

Lily tugs off the slacks she wore to class and pulls her black jumper off over her head, rifling through her closet for something to wear. Her wardrobe is bursting at the seams, some of her shoes stored in one of the unused kitchen cabinets, a box of jumpers slid under her bed to optimize hanging storage. She gets the shopping gene from her sister, Petunia, who used to drag her along on her sprees during secondary school, teaching Lily which shades and silhouettes were best for her face and body type. According to Tuni, she’s a summer, which means she looks best in cool, blue tones and not the vivid reds and bright yellows Lily picks out for herself. Anything blue she owns was gifted to her for birthdays and christmases from Petunia. Now, living in New York with Sybill, Lily spends a lot of time in secondhand stores, hunting for the next best thrift find. She’s got a bit of a magic touch, always pulling out the most glorious vintage garments for dirt cheap— that’s a skill she got from her mother, an expert at penny pinching.

“You guys wanna come to a gig?” Lily calls out, and she selects a mini dress that’s already half sticking out of the closet, rolling a pair of mauve tights up her legs since she hasn’t shaved for like a week.

“Peter?” Sybill defers to her boyfriend.

Lily tousles her hair and applies red lipstick, chucking the tube into a shoulder purse, digging through her desk drawers for some cash, and emerging from her room with her makeup bag and twenty-three bucks. 

“Who’s playing?” Peter asks, likely trying to avoid anything classical. He’s a nice guy, but he has no appreciation for classical music or fine arts. Lily wears headphones on her keyboard whenever he’s over.

“Remus’ roommate,” Lily says, perching herself on the stool next to Peter, propping her phone up on the paper towel holder as a mirror to fix her makeup. “It’s at this place called Rosie’s in the West Village.”

“Oh!” Sybill’s face lights up in recognition. “I’ve been there. They have good drinks.”

That’s enough to win Peter over, the man agreeing to join without anymore fuss.

Lily adds blush to her cheeks and colored eyeliner to her waterline, a shade to match the mauve tights. “How’re you two?”

“We were just talking about this gallery opening next week. Marlene’s girlfriend’s show,” Sybill says, flipping the last of the pancakes. “You should come! It’s her first at a major gallery, some snotty place on the upper east side. We’re gonna go and uptalk the art so buyers will offer more money.”

“Sounds fun,” Lily says, accepting a plate of pancakes.

The three of them scarf down their plates, and Sybill rushes to change her clothes into something acceptable for a night on the town, adding several bangle bracelets to her wrists and slipping on a pair of heels strappy enough to rival Carrie Bradshaw.

“Boots!” Lily says, hopping down from her stool and giving grabby motions with her hands.

Sybill opens a low kitchen cabinet, sifting through Lily’s overflow footwear. “The tall brown ones?”

Lily hums. “Better do the black heeled booties.”

Sybill fishes out the shoes, and Lily slips them onto her feet while Peter shucks his jacket on, the three of them out the door and down the three flights of stairs because it’s considered rude in their building to take a lift down if you live below the fifth floor.

Getting to the west side means a few stops on the F train, standing room only at this hour, so Lily ignores the signage telling her not to and leans against the doors to avoid wrapping her hands around the germy poles. Stand clear of the closing doors please, a series of beeps, and the train is moving.

The entrance to Rosie’s is hidden away with no overt signage, and if Sybill hadn’t been here before, Lily would’ve never found it. They go down some questionable stairs outside a laundromat, reaching a basement-level club requiring a five dollar cover at the entrance. The door opens, and music comes pouring out, trumpet already wailing. It’s a jazz club, and Lily doesn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The floors are sticky beneath her shoes, the light fixtures above the bar flicker, and the stage— if it can be called that— is a raised platform with scuffed wooden floors, barely big enough to fit a piano, a drum kit, and a few musicians huddled close.

The air is thick with cigarette smoke and damp from sweat, like the place has no air conditioning, which is possible considering how old the club seems to be. The walls are covered in posters, black and white photographs, newspaper articles, and polaroids, a scrapbook of decades of music, all played right here. The crowd is a mix of demographics, some shady types huddled in booths along the walls, singles at the bar, and young groups of friends scattered across tables in front of the stage.

Peter and Sybill separate themselves to get drinks, and Lily, happy to extract herself from the couple, scans the crowd for Remus. He’s right near the stage, squished at a round table with a few others.

Lily comes up behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and leaning over one shoulder to speak into his ear. “Remus, hi.”

“You made it!” Remus places a hand over hers, twisting to face her. “This is my friend Lily, she’s a fellow soon-to-be Julliard grad.” He introduces her to the table, and people shuffle around so she can take the seat on his right.

“Can’t come soon enough,” Lily jokes, gaining a few sympathetic smiles. “So, how do you all know the band?”

The trumpet is soloing, a series of fast-paced high notes that show impressive breath support.

“I sing with ‘em sometimes.” The girl on her right leans close to be heard over the music. “Name’s Mary.”

Lily smiles at her. The girl is wearing a fabulous shade of red lipstick, something with a purple undertone, and her hair is coiled and voluminous. She’s got a white fur coat resting on her shoulders, her arms free of the sleeves. Fur must be sweltering in this temperature, but Mary looks like the type to suffer for style. Remus excuses himself to get a drink, offering to secure one for Lily as well since he knows her usual.

“This is Kingsley,” Mary says, motioning to the man in the next chair over. “He’s my manager.”

Kingsley laughs at that. “I’m her friend,” he corrects. “Though I’ve talked her way onto a few stages, that’s for sure.”

“King’s got my back,” Mary says, and she takes a sip of her martini, stirring the olive and nodding along to the ebb and flow of the band’s song. The saxophone takes over, a velvety melody soaring above the rhythm section that makes the crowd cheer.

Kingsley lets out a low whistle, impressed. “Gid’s gotten tight.”

“That’s our boy Gideon on the sax,” Mary explains, pointing to the man standing at the center of the stage. His cheeks are bright red from the effort of his high notes, matching the fiery shade of his hair. Gideon bends his knees as he plays, undeniably in the groove. The solo finishes and the band wordlessly finds their way back to the starting melody, wrapping up the song after it repeats.

The crowd claps and cheers, a few patrons throwing crumpled up dollar bills at the stage that Gideon collects and hands to the pianist who accepts them with a smirk, placing the tips into the jar atop his instrument. The pianist nods his head, and the band rolls into another song, the bass notes climbing at a steady beat.

Remus slides back into his seat, handing Lily a cocktail glass full of pink liquid. “Your cosmo, Miss Evans.”

“Thank you, Lupin.” Lily accepts her drink. It’s good and it’s strong. “Which one’s your roommate?” She nods her head towards the band.

“He’s like you,” Remus says. “Piano.”

Lily squints, focusing on the man behind the piano. She can’t see his hands from here, and if he was sitting down properly she would only be able to see the top half of his face, but the man is standing, almost dancing as he plays, his face split open with a wide grin as he watches his bandmates. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and he shakes his head to tousle the longer bits out of his eyes. He’s wearing a white button up, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a smattering of tattoos peeking out from the wrinkled fabric. Lily has the stray thought that Remus is wrong, he’s not like her at all, but she doesn’t say anything, instead taking another sip of her cosmopolitan and leaning back into her chair. She lets the music consume her existence, happy to hear others play for a change. Musicians not focused on a grade.

The setlist continues, different members of the band jumping in solo, and it isn’t until the last one of the night that the piano takes its turn. Lily wishes she could see the pianist’s fingers, the notes he’s playing rolling out with impressive speed and finesse. He’s standing again in a showboating move, one foot raised to rest atop the bench he’s meant to be sitting on. He closes his eyes, his head tilting up to the ceiling as his fingers fly across the keys, a reckless tumble of notes, hammering triplets and wild chromatic runs that barely seem to land before the next idea takes flight.

His face breaks out into a wicked smile, pure bliss in his expression that makes Lily feel his giddiness transfer into her own rising cheeks. Their eyes meet over the crowd, the man’s honey colored irises glowing in the stage lights. There’s an arch to his brow that screams arrogance, and he sends her a self-satisfied smirk, but Lily feels her smile going wider as they stare for another beat, the pair of them laughing together before the pianist breaks eye contact, nodding at his band to cycle back into the main melody and finish the song.

The crowd erupts, people requesting another encore, and the band looks keen, but the venue’s booker cuts them off, switching to recorded music from the club’s speakers. The band members are all dripping in sweat, high off of something better than drugs, and that much Lily can relate to. She’s never so wound up as she is after playing a show, though her crowds are much more demure in their praise, clapping respectfully, the boldest sound the occasional whistle from the most appreciative of patrons. The crowd at Rosie’s is wild, many people approaching the musicians to offer their compliments. Gideon, the trumpet player, stops at a few tables before approaching where Lily and the others are sitting.

“Splendid!” Mary says, ambling to her feet, the few martinis she’s had inhibiting her ability to balance. “Just splendid, darling!” She kisses both of his cheeks, her lipstick leaving stains.

“Thanks.” Gideon’s cheeks get impossibly pinker, the flush creeping down his neck. He accepts a clap on the back from Kingsley, the two of them communicating with looks alone.

“Great show,” Lily says.

Gideon repeats his thanks, and Remus pulls Lily aside when his roommate approaches. He worked almost the entire room before landing here, the type of performer that feeds on applause, the attention of an audience. Remus embraces his friend, and Lily prepares for introductions, but he skips right over her to greet Mary, avoiding the woman’s attempts at kissing his cheeks and kissing hers instead.

“You’re a star, Junior!” Mary says.

The pianist, Junior, grins. “When are we gonna get you up there with us again?”

“You’ll have to speak to my manager,” Mary hums, her eyes flitting over to Kingsley who’s walked over with Gideon to talk to the bass player. “I’m singing at a sit-in next Tuesday. Gryffin’s.”

“In high demand, are you?” Junior waggles his eyebrows, playful.

Remus pulls up a chair for his friend. “This is Barty,” he says, facilitating Lily’s introduction. Remus goes to buy another round, Mary trailing after him, leaving them alone at the table.

Junior—Barty, it seems— finally looks at Lily, his expression expectant. He’s waiting for a compliment on his performance, and Lily would be annoyed if it wasn’t so deserved.

“I’m Lily. You’re wonderful,” she says, offering a hand for him to shake.

Barty laughs, squeezing her fingers between his before he dips down to kiss the top of her knuckles. “That’s the consensus.” He stays bowed, looking up at her from under his lashes.

Lily huffs a laugh. “A tad arrogant, are we?”

“You’re a friend of Remus?”

Lily nods, her hand still in Barty’s.

“That makes you Julliard?” He squeezes her hand again. “Comp?”

“Yes, Julliard,” Lily says, her fingers beginning to tingle. “I’m a Performance major.”

Barty’s eyes widen just a bit. “And you don’t wanna kill yourself?”

Lily chews her lip in faux confliction, playing along with his banter. “I’ve made it too far now. Can’t jump ship with less than a semester left.”

“What do you play? No, lemme guess.” He examines her fingertips, looking for calluses. “Not strings.”

“Not strings,” she confirms, watching as he slides her smooth hand through his rough ones. He’s got a few small tattoos on his hands, music notes and constellations.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“I’ve never timed it,” Lily admits.

“Not brass or woodwinds either, then. Those fuckers time themselves.” Barty releases her fingers.

Lily isn’t sure where to put her hands. Her lap feels wrong, and elbows on the table feels too casual. She slides them under herself, sitting on her fingertips so she doesn’t do something stupid like reach for Barty’s hand under the table.

“I don’t peg you for a drummer,” Barty says. “You’re keys?”

“Bingo.”

Barty blinks. “Oh, so you actually do think I’m wonderful.”

“It’s the consensus.” Lily uses his words back at him, her tongue coming to rest between her teeth.

“I just—” Barty starts. “Thank you. Your compliments mean more than the rest.”

“Why?”

“You play.” Barty shrugs. “You get it.”

“Who gets what?” Remus comes back to the table, Sybill and Peter replacing Mary who has begged off to smoke a cigarette. The couple disappeared early in the evening, their swollen lips betraying what must have been a makeout session in one of the booths.

“You were fabulous!” Sybill says, situating herself on Peter’s lap once he sits in Mary’s old spot.

Barty gives Lily a look that says watch this, asking Sybill, “What about it was fabulous?”

Sybill leans back into Peter’s chest, her hand coming up to ruffle his hair as she speaks. “The whole thing was just— wow. Ya know?”

Barty grins, a parenthetical around his mouth in the form of dimples. “I love me a specific critique.” He’s joking, but it’s a bit harsh. If Sybill wasn’t drunkenly distracted by Peter’s fluffy hair, she may have taken offense to the comment. “Wow, how?”

Sybill, still focused on Peter’s hair, hums, missing his sarcasm. “I mean, the whole thing was really… expressive. And the dynamics were quite dynamical.” She’s butchering words she’s heard Lily use before. “Compelling.”

Barty raises an eyebrow, amused. “Compelling how?”

Remus sighs, elbowing his roommate. “Come on, leave her alone.”

Sybill finally pulls her attention away from Peter and squints at Barty, like she’s just realized he’s testing her. “Not quite so compelling that it moved me to tears,” she admits, “but I was nodding along to the beat. I don’t need a dissertation to know when something’s good, and if Lily liked it I trust her judgement.” Sybill blinks at Lily, her big blue eyes enhanced by a strip of false lashes.

“Lily?” Barty rests his elbows on the table, his chin on the steeple of his intertwined fingers.

“No one likes a man who fishes for compliments.” Lily takes a sip of her new drink, staring Barty down as she swallows.

He lets out a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Touché.”

Chapter Text

Lily’s on her last sheet of pre-lined staff paper before she’ll have to pull out a ruler and make more. She really ought to draft in pencil at least, since she is adverse to using computer softwares for first drafts, but there’s something about dark black ink that Lily enjoys. It’s a little masochistic, the way she forces herself to start a new sheet each time she writes a series of notes she doesn’t like, but ‘tis the life of an artist.

She’s sitting in a cafe near campus, mid century modern interior with plush, green velvet seats and skinny shelves covered in sculptures. There are canvases on the wall, placards with the name of the artist and absurd prices that make Lily wonder if anyone ever actually buys the pieces hanging inside of coffee shops. If she was an art collector, she’d buy pieces by commission only, maybe from galleries, if something really moved her. Is coffee shop art the equivalent to elevator music?

Lily shakes her head, forcing herself back to task. She’s huddled in the corner amongst her pile of rejected pages and three empty mugs of drip coffee, the ceramic plate full of crumbs from her blueberry scone rests close to the table’s edge, pushed there subconsciously by her left arm as she leans on the table to write. Lily places her pen in her mouth, freeing her right hand to tap on the table in a series of phantom notes, squeezing her eyes shut to picture the way the sheet music should look. She opens them to write, black ink gliding from the tip of her pen onto the staff.

She picked this cafe because it’s the only one near campus that doesn’t play music, the sounds of steaming milk and grinding coffee beans the only background noise. All of the other customers have headphones on, nodding along to their own personal soundtracks. Even one of the baristas has a singular airpod in that Lily noticed when she was ordering, but their hair is long enough to mask it from most angles, so they’re likely hiding it from management.

Lily’s been here for a couple of hours, and she’s only got a few bars written. She’s supposed to share her composition in class this week. Fuck . Here comes the tension headache. Lily presses her knuckles into her temples, letting her eyes flutter closed as she releases an involuntary groan. Some of the people in line turn to look at her, including a familiar face who seems to chuckle at himself before turning away to pick up his drink at the other end of the counter.

Lily’s cheeks warm in embarrassment, but she can’t stop herself from yelling out to him as he searches for an empty table. “Oi!”

Barty turns to face her, pointing at himself in a you looking at me? type gesture.

Lily nods, waving him over.

He squeezes between two other tables as he approaches, pulling an earbud out of his left ear. “Yeah?”

“You can sit, if you want.” Lily says, waiting for him to realize there are no empty tables.

“You sure?” Barty asks, sending a pointed look towards her dishes and the pile of composition fragments taking up the table’s surface.

“It’s no problem.” Lily stacks her dishes, brushing away stray crumbs to clear a space for his mug.

Barty sits across from her, his face lighting up in recognition. “Have we matched on a dating app before?”

Lily cracks a smile. “Very funny.” She rolls her eyes.

Barty sucks a breath of air between his teeth, a sheepish sort of wince.

Lily’s face drops. “You’re kidding.”

“Look, you’ve caught me on an off day.” Barty admits, taking a sip of his cappuccino, licking foam off his upper lip. His eyes are a bit glossy, lost in thought, unable to tell Lily apart from any of the other customers in the shop.

“Rosie’s? Last week?”

“Oh my fuck. Uh- it’s a flower.” he snaps his fingers, thinking. “Lily?”

“Bingo.”

“Sorry, it took me a moment to place you.”

“Wow, ok.” Lily doesn’t know how to feel because now his glance from across the coffee shop is less playful wordless banter and more legitimately judgey stranger .

“No, I swear it’s all come rushing back to me.” He takes out his other earbud, sliding the case into his jacket pocket. “Juilliard, piano player, Remus’ friend, drinks cosmopolitans.”

Lily raises her brows. “What is this, a suspect description?”

“Nah, just the highlights from your dating profile.” Barty smirks. “I’m assuming.” He sips his cappuccino again, eyeing her from behind his mug. If she’s not mistaken, his eyes flit down her body before landing back at her face. He does it again, shameless. He’s checking her out.

“What?” Lily crosses her arms over her chest.

“You look different.” Barty says, his scrutinizing glare not letting up. “That’s why I didn’t recognize you, I think.”

“Different?”

“Less colorful.” He gestures to her outfit, an all black ensemble, which is her normal attire for classes. Lily at Julliard is the picture of professionalism, sleek greyscale looks that would be fitting for a cubicle-style office. No red lipstick except for performances. The complete foil to how she was dressed at Rosie’s.

“You look the same.” Lily says, because two can play at this game.

Barty does look the same, his dark brows sharp and angular, his cheekbones cut to match. His eyes are a deeper brown this close up, without the colored lights of the jazz club painting them golden. He’s expressive too, less joyous than he was onstage, more pensive, a layer of mischief bubbling to the surface when his mouth twists into a satisfied grin. His dark brown hair is thick, and slightly unkempt, falling in soft, fluffy strands across his forehead. He’s lacking the sheen of sweat that he had after his performance.

Barty places his elbows on the table, leaning in. “And how’s that?”

“Like an overconfident jackass.” Lily says, all candour, her voice sure and steady. She’s only able to hold a straight face for a moment before she breaks. “Oh my god. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that I-”

“No, come on.” Barty swats the air, pushing aside her apology as if it’s a physical thing. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve been called, and it’s well deserved. Takes a special kind of jackassery to forget the name of such a remarkable woman.”

Lily snorts. “How many girls has that line worked on?”

“I’m serious!” Barty slaps the table, the stack of Lily’s dishes clattering. “You’re probably a prodigy. I mean, no one handwrites their music anymore.” He motions to the pen in her hand, the sheet music in front of her. Some of his nails are painted a deep hunter green, the polish chipping in the same places Lily’s does, a hazard of their shared instrument.

“You know what? I’ll accept remarkable-”

“-and prodigy.” Barty cuts in. 

“And prodigy,” she rolls her eyes. “But only because we both agree you’re a jackass.”

“Ah, ah, ah. I look like a jackass.” Barty corrects. “Key distinction.”

“Oh, my apologies.” Lily pouts, her bottom lip jutting out in a playful expression. “One step too far?”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes shifting to her sheet music. “What are you transcribing?”

“I’m not.” Lily gathers her hair, pulling it over one shoulder. “I’m writing.”

Barty lets out a hum of surprise, tilting his head to get a better look at her music.

“It’s for this composition class I’m taking.” Lily sighs, handing him her latest attempt so he doesn’t have to read it upside down. “I need thirty-two bars to show next class period, and I have maybe six that are good. I’m not really a writer.”

“You’re composing?” he asks, eyes scanning the paper. “Without a piano?”

Lily nods.

“That part of the assignment?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s your first problem.” Barty decides, his mouth settling into a grin. “We need to get you on some keys.”

“What?”

“I’m dying to see this remarkable prodigy behind a piano. You can’t expect to get anything here.” He glances around the cafe, his nose wrinkling in judgement. The man at the table next to them is reading Sense and Sensibility , and Lily’s sure there’s a joke here somewhere about the fact that Barty finds sense distasteful, but the punchline won’t form, so she doesn’t say anything.

“I happen to like this place.” Lily says instead, clicking her pen to give her hands something to do.

“It’s a dark night for the combo, and King’s hosting a jam sesh.” Barty begins to stack her music, all hap hazard, so Lily snatches it out of his hands to place in her folder.

“Ok?” she asks, not understanding how this can involve her.

Barty explains. “You should come.”

Lily laughs, incredulous. “Right.”

“I’m serious.” Barty licks his lips. “You’ve gotta relax and just play. The music will come to you, but not if you’re forcing it.”

“I dunno.” Lily says. “Maybe if I can get enough done beforehand.”

“It’ll be a good time, I promise.” He hands her his phone, open to a new text thread.

Barty is the type of person to instigate a fight, flight, or freeze reaction, and Lily, while up till now was holding her own in the fight, feels frozen, accepting the phone to type in her number. She doesn’t understand why her actions instinctively say yes when she means to say no.

“Nine o’clock.” He types for a moment and hits send.

Lily’s phone buzzes in response, an address popping up on her lock screen– a photo taken from Tuni’s bedroom window back in Banbury, petunias and lilies growing in the back garden. She should probably call Petunia soon, it’s been a while since they’ve had a chat.

Barty downs the rest of his cappuccino in one go, slaps his knee, and stands up, indifferent. “Show up if you want.” He walks away without giving her time to reply.

Lily remains frozen.

The coffee shop eventually has to close, so Lily leaves without much progress on her piece and kicks herself for it as she blares Liszt in her headphones on the train ride home. When she makes it back, Peter is on the couch, Sybill’s head in his lap as he rakes his fingers through her sandy curls, both of their eyes unblinking as they stare at the TV. Marlene and some of the others from NYU– Molly, Benjy, Ted– are laying on the rug, the room collectively lazy as Peter sinks deep into the couch cushions and Marlene twists the fraying edges of the persian rug between her fingers. The volume is at full blast, the crowd of theatre kids humming along to the songs on screen. It’s the film Across the Universe , which means Peter got to pick– his obsession with The Beatles is borderline unhealthy. 

“Hi.” Lily calls, just loud enough to announce her presence.

“Lils.” Sybill sits up, giggling. Giggly Sybill always means she’s high, and sure enough, there’s a stack of half-eaten brownies on the coffee table, Marlene’s specialty. The woman practically lives at Washington Square Park, connected to a series of plugs that get her the good stuff for cheap , or so she says. There’s never been a problem with Marlene’s brownies, so no one asks too many questions.

“Looks like you lot are having fun.” Lily says, hanging her bag on a hook at the door, tossing her keys into their dish. She puts her kettle on the stove, pale pink lilies hand painted on ceramic– a gift her grandmother gave her when she moved to New York.

“There’s still some left if you wanna join.” Marlene offers, twisting to lay on her stomach, her fingers laced under her chin.

Lily follows a familiar routine, not even needing to glance at which cupboard she’s in as she flicks her shoes into one, grabs a mug from another, and selects her favorite tea bags from the last. “I’ve got to lock in and get some work done.”

There’s a collective pout from the living room, but it’s half baked, just like all of them. Their eyes are hazy and bloodshot, and Lily knows none of them will actually miss her. All of Sybill’s NYU friends are nice, but too overstimulating for Lily, talking over every movie they watch and analyzing nuanced details she didn’t even notice. Ted will inevitably go on a rant about the screenwriter, an aspiring one himself, and Benjy will fill in with comments about the camera work, insisting his student projects filmed in Washington Square Park have just as much potential. Marlene will skip back to look for monologue options, Sybill deciding on which character has the best wardrobe. These are the moments Lily feels most bonded with Peter, the two of them fading into the background while the others fight for attention. She’ll pass on those dynamics this evening.

The kettle whistles, so Lily pours the water over her tea bags, letting it steep on the counter while she finds milk, something plant-based Sybill picks up from this woman in their building that makes it out of her apartment. Lily tucks herself into her room, shuts the door, and opens her emergency tin of biscuits from home, a sewing kit turned cookie tin full of hobnobs and jammie dodgers that she saves for rainy days. Today feels rainy in an emotional sense, so Lily allows herself free reign of the tin, careful not to get crumbs on her piano keys. She has two different keyboards at home, one that’s quality, another that she can lift off its stand to set on her bed, and she goes for that one, settling atop her quilt and plugging in a pair of headphones to keep the noise away from Peter and the others.

Lily stares at the keys.

Lily takes a sip of tea.

She stares at the keys.

Eats a biscuit.

Plucks out a series of notes, getting a feel for what key she might like.

Stares at the keys while she sips her tea.

Plays something she likes, realizes it’s Für Elise, and sputters out a laugh, sending tea up her nostrils.

The cycle continues, Come Together by The Beatles seeping in from the living room, which is not doing her any inspirational favors. The last thing Lily needs is to subconsciously copy the most iconic musical group of all time. Great , now she sounds like Peter.

Fuck it .

The address Barty sent turns out to be a seventh floor walk-up in Harlem, an apartment building that’s seen better days, and even when it was better days it probably wasn’t the cream of the neighborhood. There’s a vague cigarette smell in the stairwells, fused into the layers of paint that have built up over the decades. Lily knows right away when she’s arrived, the door left unlatched, music floating into the corridor. She can see some of the neighboring units have left their doors open too, enjoying the free show from the musicians next door. It’s a far cry from the old folks in her building that have left threatening notes telling her to shut up if it’s after seven-thirty pm.

Lily rolls her shoulders back, forgoing a knock since it wouldn’t be heard anyways, and steps into the apartment. The place is packed, musicians and spectators in every available corner smoking and drinking and humming along to the tune being played. A small dance floor has formed in the kitchen, couples twirling around under the warm glow of the light bulbs, lubed up on liquor and jazz. The living room is where the action is, the overhead lights forgotten for the sake of candles and standing lamps with colored shades, an ambience not unlike that of Rosie’s. There are ceramic ashtrays on the coffee table, colorful ones that Sybill would like. It reminds Lily of Holly Golightly’s soirées in Breakfast at Tiffany’s , grand people in an understated space made to gather.

The brass is taking the lead, saxophones and trumpets blending together to float through the melody. Gideon is among them, perched on an ottoman, Mary’s feet resting in his lap as she lays back into orange sofa cushions. This tune is relaxed, the drummer in the corner using brushes instead of sticks. There’s an upright bass and a couple of guitars, men who can glide across their fretboards and pluck their strings without sparing a glance at their fingers, instead looking to the musicians they’re playing with, the group seeming to breathe as one. The centerpiece of the living room is the piano, the band arranged around an upright set at an angle, Barty seated behind the keys, a gleam in his eyes and a soft smile on his face.

The trumpet takes a solo, and Lily weaves her way through the crowd, settling on the arm of the sofa next to Mary. She’s content to watch for a while, getting as lost in the music as the woman next to her– Mary’s eyes are closed, her lips pressed together in musical appreciation, so she hasn’t noticed Lily. The trumpet’s notes are silky and smooth, butter melting on a sizzling pan. The group cues him back into the melody, repeating the familiar part of the song before ending it. There’s some light applause, nothing like the wild roar at Rosie’s, and the band talks over each other, deciding what to play next.

Mary opens her eyes. “Lily Evans, clear as day.”

“Good to see you.” Lily says, eyeing Mary’s earrings, dripping pearls on a silver chain. “Barty invited me.”

“That boy is trouble, baby.” Mary tsks, her tongue clicking against her teeth. “Do we like trouble?” It’s a true enough sounding question, one Lily feels compelled to answer with honesty.

“We do.” Lily confesses, her eyes flitting over to Barty involuntarily. He hasn’t noticed her yet.

The drummer, tired of waiting for a consensus on what tune to play, decides for the group, hitting the cymbals for a few beats that seem to be enough for the trumpet to follow, a series of high pitched, fast notes blaring out as the man’s cheeks fill with air. Gideon jumps up to stand, Mary’s feet falling from his lap. The song is in complete juxtaposition to the previous one, a frenzied sequence of notes, the instruments wailing in battle. There’s a strong drum hit and the crowd of onlookers jumps in with words, “ Salt peanuts, salt peanuts,” surprising Lily enough to make her jump.

Mary releases a cackle of laughter, swatting Lily on the back. “Tonight is going to be such a riot for you.”

“Does everyone know this song?” Lily asks, leaning down to talk to Mary at her eye level.

“It’s jazz, baby.” Mary says, her rouged cheeks round with her smile. “Everyone knows everythin’ and nobody knows nothin’ all at the same time.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means- salt peanuts, salt peanuts! ” Mary takes a breath before starting again. “It means there are standards, but everyone’s also making it up, changing things. See, there goes Moody, on a whole other planet.” She points to the trumpet player, a wild look in his eyes as he blows, his fingers lifting and lowering on the valves. He’s started soloing, the rest of them fading to back him up as his instrument squeals.

“I think if someone started playing something totally unplanned in my classes, I’d have no clue how to keep up.” Lily says, trying to get a look at Barty’s fingers. She’s on the wrong side of the piano again, watching his upper body bounce in time to the group’s song, his fingers hidden by the front of the instrument.

“Nah, you’d hold your own. You’re a musician, you just have to let yourself be an improvisationalist.” Mary says. “Jazz is about taking risks, knowing your training will back you up.”

Lily hums. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”

The band wraps up the song, another smattering of applause and appreciation.

“King!” Mary yells, the room going quiet under her authority.

Kingsley, mid-pour of a glass of gin-and-something, looks up. “Yeah?”

“I’m gonna sing.” Mary decides, and the room cheers in earnest now as she shuffles up to stand near the piano, whispering to the band what she wants.

Barty pulls a man from the crowd, shoving him down behind the keys to replace him so he can approach Lily as Mary’s song gets started. “Julliard, you made it!” The sheen of sweat is back, not quite dripping, just enough to glisten in the low lights.

“I did.” Lily agrees, standing from her perch on the sofa’s arm.

“And in technicolor.” Barty appraises, gesturing to the mod dress she’s wearing, color blocked in primaries, her headband and lipstick a matching shade of red.

“Dorothy’s out of Kansas.” Lily agrees.

“Want a drink?” he asks, already shepherding her towards the kitchen. “Once Mary gets going, she won’t stop.”

Lily lets herself be escorted, Barty’s hand attaching itself to the small of her back as they navigate through the clusters of people, the piano starting an intro that Mary hums over. Kingsley seems to be managing drinks, slicing limes directly on the countertop to squeeze into gin and tonics.

“Two more?” Barty asks, leaning against the cream colored refrigerator.

“You got any Sprite?” Lily cuts in.

“In the fridge, sweetheart.” Kingsley nods his head towards the fridge, and Barty opens it to find her the fizzy drink.

“Make mine a gin and Sprite then, if you please.” Lily says, setting the cold can on the counter.

“Anything you want, red.” Kingsley winks, his hands getting to work, pouring strong helpings of gin into amber-colored highball glasses. He pours tonic water over Barty’s, Sprite over Lily’s and his own, squeezing limes into the sparkling liquid. “You better not do me wrong with this one.”

Lily offers her glass for a cheers, the three of them clinking before sipping.

Kingsley mutters his approval before moving to a vacated stool, settling to listen to Mary, who’s started singing with the band, her voice a subtle croon, rich in tone. “ How high the moon- ”

“Remus drinks those.” Barty says, grabbing another lime wedge from the counter, sucking it between his teeth.

“I know.” Lily says, a second sip of the gin sending a tingle of warmth through her chest. “I showed him.” Her first real drink had been when her parents were away for a weekend when she was fifteen. She and Petunia bust open the liquor cabinet, and the only mixer around was flat Sprite. They nicked limes from their neighbor Pomona’s tree, the branches hanging over the shared fence that split their gardens, and the elderly woman had caught them, screaming and wailing for her husband, Argus, to chase them off. The Evans’ sisters tore through the suburb, iced tea glasses full of gin and Sprite that they chugged on the corner to keep from spilling as they ran. It was the neighbor’s cat, Norris, that caught up to them, a hissing feline with matted grey fur that they threw their unpeeled limes at to escape. Lily shares the memory with Barty, and he laughs more with his eyes than anything else.

“Where’s your sister now?” he asks, reaching the halfway point on his G&T, his grin just past subtle due to the alcohol.

“She’s in Banbury still. Oxfordshire.” Lily clarifies, adding when Barty still looks confused, “England.”

“I thought you sounded English. Didn’t wanna assume, though.” Barty says. “God save the Queen, and all that.”

“The King now, actually.” Lily says, her heart panging for Lizzie. “My dad was in London right after she died. Brought some of the flowers used for her funeral.”

“No shit?”

Lily nods. “He drives a lorry, delivers flowers and plants to florists in the city.”

“And your mom?”

“Mum’s a housekeeper.” Lily crinkles her nose, pausing to take a sip of her drink. “Yours?”

“Come on, Mary’s getting to the good bit.” Barty says, reaching for Lily’s hand to drag her back to the living room.

The couch has been claimed, so they find themselves along the back wall, leaning against a wide window sill. Mary is getting to the good bit, forgoing the lyrics for expertly placed syllables, her vocal agility matching Gideon’s on the trumpet as she scats. She gets faster, the drummer taking her cue with the tempo, the band and onlookers on the edge of their seats waiting to see where Mary leads them next. It’s a show of pure skill, not just natural talent, the way Mary’s expression remains sultry, her breath support that of an olympic swimmer to go as fast as she does without stopping. She’s turned her voice into an instrument, conducting herself with her hands in the air in front of her, a strange visual map that only she can read. The whole place is transfixed, tapping their feet along with the rhythm she’s set. Mary is holding the room in the palm of her hand. She reaches the end of an incredible phrase of riffs and clipped consonants, gliding back into the lyrics to finish the song, a victorious smile on her face.

The song ends and Mary bursts into joyous laughter, bumping shoulders with the band, each of them glowing in a different way than they did after Rosie’s. Tonight is music for them, not for a crowd.

“Come on.” Barty downs the rest of his drink, setting his cup on the window sill. “Let’s play.”

Lily is pulled up from where she’s leaning, and before she can register what’s happening she’s sitting on the piano bench, Barty sharing it, his left leg pressed against her right.

“Play me something good, Junior.” Mary shoots them a smile. “Something better than sin.”

Barty takes hold of Mary’s hand as she passes, and he presses a kiss to her knuckles in that devilish way of his. “As you wish.” he says, face hovering over Mary’s purple, painted fingernails.

Lily feels a flutter in her stomach as Mary walks away, and she wishes she hadn’t set her drink down.

“Alright, let’s do something new.” Barty says, addressing the other musicians. “Show Julliard here a real evening.” He nods his head towards Lily.

“Your move.” the drummer says.

“Yeah, we’ll jump in.” Moody says, his fingers wrapped around his trumpet.

Gideon and the others nod their agreement, and Barty looks at Lily.

“What?” Lily’s cheeks are burning.

“Pick a key.” he instructs, his fingers grazing the keys, not settling into a shape yet.

“Uh-”

“Don’t think about it.” Barty says. “Here, just hit one and we’ll go from there.” He lifts his hands, leaving the keys free for her.

Lily feels stupid, but after watching Mary, she knows she has to give it a try– trust that her training will back her up. Lily hits a black key, E flat, and Barty’s fingers surge forward, his hands grazing hers as she pulls them back.

It’s wild from there, Barty moving on instinct, a series of notes building into a melody, one that the saxophone picks up on, following the guide set for him. The guitars trickle in with chords, the bass joining with a climbing pulse, and Barty’s mouth opens into his glorious smile, giddy with himself.

Lily can’t stop watching his fingers, the green polish on his nails, the way he barely glances at his own hands, looking instead at the room and the band, feeding off of their energy. It’s become a song, something lush and cool, the chords floating, never landing. A push and pull builds, the trumpet adding ideas of his own, the piece building as they go. They’ve found a pattern now, something to cycle through before adding more variations.

Barty, still smiling, looks at Lily. “Be my right hand.”

Lily blinks. “What?”

“You’ve gotta jump in here, Juilliard.” he says, tucking his lips into his mouth to bite back a scheming smile. He lifts his right hand, leaving his left to play the bass notes.

Lily is frozen.

The melody sounds flatter now, the leading part missing.

“Barty.” Lily whispers. “Cut it out.”

“Hurry, or the song’s gonna sound shit.” Barty taunts, his right hand now waving at the folks dancing in the kitchen.

Another second, then Lily gives in, leaning over to pluck out the melody he had started with, her right hand crossed over his left.

There are a few stray hollers from the crowd, but Lily only hears the praise in her ear, “There you go.”

She looks up, their eyes meeting as their hands dance on the keys.

“Change it up a little.” Barty says, encouraging Lily to move beyond the repeating melody he started the piece with.

Inspired by something she hears from one of the guitars, Lily’s hand climbs higher up the keys, ascending the melody. Barty’s left hand adjusts to her whims, playing comp chords to underscore the new melody. It feels powerful, the way any small thing she does can start a chain reaction– a series of triplets inspires the sax to slide, causing the trumpet to blare, causing the drums to back down a bit. She hardly even notices when Barty removes his left hand, hers taking its place like it’s second nature– and it is, Lily knows how to do this, she does this everyday. It feels even better with full reign, her fingers darting across the keys– deep, syncopated chords with the left, a flurry of spontaneous melodies pouring from the right.

The band finds its groove, a lightbulb fuelled by their collective energy. It’s addicting and it’s effervescent and it’s sweaty and she fumbles on a few notes, but so do the others, and it’s more about the recovery and pushing into new ideas than it is about perfection. Before she knows it, the drummer takes a solo, the rest of them pulling back to give him his moment, the beat a pummeling rainstorm with the clash of cymbals chiming in for thunder. When the main melody comes back, Barty’s hands do too, filling the spaces between her own, a duet overtop the rest.

The song finds its natural end, and Lily relishes in the beat of silence before the musicians begin to celebrate, complimenting and clapping each other on the back. Barty and Lily fall together, forehead to forehead, their fingers still intwined, stretched over the keys. His eyes look bright, and Lily’s sure hers look the same. They’re breathing heavily, their bodies sticky with sweat, and Lily’s entire right leg is tingling where it’s pressed to his.

“See?” Barty asks, a whisper just loud enough for her. “You’re a writer.”

“That was amazing.” Lily laughs, pure adrenaline. “You’re amazing.”

“Hey, you picked that first note.” Barty shrugs. “That was your song.”

“How about our song?”

“Sure, our song.” he agrees, and there’s something special about the fact that their song can never be repeated. Their song exists only for those who heard it, only right now, and it can never be remembered exactly as it was made tonight.

Chapter Text

Lily hums, examining the painting on the wall. “Is it?”

“It can’t be.” Remus says. “Can it?”

“I mean, it looks like-”

“Yeah, but when you tilt your head then-”

“It’s somehow worse?” Lily finishes, the pair of them tilting their heads in unison.

They’re at a gallery on the Upper East Side, crystal flutes of champagne being passed around on silver trays. The clientele is upscale: suit jackets and pressed trousers, designer loafers and sleek boots. The ones with real money to spend are quiet about their opinions, pursed lips and appraising nods as they write down which pieces they like. The friends of the artist pour out praise and over imbibe in refreshments. There’s classical music playing through hidden speakers– Rachmaninoff, one of Lily’s favorite composers. She played Lilacs for juries during first year, a piece that earned her a compliment from Malfoy, one of their most stone-faced professors.

“You guys looking at the vagina painting?” Sybill asks, sliding between them with a fresh glass of champagne.

“Shhh!” Lily hisses, very aware of the rich art snobs whose eyes have narrowed at the comment.

“What?” Sybill asks, all innocent doe eyes. “It says so on the plaque. See?”

Remus leans forward, reading out the tombstone information, “Bud of Womanhood, oil on canvas, Dorcas Meadowes.”

“Cas is freaky like that.” Marlene says, linking her arm with Sybill’s. “I mean, all that from memory alone.” She shrugs her shoulders, falsely tender.

“You didn’t model?” Sybill squints at the painting, then at Marlene.

“Not for that one.” Marlene laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you my real piece.” She ushers Sybill away, nodding her head for Lily and Remus to follow.

“I think we’re good.” Remus says, his face burning bright red. He adds when they’re gone, “I don’t think I need to know that much about their relationship.”

“Good call.” Lily agrees, shaking her head in a huff of laughter. She places her empty glass of champagne on a tray that passes, taking care of Remus’ too while he secures them two new glasses. They’ll never say no to free champagne, especially of this calibre. Grimmauld Gallery is not stingy on the bubbles– Lily caught a glimpse of the bottles earlier, and it’s Dom Pérignon, something that feels overly upscale for a show at Dorcas’ level, though maybe Lily just doesn’t know too much about art.

Remus leads the way to the next room of the gallery. The walls are full of paintings, and there are a few sculptures on pedestals, each lit with personal spotlights. The female form seems to be a focus for Dorcas, rounded figures and bloodied pinks a throughline of her works.

“I feel like I can’t look anywhere for too long.” Remus admits, his face getting more red by the minute.

“Why?” Lily puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It feels disrespectful,” Remus sighs. “I don’t wanna objectify anyone, make any women in here feel weird- like I’m lusting after them or something.”

“You’re gay.” Lily deadpans. “And you can’t objectify something that’s already an object. Art is meant to be looked at, Lupin.”

Remus glances to the side, then shrugs her arm off his shoulder. “Let’s just keep walking, yeah?”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” Lily laughs, gaining her more stares from the elites in the crowd. She tries to link her arm with his, but Remus shoots another glance to the other side of the room, then slips his hand into his pocket, rejecting her attempt at an escort.

“Barty’s been asking about you.” he says, stopping in front of a painting he deems safe to stare at– a woman from the back. She’s still nude, but the focus is on her spine, shards of glass sticking out of it, blue blood dripping down the canvas.

“Has he?” Lily says, suppressing a giddy smile just like she’s been suppressing the urge to ask Remus about Barty for the past several days. She doesn’t want to get in the middle of her best friend and his roommate, but Barty is the reason for her A on the last composition assignment. She’s been writing non-stop since that jam session, inspired in a way she never has been before. Not all of it is good, but that doesn’t feel like the point. She can be good at rep pieces, writing is just for her.

Remus nods, looking over Lily’s shoulder rather than in her eyes. “You definitely made an impression.”

“What’s he been asking?”

“I dunno.” Remus huffs. “He had a lot of questions. I don’t think he knows what to make of you yet.”

Lily is beaming now, and if Remus was paying her face any attention, he’d make fun of her goofy grin.

“You want me to steer him away?” Remus asks, side stepping to look at a sculpture.

“What?” Lily’s face drops. “Why?”

“Um, cause he’s a fuckboy?” Remus says, walking around the sculpture to get a three-sixty view, though it looks like he’s surveying the room more than the art. “Trust me, I love the guy, but I also know the guy, and he is a mess. He’s a messy fuckboy.”

“So what?” Lily moves to the opposite side of the sculpture, trying to get in Remus’ eyeline.

“So, that’s not something you’re interested in.” Remus says.

“Who says I’m not?” she argues. “I’m a slut, remember?”

Remus hums out a halfhearted agreement, still not giving her his full attention.

“Ok, what are you looking at?” Lily scoffs, following his gaze along the gallery wall. “Oh.”

There’s a man standing near the junction between rooms, long dark hair that matches his dark suit, his white collared shirt left slightly unbuttoned, a silver chain peeking out from the neckline. He’s got a porcelain type of complexion, features that cut and slice, his grey eyes piercing even from across the gallery. He’s chatting with Dorcas, the two of them laughing about something, his eyes crinkling with his joy. The man is the picture of the clean-cut artist type: flared trousers, smokey eyeliner, a ring on nearly every finger, black polish on his nails– no chips. A man like this is Remus’ bread and butter.

“Shut up.” Remus whispers.

“I didn’t say anything.” Lily lifts her hands in surrender, the champagne in her glass swishes. “Though, if I were going to-”

“Lils.” Remus grits his teeth.

“He’s cute.”

“I know.” Remus lets the corners of his mouth lift into a hidden smile, checking the guy out again.

“You should go talk to him.” Lily says. “Now’s the perfect moment.”

“How is that remotely true?” Remus runs a flustered hand through his hair.

“He’s with Dorcas. Go compliment her, then, ‘oh, who’s your friend?’ and boom!” Lily instructs. “You’re introduced.”

“Introduced?” his forehead wrinkles when he raises his brows. “You can’t call yourself a slut and then talk like a character from Bridgerton .”

“I dunno, that show is pretty slutty.” Lily reasons. “Come on, go talk to him.”

Remus downs the rest of his champagne in one go, then steals hers to swallow as well. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He hands her the empty glasses and cuts across the gallery, making a beeline for Dorcas and the attractive stranger.

Lily takes a moment to circle the rest of the room, pausing at the paintings Remus blew past. Dorcas is quite good with a brush– she’s managed to capture a feeling, each of her pieces different, yet still connected, themes of lust and suffering embedded into layers of oil paints and etched into metallic sculptures. Lily wonders how she knows when a painting is done. This kind of art, Dorcas’ kind, is different from music, less ephemeral. There’s a real finished product, the artist stops working on it at some point. Lily never stops working on her rep– even when she picks up pieces from first year, there’s always more to work on. Juilliard professors love to remind students that ninety percent of a career in music is practice, and the students joke that they spend more hours in Diamond’s practice rooms than their own homes. Lily loves it.

Her phone rings, a buzzing coming from Lily’s purse. Speak of the devil and he shall call .

“Hello?” Lily answers the phone, ignoring the way the other patrons stare. She’s past trying to blend in at this point.

“Juilliard!” Barty’s voice is loud, projected over a crowd in the background. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m at an art gallery.” Lily rolls her eyes at how pretentious that sounds. “A friend of friend’s show.”

Barty’s tongue clicks in recognition. “Oh, you’re with Remus?”

“Yeah.” Lily shoots a glance across the room, just catching sight of the stranger placing a hand on Remus’ arm. “He’s off flirting, though, so you’ve called at the perfect time. You can help me feel less awkward staring at paintings alone.”

“Remus is flirting?” Barty laughs, loud enough to suggest a spit take if he’d been drinking– which he likely has, his words blurry at the borders. There’s a softness to his mouth, Lily thinks, even just over the phone, a contrast to his hard edges.

“I may have coerced him.” Lily says, sneaking off to another wing of the gallery.

“I believe it, there’s no way he’d-.” The sound around him gets louder, voices cheering over a bassline.

“Where are you?” Lily asks, though she could guess. “It’s so loud.”

“Oh, sorry.” There’s some shuffling, then the noise dampens. “I’m at Rosie’s. Just stepped out.” he explains. “I said there’s no world where he would flirt of his own accord. Moony’s the silent pining type.”

“Did you just call him Moony?” Lily asks, swallowing a giggle. She is so stealing that to make fun of him. “Is that, like, a jazz thing?”

“Hmm?”

“The nicknames.” She’s circling the room now, following the track of the champagne servers, watching as they collect empty glasses. The place is beginning to clear out. “You know, Junior, King, Juilliard.” She feels apprehensive pointing out her own nickname, in case he stops using it, but she’s too curious.

“Yeah, sort of.” he says, the sound of a siren blaring in the distance. He must be standing outside the club, maybe on the stoop of the laundromat. “All the best musicians have ‘em. Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, Dizzy Gillespie– his name’s John– then there’s Prez and Count Basie. Some people called Billie Holiday Lady Day, but her real name wasn’t even Billie.”

“No?”

“It was Eleanor.” Barty says. “Mary usually starts ours for us. I’m Junior cuz I’m named after my dad.”

Lily tucks that bit of info away for later, instead asking, “And Moony because?”

“Moony is just an us thing, I guess?” Barty sounds sheepish, embarrassed, and Lily wishes she could see him to know if his cheeks have reddened. “He’s Professor when he comes to our gigs.”

“Why?”

“He stayed in school.”

“You didn’t?”

“Nah,” he sighs. “Juilliard was not for me.”

Lily pauses. “You went to Juilliard?”

“Yeah, for a minute.” Barty says, brushing past it. “Anyways, I was calling to see if you wanted to come out? Our set is done, but Mary’s got a sit-in at Huffy’s we’re all heading to, and I know she’d love to see you there.”

“Mary wants me there?” Lily clarifies, suspecting it’s a veiled excuse for Barty to invite her out.

“Right,” he confirms, not budging.

“Hmm.” Lily hums, toying with her response. “Anyone else?”

“I’m sure the guys would, too.” Barty says, pushing the game a step further.

She wants him to say it. “I dunno, maybe if someone else wanted me there I could make it work, but if it’s only Mary and the guys-”

“Ok, fine.” Barty surrenders. “I would like you there.”

“Was that so hard?”

“You’re something else, you know that, right?” There’s a smirk in his voice, full of mischief.

“It’s the consensus.” Lily grins.

“So, you coming?” Barty asks.

Sybill comes around the corner. “Lils, we’re all getting food.” She gestures to the group trailing behind her, Remus and the stranger amongst them.

Lily won’t miss witnessing that, so she says to Barty, “Busy tonight. If you ask me on a real date next time, I’ll say yes.” and hangs up the phone.

Sybill’s jaw drops, a giggle escaping. “Who was that?”

“No, who is this?” Remus interjects. “And where the fuck is Lily Evans?”

“She’s new and improved.” Lily winks, willing herself not to flush in the aftermath of her boldness.

The group finds themselves exiting the gallery last, Sirius– Remus’ new conquest– had to stick around to talk to the cleaning crew since he is the owner of the gallery– a fact that makes Lily share a look with Remus because that is kind of a hot job to have, but he whispers for her to shut up again, so she giggles with Sybill instead when Sirius places his arm on Remus’ bicep as they walk.

In the end, it’s Remus, Sirius, Marlene, Dorcas, Sybill, Peter, and Lily all shoving themselves into a rounded corner booth at the nearest twenty-four hour diner. It’s an order of milkshakes, burgers, and breakfast food sent to the kitchen, the fry cook visible from their table through the service window, and Lily watches as he smears oil onto a griddle and shaves potatoes into hash browns.

A diner in New York City is one of those places for the everyman, glittering gowns from a gallery opening wedged between a crowd of drunk college students and a table of tourists– choir trip kids wearing I <3 NYC shirts, squeezing ketchup onto shared plates of fries. There are couples and crackheads alike, the variety of dishes ranging from pasta and glasses of red wine, to french toast with sticky syrup, to the bold man in the corner that’s ordered salmon.

Peter asks Sirius for the skinny on how he and Dorcas set up the gallery show, and the whole group gives their attention to him, curious on how he discovered the up and coming artist.

“Well, I first saw Dorcas’ work at a flea market down in SoHo, bought a few pieces for my brother’s apartment.” Sirius explains, twiddling with the metallic ring on his left pointer finger, but not in a way that comes off as nervous. No, Sirius Black is all confidence, broad smiles and overt touches, his arm sliding along the back of the booth, behind Remus’ shoulders. “He just moved into a new place and he’s a disaster with decorating. I swear, he’s all into how he looks, but couldn’t care less about his space.”

“What’s your brother do?” Remus chimes in, leaning into Sirius’ touch, however subconsciously.

“Hair.” Sirius says, his laugh transitioning into a fond smile as he talks about his brother. “He’s a few weeks out from graduating beauty school, actually.”

“Does he do color?” Marlene asks, chewing her paper straw as it goes soggy in her Coke. “I’ve been wanting to do a dip dye for a while.”

“I’ve had to stop her from dunking her head in Kool-Aid several times already.” Dorcas says, her own fondness creeping up the corners of her lips.

“Do you think that’d make it taste like fruit punch?” Sybill ruffles a hand through Peter’s sandy hair, wisps falling into his eyes.

“I’m not dyeing my hair with sugar powder so you can test that theory.” Peter pulls her hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. Sybill pretends to gnaw at his hair, planting a kiss at the junction behind his ear.

Lily realizes she’s a bit of a seventh wheel tonight, everyone else here as a pair of sorts, so she sticks with the sibling conversation to try and relate, “Are you and your brother close? You and-” she pauses, giving Sirius space to jump in with a name.

“Regulus,” he says.

“Regulus.” Lily agrees.

“We weren’t when we were younger.” Sirius admits, continuing even as their food gets placed in front of them. He steals a fry from Dorcas’ plate. “Reg and I were- Well, are very different. I think it was when I came out as gay that we got closer.” he says this part to Remus, a clever, covert confirmation of his interest in men, and likely his interest in Remus.

“Did he get protective?” Remus asks, wordlessly scraping half of his fries onto Sirius’ plate in offering. Oh, these two are going to be sickening if this is them during their first encounter.

“Yeah, a bit.” Sirius says. “Insists he has to meet the guy as soon as we surpass three dates so he can threaten him.”

“My roommate is like that.” Remus says, and Lily perks up at the mention of Barty– she’ll take any crumb she can get. “He was- he was really great when I told him. When I came out I mean.” Remus continues, “Things were off for a while, but it was less about me being gay and more about- well, anyways, after he got used to it, he started the whole overprotective thing.”

“That’s like Lily’s sister, right?” Sybill asks, a bit of whipped cream on the tip of her nose that Peter wipes off for her with a paper napkin. “She’s all haughty about you and dating. At least she was the last time she visited.”

“She’s visiting again soon.” Lily says, remembering that Petunia was meant to email her flight details this week. She won’t make it for graduation, some cruise she booked, non-refundable, so she’s visiting early to pre-celebrate the end of Lily and Juilliard. 

Sirius goes on about his brother, and Lily pulls out her phone, checking her email between bites of challah french toast. There’s one from Petunia, but Lily’s eyes skip over it, landing on one from Professor McGonagall. Lily’s not in any classes with McGonagall this semester, but she’s remained a mentor figure, stepping into the practice room to offer insight when she can. There’s no reason she should be emailing her though, so Lily’s curiosity is at its peak.

Subject: A Word

Dear Miss Evans,

It would be most beneficial if you could find time to pop in on my office hours. I have some things to share with you. Perhaps after your composition class with Professor Lovegood tomorrow? I trust you will make the time.

–Professor Minerva McGonagall

📩 [email protected] 📍Room 523, Diamond Building

🎼 ‘The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.’ – Debussy

“McGonagall wants to meet with me.” Lily says, not paying attention to if she’s interrupting the conversation or not.

“What for?” Remus tears his gaze away from Sirius for the first time all night.

“She didn’t say.” Lily pushes her hair behind her ears, tugging it a bit to relieve the headache building in her temples. “It’s an ambiguous email. Vaguely threatening.” She offers her phone to Remus who squints at the screen.

“That’s major.” Sybill says, her eyes turning owlish as her expression widens. “I’m pretty sure that’s major, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lily nods, feeling nauseous. She pushes her french toast away, the plate scraping against the table, and watches everyone else eat.

The group decides to split up by who is taking which train, Marlene and Dorcas opting for a bus, and Sirius calling an Uber, but not before pulling Remus aside to give him his phone number.

He rejoins the group, blushing. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Lily swears. “Moony,” she adds, just to mess with him.

It works, Remus gets redder. “Where the fuck did you hear that?”

“Your protective roommate.” Lily says, linking her arm with his as they trail behind Peter and Sybill towards the six. “You know, I’ve never thought about you coming out,” she admits. “I guess it’s because I met you after.”

“Yeah.” Remus scuffs his shoe on the pavement. “I like that, though. You’ve always known me as me.”

Lily leans her head on his shoulder, a signal of her affection and agreement. “Barty didn’t?”

“He was the first to.” Remus sighs, pausing at the corner as cars go through the crosswalk, yellow cabs and late night Ubers. “It wasn’t- I didn’t really tell him on purpose. I guess I thought he already knew and then- anyways. It doesn’t matter now. It all worked out.”

Lily doesn’t say anything, but she knows her friend well enough to know there’s more to that story, something there he’s not revealing. He’ll tell her in time, or maybe he won’t, but that’s his right. She doesn’t have to know everything about Remus to love him.

Professor McGonagall’s office is meticulously organized: binders and binders of music in colored coded cubbies, an upright piano on one wall, her desk placed in front of a window, all squared edges and sticky notes marked with black ink. Lily knocks on the open door, and McGonagall glances up from where she was typing something, her thin wired glasses perched at the edge of her nose.

“Come in, sit.” Professor McGonagall waves Lily in, so she sits in the chair in front of the desk. “I’ve heard glowing things from Pandora. She says you’re doing well in composition.”

“Oh, thank you.” Lily says, sliding her hands underneath herself so she doesn’t lean her elbows on the desk. “I really am enjoying her class. I’m glad you pushed me to take it.”

“Well, enough of that.” McGonagall interlaces her fingers, placing them onto her desk. “I’m sure you know that I host a showcase every year. A hand selection of senior students to perform for faculty, select professionals, industry connections.”

Lily swallows. McGonagall’s showcase is coveted. Only the best get selected because those who do are almost guaranteed a career after graduation. Lily wants to play for a symphony orchestra or an opera company, and presenting in McGonagall’s showcase is equivalent to at least eleven auditions.

“You’ll play in it, then?” Professor McGonagall is not one to mince words.

“I’d be honored.” Lily says, accepting without hesitation. This is huge. This is beyond huge. Remus is going to flip out. Hell, Lily is flipping out, glad she’s sitting on her hands to keep herself still.

“Two pieces, solo and something original should suffice.” McGonagall says, sliding her glasses up her nose.

That makes Lily pause. “Something original? I’m not a composer, Professor-”

“Professor Lovegood speaks well of your work.” McGonagall interjects, leaving no room for argument. “She can help you narrow down a composition. Then you can pair it with that Liszt piece I know you’ve been working on.”

Lily feels her ears warm. She didn’t know anyone was aware of her personal project of drilling Mephisto Waltz .

“That’s all I’ve got for you.” McGonagall shrugs, a gesture that feels too casual for this moment. “You’re bright, Lily, maybe the brightest pupil of your age. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.” She brushes her hands together, clearing away invisible dust. “I’ll be in touch with more details.”

Lily stands. “Thank you, Professor.” She exits the office, dazed, heading straight for practice room number nine, and her phone buzzes in her pocket when she arrives. Her giddiness doubles with the caller ID. “Hello?” She answers the incoming call.

“Hi.” Barty says. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” Lily says, settling onto the piano bench, glad to find room nine unoccupied. “Really good, actually.”

“All that just cuz I called?” He’s playful, falsely smug. “I’m flattered, Juilliard, really, but I haven’t even gotten to the real question yet.”

“You call to ask me on a real date?”

“Now you’ve ruined it.” Barty scoffs. “Beat me to it a third time, why don’t ya?”

“No, no.” Lily holds in a laugh. “Go ahead, ask me.”

“Can I take you on a real date?” Barty asks, Then, without waiting for a response, “You said you’d say yes, so that was a formality. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock.” Lily agrees, sliding her composition binder out of her bag.

Chapter Text

“No one’s ever taken me for dessert as a first date before,” Lily says, taking a forkful of cake into her mouth. It’s rich and buttery, several layers of chocolate and raspberry.

“No?” Barty asks, a sip of his cappuccino leaving foam that he clears away with a flash of tongue.

They’re at a bakery, someplace small and local, tucked between a shoemaker and a beauty supply store. There are cakes and pastries in a glass display case, cupcakes and slices of pie and those odd cookie-croissant hybrids trending online. The place is painted in pale pinks and violets, pastel colors and a chalkboard menu, the prices erased and rewritten to match the sinking economy. The floor is checkered tile, a chessboard of black and white— more of a cream color now though, years of footsteps fading the linoleum.

A twenty-something is managing the register, a twelve-year old taking inventory while an older woman rolls out dough in the back— side effects of a family business in Manhattan, all ages pitching in. Most customers are taking their sweets to go, pink cardboard pastry boxes tied with twine that get slid into tote bags or shielded by jackets, a draft creeping in and out as the door swings open and shut.

It’s drizzling outside, the kind of wet that leaves one wondering if it’s really raining, or if it’s a leak from a building’s AC unit— or worse, an unsourceable mystery drip. Barty and Lily are sitting at a two-top by the window, the outdoor seating abandoned due to the damp air, the inside a perfect contrast of wafting, warm cinnamon. Lily watches as the woman in the back rolls slivers of dough into swirls of brown sugar and butter— fresh cinnamon rolls to rise overnight, ready to be baked first thing in the morning.

Lily shakes her head, answering Barty’s question, “First dates are always dinner or drinks or midday coffee.”

Barty wrinkles his nose. “Well, we’ve already done the midday coffee, and I try my best to be original.”

“I’d say you’re succeeding.” Lily hums, sliding her tongue under the prongs of her fork to get at the frosting stuck there. “So, how long have you lived in New York?”

Barty shrugs. “My whole life.” He’s eaten all the filling out of his apple pie, now just nibbling at the crust.

“Wow, a real native New Yorker, huh?”

“Sure,” Barty agrees. “I’m a regular Wendy Williams.”

Lily snorts, taking a sip of her tea– chamomile and lavender, a combination that tastes overly floral, something she was pressured into ordering by the twelve-year-old behind the counter.

“What about you?” Barty asks. “What made you venture ‘cross the pond?”

Lily scrunches her face at the expression, but carries on. “Juilliard.”

“A university transplant,” he jokes, dimples appearing on either side of his lips. “You here to colonize us?”

Lily feels herself smiling too. “Indeed.”

“Why Juilliard?”

Lily laughs.

“No, I’m serious,” Barty presses. “You could’ve gone to RAM. Much closer to home.”

Lily’s eyebrows climb. “You think I didn’t apply to the Royal Academy of Music?”

He tilts his head, expectant.

“I didn’t get in,” she sighs. “But Juilliard accepted me based on a video audition, gave me a decent scholarship which helped convince my parents.”

“Fuck RAM,” Barty decides, his fist hitting the table in a show of exaggerated anger. “Their loss if you’re talented enough to get into Juilliard by video alone.”

“Well, that and me being an international student,” Lily adds. “I’m sure I fit some demographic they needed to fill.”

“Oh, please.” Barty rolls his eyes. “None of that humble bullshit. If you’re good you’re good, Juilliard. Own it.”

“Ok, I’m good.” Lily decides to brag a bit, first dates and first impressions after all. “I got into this huge showcase for seniors, they bring in all these industry people to watch us play.”

Barty’s eyes widen. “Minerva McGonagall’s?”

Lily nods. “That’s the one.” She had forgotten that Barty might know her, having gone to Juilliard himself for a time. “Was it always music for you? You said you were at Juilliard too, yeah?”

Barty sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, the pressure turning it white before he releases it. “I was put into ballet classes as a kid.”

Lily was not expecting that response.

“I had some issues paying attention in school, always wanting to get up and run around,” he continues, breaking apart his pie crust, cutting it into pieces with the side of his fork. “They thought ballet would teach me discipline, how to cut out distractions. Anyways, the studio I went to had live pianists, and I was absolutely entranced by them.”

“That became the new distraction?” Lily asks, trying to picture an even more junior Barty, a wide eyed boy in a room full of tutus, ignoring it all for the music. A young Lily probably would have been annoyed at him, a boy not paying the teacher any mind, diverting attention away from lesson plans. Now, Lily can’t help but feel endeared by the idea of that version of him.

“All I could do was watch them play,” Barty says, and his eyes get this dreamy look to them, like he’s picturing it too. “Switched to piano lessons after that.” He blinks.

“Did it help with your discipline?”

“Hell, no.” Barty smirks. “Can’t tame this chaos. Every parent-teacher conference had the same comment: Barty is a troublemaker.”

“They said that?” Lily gasps. All of her teachers said she was a pleasure to have in class, but that she could stand to dial back the perfectionism.

“Not in so many words,” Barty says. “It was, ‘Barty lacks focus, Barty causes a scene instead of engaging with the lesson,’ or ‘he has the potential to do well, but his attitude towards authority is a barrier to his success.’”

Comments like that stick with a person, so Lily wouldn’t be surprised if those were direct quotes, but Barty’s keeping it light hearted, so she matches his energy. “Nothing’s changed then?” She finishes off her slice of cake, chasing it with the last third of her tea.

“Everything’s changed,” he corrects, blinking away that same faraway look, never letting his emotions linger for too long. “Ready for our second location?” He claps his hands together, standing up.

Lily doesn’t remember him mentioning a second location, but they’ve finished their pudding, and she’s not ready for the date to end yet, so she nods, allowing Barty to hold the door for her on the way out.

“Where are we going?” she asks, pulling her jacket closed over her chest, blocking the chill. She’s glad she went with flats over strappy heels, the pavement slick from the weather.

“You’ll see,” Barty says, and he waves her off, walking backwards for the length of a storefront before turning forward again. “I wanna hear your origin story.” He nudges her shoulder with his, the motion sending a buzz up her arm. “What made you start playing?”

Lily pauses, thinking back on a story that feels overshared by now, but she pushes herself to stretch beyond the typical bullet points, trying to match Barty’s honesty. “When I was young, my neighbor used to watch me after school until my mum got home,” she explains, following as Barty leads them to turn a corner, their shoulders pulling apart, the buzz fading to a pulse. “Pomona was this elderly woman, and all she would do is sit in her rocking chair with her cat. She was boring, but she had a grand piano in her living room, a real vintage Bechstein.”

“No shit?” Barty lets out a low whistle. “This the lime lady?”

“Yeah,” Lily says. “While Pomona fell asleep in her chair, I would read these beginner piano books. She had stacks of ‘em and no TV, so there was nothing better to do. Then, after a while, I started playing.”

“How old were you?”

“Six, I think.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and it doesn’t escape her notice the way Barty tracks the movement, so she pulls it out again to twist between her fingers. “I stuck to what was in the books at first, but once I learned all of those I started to pluck out pop songs I heard on the radio, picking out the notes by ear and writing them down.”

“You were transcribing music at age six?” Barty’s mouth hangs open. “I knew you were a prodigy.”

“No, I was just repeating things other people made,” Lily says, tucking the hair again, making him close his mouth with a swallow. “Not like you.”

Barty’s half a step ahead, leading the way, and Lily gets the impulse to slide her hand into his– the one closer to her is left hanging by his side, the other in his pocket, like he wants her to reach out, but she doesn’t. He shoots a glance to her fingers too, his own twitching where they hang before he rubs them on his trousers. It’s a game of cat and mouse, neither of them wanting to reach out first.

It’s odd, Lily thinks, the way she looks at Barty and itches to touch him.

She wants to put her hand in his back pocket.

There are huddles of people smoking on the corner, the glow of neon signs turning their skin red and purple, excess light spilling onto the pavement, reflected in puddles. New York nightlife is starting up, people forming lines outside of clubs– short skirts and glitter eyeshadow that will melt off by the end of the evening. 

They turn the corner onto a familiar street, a hidden staircase by a laundromat.

Lily pauses where she’s standing. “We’re going to your jazz club?”

“Not mine, though The Skittles do have a house spot,” Barty says, contradicting himself.

Lily shoots him a bemused look, arms crossed. She does like Rosie’s, but it feels a bit low effort for him to bring her to his place of work for a date.

“I would’ve picked another place,” he continues, “But Rosie’s does this major dance floor every now and then, swing music.” He offers his hand in escort, losing their game. “You wanna dance with me, Juilliard?”

Lily takes her win, placing her hand in his, her fingers hovering slightly until he squeezes tighter, guiding her down the stairs. The cover is still the same five dollars, and the man at the door offers to let them in for free since Barty plays here, but he hands the man a twenty, shuffling them into the door without waiting for his change.

The place has the same dim lighting as before, but all of the tables have been pushed to the sidelines, the area in front of the stage now a dance floor, couples throwing each other around to the wailing brass. The stage has been extended, the band much larger than The Skittles with four trumpets, five trombones, and five saxophones, each section playing in perfect sync. There’s a rhythm section too, piano, drums, and a standing bass, the guitarist perched on a stool in the back. Two singers at the front of the stage hum over the melody, a break in lyrics. There’s a pulse to the crowd, the place wild and sweaty, smelling of salt and liquor.

Lily sees her own giddy smile mirrored on Barty as he pulls her to the floor, guiding her into a pocket of space. The crowd is dense, couples squeezed together, the air humid due to body heat and sweat. The singers start up again, and it’s a song Lily’s heard before.

And every time it rains, it rains Pennies from Heaven .

Barty seems to know what he’s doing, placing his right hand on her shoulder blade, and it’s impressive the way that point of contact feels like a live wire, a spark that cuts through the muggy room they’re in. There’s footwork that Lily does her best to mimic, Barty confident in his movements, claiming and releasing his hold on her hand, a push and pull that matches the sliding of trombones. Lily’s counting in her head, trying to find a pattern to the movements, match the steps that everyone else seems to find easily.

“You’re thinking too much.” Barty’s voice is almost a whisper, but he still manages to cut through the noise of the crowd, the crescendo of the band. “Look at me,” he instructs, and that’s when Lily realizes she’s been looking at her own feet this whole time. 

She looks up, meeting his eyes which are crinkled from his grin.

He sends her a reassuring squeeze where their hands are linked, and suddenly it’s only Barty. He guides her through the steps, navigating the other couples with finesse, weaving around them as the music swells. They’re not in perfect sync, but it’s magnetic, the way Lily feels herself being pulled in whichever direction he leads her.

Barty’s smile is addictive, and Lily has the stray thought that she should’ve been a painter like Dorcas, so she could capture it in brushstrokes before it disappears. Barty’s a bit like a painting already, or maybe a scene from a film, his hair stuck to his face with the dampness of his skin, the colored lights of the club turning him blue, orange, purple— the lead in a Hollywood movie bringing the girl out of her shell, Barty was made for club lighting.

Lily feels her stomach swoop as he pulls her close, dragging her out of the way of another couple to avoid a collision, their chests now inches apart, rising and falling with their heavy breathing as the song ends, another one starting after a few beats.

It was just… one of those things.

Barty’s mouthing the lyrics to this one, tugging her closer to the stage while they dance. The singers are swaying, and when Barty turns her around, Lily gets a view of the bar, the bartenders also moving to the subtle brush of the drums, the music too intoxicating to let anyone get away with standing stone still.

Lily’s more relaxed with this song, able to take in the surrounding pairings, each of them moving in tandem, women twirling their skirts and men shedding their suit jackets, throwing them over chairs. Some couples move as two bodies, one brain, anticipating their partner’s movements and matching them. Others are in a tug of war, inexperienced tangles of limbs trying to find the melody, huge gaping smiles on their faces all the while. There are people at tables on the sidelines– dancers taking breaks, groupings here to people watch, some playing cards and betting hands, surrounded by a blanket of jazz music.

Barty’s hold on her hand is loose, his other gliding along her back as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” Lily shouts over the music, leaning close to Barty’s ear.

“I told you.” He leans in too. “All those ballet lessons,” he says, pulling back with a wink.

Lily dissolves into girlish laughter. Then it hits her that what he said wasn’t that funny, he’s just attractive enough to make a woman feel like a girl. At first glance, Barty is the typical tall, dark, and handsome type, but it’s his expressions and his warmth that are the most captivating. Even his resting face is endearing— a slight lift to his cheeks, always half a beat away from a wide smirk. This is just a first date, but Lily knows she’s done for. There’s a sticky sweet kind of feeling blossoming in her chest, something warm and gooey and oh so akin a schoolgirl crush.

Barty pulls in her again, the two of them in a pseudo embrace now, and his lips find her ear, singing the lyrics. “We’d have been aware that our love affair was too hot not to cool down.” His voice is milky and soft, a beautiful baritone that Lily feels vibrating where their chests meet, the sound piercing through to her ribcage. He’s not taking himself too seriously, fumbling words and laughing through his impromptu, dance floor serenade, but he sings through the entire song, and Lily’s sure her face is bright red by the end of it.

Barty offers to get them drinks, still holding Lily’s hand as they weave through the crowd to the bar. She watches as he fishes out a fifty, handing it to the bartender and telling the man to keep the change. Lily’s eyebrows climb in surprise, but maybe he’s trying to be flashy on a first date– men are like that sometimes.

Barty hands her a pink cosmopolitan, three fingers of amber liquid for himself. “Cheers.” They clink glasses, Lily taking a sip while Barty downs a third of his in one go. 

“Junior, Red!” Kingsley waves an arm at them from his seat at the bar, the fabulous Mary Macdonald on the stool next to him, her arms wrapped in elbow length, satin gloves.

“They just want to spy,” Barty whispers, looking apologetic. “We don’t have to go over.”

“What, and ruin their fun?” Lily says, already beginning to saunter towards them, tugging Barty along by a belt loop. “That’s what friends are supposed to do. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sybill pops out of a bush on the way out.”

Barty shakes his head in resignation, allowing himself to be herded, the pair of them settling to stand between barstools. “How’s your evening going?”

“Besides the fact that Mary won’t give me a dance?” Kingsley asks, sending the woman in question a glare. “Rather well.” He gestures to the empty glasses in front of them, two or three each.

“Oh, poor baby.” Mary pouts. “You know far too well what happens when I get on the dance floor,” she says this part to Barty, her eyes wide as she insinuates what must be a shared memory.

Barty laughs. “Mary’s made for the stage, not the crowd.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Kingsley agrees, the trio sharing a significant look. “You two look great out there, though. You’re giving Junior a run for his money, I reckon.”

Lily blushes, taking a sip of her cosmo. “He’s not too bad himself.”

“She’s already sweet on ya and all it took were a couple ‘a dances,” Mary says, popping the olive from her empty martini glass into her mouth, chewing slowly. “I told you so.” She points her cocktail pick at Barty.

“Mary may have helped me plan the evening,” Barty admits, and he downs the remaining two thirds of his drink. “Should I not have said that?”

“No, I think it’s sweet,” Lily says, sharing a look with Mary that means men .

“Whaddya say, Red?” Kingsley stands, offering his hand. “Will you do me one dance? Help a man out here?”

Lily lets her hand hover over his, shooting a glance at Barty.

“Go ahead,” he says, so she does, downing most of her drink before abandoning it on the bar, sliding her hand into Kingsley’s, and letting him lead her back out the floor.

“Watch those hands!” Mary shouts.

“Yes, ma’am.” Kingsley shoots her a wink, slipping into an open spot on the dance floor.

The music shifted a minute ago, so they join the crowd on the second verse, a swing cover of Route 66 with a climbing bassline and glittery piano. Kingsley is taller than Barty, his hands more calloused, and he moves with less surety– slow steps, respectful hand placement. Lily finds herself flipping into the lead position, realizing the man is much more comfortable being steered around than he is making the choices, and from then on it’s fun and easy.

“How long have you and Mary been together?” Lily asks, rising onto her toes to make herself heard.

Kingsley’s chest puffs with his laughter. “As if anyone could tie that woman down.”

“You’re not together?” Lily lets herself look shocked, because it’s impossible for her to school her expressions after even a sip of alcohol. A fuzzy Lily Evans is an honest one– at least in the face.

“We live together,” Kingsley says, “and we go out all the time, but no, we’re not together.”

“Why not?” Lily asks, letting their dance lead them to the sidelines, leaving the middle of the floor for more enthusiastic couples. “You love her, I can see that much.”

“There are lots of different types of loves.” Kingsley’s eyes crinkle with his soft smile. “People, music, food, money, moments. Mary likes to let ‘em all be equal.”

Lily wants to ask, what about you? , but she’s only just met the guy, and Kingsley isn’t the most open of books, so she takes another route. “You need to clear me for Barty, yeah?”

Kingsley raises his eyebrows, and if she’s not mistaken, he looks a bit impressed.

“Go ahead, ask your questions.” She sends him an encouraging nod.

Kingsley appraises her, looking her up and down. “You know, you may be too smart for him.” He laughs, a puff of air released from his nose. “You sure he’s who you wanna go for?”

Lily swats him on the shoulder, a playful gesture. “You’ve got your Mary.”

“That I do,”  he agrees, and the song ends.

Lily’s expecting to head back over to the bar, but when the next song starts, Kingsley passes her to Gideon who must have snuck up behind her. She goes with it, happy to follow his lead which is a lot of shuffling feet and nervous arms, not sure where he should place them. Lily uses her own hands to place his, and for the remainder of their dance Gideon’s face is beet red– he barely manages two words between his huffing breaths.

Another song, and she’s passed to a woman, a real good dancer that tosses Lily around like she’s a ragdoll for half a song before sending her into the arms of a very enthusiastic, very old man who looks enamoured to be dancing with her, and calls her a pretty young thing— pronounced thang .

Barty cuts back in after that, and the pair of them spin each other around for several more songs, break for another round of drinks, then slide back onto the floor until the band runs out of music to play, the patrons clambering for more. The owner allows two encores, the dance floor so crowded they can barely move, one big pool of damp, tipsy bodies stepping to the beat of the drums, the energy never wavering. The music gets switched to recorded tunes, the band packing up, and the place begins to empty shortly after that, only the slowest and drunkest remaining– that or friends of the band and bar staff.

Lily and Barty stumble over to an empty table, discarded glasses and half-eaten bowls of pretzels left behind from the couple who occupied it for most of the night. They’re both gasping for air, only succeeding in breathing in the remnants of thick cigarette smoke. Lily’s hair is plastered to her forehead, and she pushes it back, watching as Barty does the same. He looks deliciously disheveled, the buttons on his dress shirt lower than the start of the evening, the top of his chest exposed, a white undershirt peeking through. His sleeves have made their way up around his elbows, black ink from his tattoos bleeding out on the inside of his forearms. The green polish on his fingers is almost entirely gone now, and Lily’s brain decides to fixate on potential strategies she can use to make him let her paint his nails next– she’ll find any excuse to touch those fingers, already missing the feeling of his hands in hers.

There’s an exchange of appreciation, both of them sharing their praise of the band, the fun they had dancing together, and then they sit in quiet, watching as the place begins to empty, the tables getting cleared, the band exiting through the back. The tip of Barty’s shoe is resting along the inside of her ankle, their limbs stretched towards each other under the table, a miniscule point of contact that neither of them acknowledge. They’re dragging their feet, not wanting the evening to end just yet, and Lily is reveling in the fact that the glowing feeling she’s got is mutual– she can feel Barty watching her, the weight of his gaze creating a pleasant hum on her skin.

A man comes by to clear the glasses at their table, doing a double take when he realizes who’s sitting there. “Bartemius!”

Lily snorts at the full name drop, covering her mouth with her palm in embarrassment, shocked at her own lack of decorum.

The man continues, “No one told me you were in tonight.”

Barty pats the man on the back. “Special occasion.” He glances at Lily, indicating that she’s what is special. “This is Rosier, he owns the club.”

“Evan,” he clarifies, extending a hand in greeting.

“I’m Lily,” she says, accepting his handshake. “Nice to meet you. I love your place, the energy is electric.”

“We do what we can,” Evan says, a modest shrug lifting his shoulders. “Look, Bartemius, I’ll leave you to your evening, but remind me to introduce you to some new patrons next time they’re in.” He moves to gather the glassware. “I’ve got some guys I’d like you to meet, people you’d do good to get in good with, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure thing,” Barty agrees, and he pats Evan on the arm again.

“Have a good night, you two.” Evan shuffles away towards the bar, stopping at a few more tables to carry an impressive number of glasses at once, no tray needed.

Lily stumbles a bit as they climb up the stairs to street level, using it as an excuse to grab Barty’s arm for support, not dropping her hold even as they continue walking— the physical touch barrier obliterated after hours of dancing.

“Do you have an early start in the morning?” Barty asks, following her lead towards the F, walking her to the train even though he could walk home from here– Lily makes a note to tell Sybill that detail, because even though it should be common courtesy, lots of other guys would’ve split after the club.

Lily groans, turning the corner. “I’ve got a practice room booked at nine.”

Barty gives her a sympathy pat on the arm. “I’d still invite you over, but I dunno how we want to navigate the Remus situation.”

“Oh, that’s so fair,” Lily agrees, her train stop coming into view at the end of the block. “I mean, if we do this again, then I’ll talk to him.”

“I’d like to do this again,” Barty says, pausing on the sidewalk, turning to face her, their arms still connected where they’re grabbing each other’s forearms. 

Lily beams, sliding her hands up his arms. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Barty takes her hint, moving his hands to her waist, leaning in to close the distance between them. It’s a slow sort of kiss, one that takes a moment to register, their lips still for a moment before they melt into it. Lily smiles through it, her teeth getting in the way, a laugh slipping out even as she does her best to hold it in.

“What?” Barty whispers, not disconnecting from her, his lips still ghosting over hers, his breath warm from whiskey.

“It’s nothing.” She kisses him again, another bubble of laughter escaping that she does her best to ignore.

Barty pulls back enough to look into her eyes. “You’re gonna wound my ego if you keep laughing, Juilliard.”

“No, no I’m sorry.” Lily is giggling now, completely embarrassed, unable to stop. “It’s just– is your name really Bartemius?”

Barty rolls his eyes, surging forward for another kiss, and this one shuts her right up, a warm press of bodies, his tongue slipping past her open mouthed laughter. A tingle starts in her spine as his hand drifts up her back, playing with the ends of her hair, weaving his fingers through the strands. Lily, emboldened by his movements, brings her own hands down, slipping her fingers into his belt loops to pull him closer.

Chapter Text

“Just give it a chance,” Lily says, passing Barty back his phone, the piece she’s queued up beginning to play through their shared earbuds— Claude Debussy’s Reverie . She’s listened to at least two albums worth of jazz this afternoon, the pair of them wandering through Shakespeare’s Garden. The flowers of early spring have begun to bloom, rich pastels and lush greens, and Central Park is alive with tourists and locals alike, everyone enjoying one of the first true warm days.

“What does this one remind you of?” He’s pointing her own question back at her, repeating what she asked him after each song he shared. Through that simple question she got to hear about his first gig– a tiny flophouse, a room of empty seats— his first jazz record— something he nicked from his grandad, a John Coltrane pressing— and a childhood visit to coney island, where he won his own discman from a ring toss game.

“I learned this for Petunia’s eighteenth birthday,” Lily says, thinking back to her sister’s party, a gathering of friends and family in their sitting room, a pineapple upside down cake cut into equal slices. “She always liked when I played, and she heard me listening to this while revising once, and made some passing comment on how she thought it sounded romantic.”

“I’ll agree to that,” Barty says, pressing their lips together, just a quick peck.

The sun is beaming bright, and when they make it down a path of stone steps there’s a violinist busking with an open case in front of her. They stand and watch for a few moments, pulling out their earbuds, and Barty drops a ten into the case before they carry on, Lily queuing up more classical rep on his phone.

It’s after their third date that Lily talks to Remus about them, and he takes it surprisingly well, only repeating his fuckboy warnings once before shifting the conversation to his own new romance with Sirius. Lily thinks she owes Sirius a thank you for softening her friend’s reaction and his general demeanor— Remus has been much more relaxed lately and Barty has agreed it’s Sirius’ doing. Remus all but moved in after their first real date, spending the entire weekend at Sirius’ place on the Upper East Side, and they are texting constantly— whenever Lily sees Remus between classes he’s smiling like a fool at his phone screen.

Lily feels a bit like a fool herself, her heart skipping a beat each time she gets a notification. Barty’s not much of a texter, but he likes a phone call, and after he learns her schedule, he starts showing up after classes to get lunch or coffee or listen to Lily spiral about her preparations for McGonagall’s showcase. She’s making noticeable improvements on the Listz piece, but she hasn’t nailed down an original composition yet. She’ll have to pop in on Professor Lovegood’s office hours soon to get some guidance.

Nights when Barty’s not booked are spent exploring different jazz clubs throughout the city, Huffy’s and Gryffin’s and The Hog’s Head, but Lily loves watching him play the most. It’s after the fourth time Lily comes to watch The Skittles that Evan sets aside a table for her— a spot tucked near the corner of the stage, behind the piano so she can watch Barty’s fingers hit the keys. He’ll glance over his shoulder to look at her each time he plays something particularly good, his personality onstage the cockiest version of himself.

Tonight’s set was hot and wild, the drums favoring crashing cymbals, Barty letting his fingers glide higher and higher up the keys with each song. Now, as the band packs up, Lily watches Gideon divide their tips, Barty refusing his share.

“Does he always do that?” Lily asks Mary, nodding towards the stage.

“He says he don’t need the money,” Mary says. “His dad’s loaded,” she adds at Lily’s confusion, and that’s new information. It makes things click into place— Barty’s preference for cash, his tendency to over-tip, the way he can never walk by a busker on the street or in the subway without handing them a little something.

There are more nights at Rosie’s, a return to Grimmauld Gallery— an invitation from Sirius and Remus, the pair of them sickeningly smitten with one another— a terrible Off-Broadway one-woman show written by Marlene’s classmate at Tisch. There are movie nights with the NYU crowd, Peter and Barty mixing like oil and water, a delight to watch up close. Barty takes Lily to all of his favorite places in the city, haunts from his youth spent terrorizing people on the subway with his school friends— record shops and music stores, bodegas where they know him by his order, not his name.

Now, it’s Lily’s turn to take Barty somewhere. It’s just before sunset, blush pink clouds in the sky, the spaces between buildings lit up with the glow of golden hour. They’ve had an early dinner, pasta in Little Italy, a restaurant where all the waiters call the women Bella , hosts luring people in from the street with menus and exaggerated Italian accents. Lily insisted on taking dessert to go, a box of cannoli wrapped in twine swinging from her fingertips as they get off the train on the Upper East Side.

She stops in front of a high-rise, reflective silver and glass sparkling in the setting sunlight. “Follow my lead.”

Barty looks confused, but he does as she says, stepping into the classy lobby when the door is opened for them.

“Miss Lily,” the doorman greets her with a tip of his head, another man behind the front desk sending her a wave as she saunters past the leather couches to the lift.

Barty follows, his mouth agape with shock. “Where the fuck are we?”

Lily hits the button for the roof, and her ears pop on the way up the forty-eight floors. “I’ve always wanted to live here.”

“Well, it sure looks like you do,” Barty says.

“I know.” Lily winks, the elevator letting them out onto a rooftop that holds one of her favorite views in Manhattan. The East River glistens below them, stretching across to Queens, where the Pepsi Cola sign burns red in the distance. There are boats on the water— river cruises, some of them headed downtown, gliding toward the Brooklyn Bridge, chasing the last light of sunset.

There are planter boxes of colored pansies interspersed between patio furniture, but Lily settles along the outskirts of the roof, resting her elbows on the building’s edge, a wall that comes just above waist height.

“The building staff knew your name.” Barty’s not letting it go, even as he slides up next to Lily, both of them admiring the view.

“When I first moved in with Sybill, we started a bit of a competition,”  Lily explains, unwrapping the twine on the cardboard box that holds their dessert. “We wanted to see how many rooftops we could sneak onto. It was a mission to find the best view in Manhattan.”

“This one’s the winner?” Barty asks, looking out at the river, trying to see it through Lily’s eyes.

“I’m not sure,” she says, taking a bite of her cannoli, pushing the box towards Barty who accepts his own. “We didn’t make it past the front desk in most of the nicer buildings, but I told the guys here I was visiting my uncle, and they let me right up.”

“No way.” Barty’s eyes light up. “You did not make up a fake uncle.”

“I did.” Lily laughs, icing sugar dusting her clothes. “They must have connected me to a real tennant or something, and I come back enough now that they know me.”

Barty’s laughing in earnest now, a full bodied chuckle between bites of cannoli. “This is the one ‘bad girl’ thing you’ve ever done, huh?”

“Maybe.” She finishes off her cannoli, her fingers covered in cream, so she sucks one into her mouth, Barty’s eyes zeroing in on the movement. Encouraged by his attention, Lily pulls her pointer finger out slowly, sliding her thumb in next, her eyes locked on Barty who’s cheeks have gone slightly red at the display.

They’re alone on the roof, and Lily’s feeling bold, so she reaches for his hand, opening her mouth in invitation. Barty only hesitates for a moment before pushing his finger past her lips, watching as she licks his digits clean of dessert, his other hand settling on her waist. Her heart is ready to beat out of her chest, but Lily keeps going until Barty takes the lead, moving to cradle her cheeks, pulling her in for a kiss. It’s heated and hungry, a mutual push, the taste of melted icing sugar mixing with the press of their lips.

Barty slides a hand into her hair, and a slight tug at the base of her skull makes Lily whine, which makes him pull back, nervous he’s overstepped.

Lily isn’t having it, so she tugs him forward, her back hitting the wall as their mouths crush together once more.

Barty catches on quickly, slotting their bodies together, his lips moving to mouth along her jaw. “Is this—”

“Yes,” Lily cuts him off, her body arching off the wall to give him better access.

He doesn’t have to be told twice, his lips meeting her neck in teasing kisses, barely a brush of contact before he moves down another inch. Lily reaches for his belt loops, pulling him impossibly closer, and that’s when he adds teeth, a slight sting that he soothes with his tongue— just enough to make her breath hitch, not enough to leave spots of purple. He tilts her chin up, holding her jaw with his delicate fingers, his other hand on her waist, climbing up to trace her ribcage.

Lily catches her breath, looking up at the sky as he continues his ministrations– a trail of kisses starting at the spot behind her ear, moving down her neck to her collar bone. A drop of rain falls, landing on her cheek, and if it weren’t for another one, then another, and another, Lily might have tried to ignore it, much more in favor of what’s going on with Barty’s mouth and the top of her chest.

Barty pulls back after a moment, the raindrops getting closer together, harder to ignore. “Is it raining?” he asks, his breathing heavy, his lips red and swollen, and he licks them, chasing the taste of her skin. His pupils are dilated, his eyes unfocused as he tries to look at her.

It’s a real downpour now, his question answered by the sky, and they let their laughter break the tension, which Lily thinks is a shame, since things were just getting good.

“I—” Barty coughs, his hand grazing the waistband of his jeans as he shifts. “I don’t wanna be, uh, presumptuous, but do you want to move this to my place?” He’s rubbing the back of his neck, a rare moment of self consciousness that Lily can’t help but be just as drawn to as his stage persona.

“Yes,” Lily agrees, and his usual smirk returns, his confidence restored by a single word.

Barty kisses her once more, pushing her wet hair away from her face, behind her ears.

The escape from the roof is hurried, their clothes beginning to cling to their bodies from the rain, and Lily follows her instinct, sliding a hand into Barty’s back pocket.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since our first date,” she says, the two of them stepping into the elevator, limbs tangled, clothes damp.

Barty kisses her temple, watching the elevator numbers decrease. “I’ve been wanting to do a lot of things since our first date,” he whispers, and the declaration alone is enough to send blood pooling in Lily’s cheeks, her face heating up. If it weren’t for the other people crowding in on the way down, she would be tempted to go at it in the lift.

They trail water through the nice lobby, rushing out onto the street where Barty hails a cab, and the ride to the West Village is excruciating, the tension rolling off of them in waves, their hands kept deliberately to themselves. Barty throws a wad of cash into the passenger seat and flings open the car door, pulling Lily out with both of his hands, and it must be a record how fast they make it up the four flights of stairs to his apartment— Remus’ apartment, Lily realizes as Barty fumbles with his keys.

“Is Remus—”

“With Sirius,” Barty promises, getting the door open. “Staying over.”

“Oh, thank God.” Lily sighs, kicking off her shoes, dropping her purse, following Barty to his room.

For all the times she’s been in this apartment, Lily has only ever seen this room as the one with the door closed, the space that belongs to Remus’ mystery roommate who’s never home. Walking in now feels like walking backstage, getting a look behind the curtain into Barty’s dressing room. Lily’s glad to see that he’s got a double bed with more than one pillow, his comforter a respectable checkered pattern, not the dull grey most men have at this age. There’s a dresser on one wall, a record player balanced precariously near one edge, the power cord stretching to an outlet behind an overflowing laundry basket. There are stray clothes on the floor, a few button-downs draped over the back of a desk chair, coffee mugs on the bedside table, notebooks and sheet music collections scattered on any available surface. There are framed posters on the wall, jazz artists in bold black and white, a few concert tickets tacked onto a bulletin board.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Barty says, moving to close the blinds, turn on a lamp, and sift through a milk crate of records, selecting one for the player on his dresser.

Lily sits on the corner of his bed, a bit nervous, but she feels better after noticing the way Barty’s fingers tremble as he lowers the needle— they can be nervous together. It’s a jazz record, of course, a melodic trumpet over a brushing drum beat, and Barty sways through the intro, a private sort of dance that Lily feels herself following with her eyes. The vocal comes through— the unmistakable, smooth texture of Chet Baker.

Barty reaches for her hands, holding them as he dances in the space where her legs are parted, Lily still seated on the mattress.

“Is the record player one of your moves?” she asks. “Or are you just being pretentious?”

“Depends,” Barty says, lifting her hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Is it working?” He repeats the action on her other side, this time trailing kisses up her arm, his lips dragging through the bend of her elbow, up to her shoulder.

Lily sucks in a breath as his lips meet her neck.

“Is that a yes?” Barty teases, blowing cold air at the base of her jawline.

“Mmhmm,” Lily hums, her eyes flitting closed, so it’s a surprise when she feels him kiss her nose. She goes in to connect their lips, tilting her face up, but Barty pulls back, making her chase him, his breath hot where his lips hover over hers, teasing.

“I need to hear you say it.” His voice is a whisper, husky and intimate. “Tell me yes, Juilliard.”

She surges forward again, but he pulls back until she gasps out a real yes , the affirmation enough for Barty to give in, their lips meeting, soft and heated. His hands find her hair again, a tug at the root tilting her head back further, Barty leaning down to meet her halfway. His lips are slow, but insistent, parting slightly to slide his tongue into her mouth, and Lily feels her heart rate increase, desire pooling low in her abdomen.

Another pull at her hair makes Lily moan into his mouth, and she’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so good. She wants him to feel good too, so she reaches forward, sliding her fingers into his belt loops, rubbing the damp denim between her fingers.

“You really have a thing for belt loops, don’t you?” Barty says, speaking into her mouth between kisses. He’s smiling against her lips.

Instead of answering, Lily unclicks his belt, sliding the leather out and tossing it onto the floor. Barty seems to be in favor, his mouth parting with a hitch of his breath before he nods his assent, and Lily takes the opportunity to dip her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, past the layer of his boxers, just far enough to tease him before she retracts her hand.

Barty whimpers in frustration, all the air shooting out of him, and she takes his moment of pause to untuck his shirt, lifting the fabric out at his waist, letting her hands explore the flat of his stomach, her thumbs sliding up to frame his ribcage. Barty connects their lips again, groaning into the kiss as Lily’s hands continue their exploration, and he moves to unbutton his shirt, his mouth still close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath, his chest rising and falling as he tries valiantly to fill his lungs.

The shirt gets dropped to the ground, and Lily lets herself look at him, the valleys of his abdominal muscles, the tattoos she’s only had glimpses of so far. He’s gorgeous, his skin flushed to the top of his chest that lifts with his panting breaths. His teeth scrape his bottom lip, and his hair is mussed, strands falling into his eyes that he pushes away, never breaking his eye contact, pupils blown wide.

Lily tugs him down, making Barty land so his knees bracket her waist, straddling her on the edge of the bed. There’s a different kind of pressure now, their bodies slotting together, Lily’s hands searching for purchase, exploring the muscles of his back, pulling him down on top of her. It doesn’t take long for Barty to take control, pushing Lily to lay back, lifting her arms above her head so he can ruck up her dress, pulling it off and over her head, leaving her in her bra and underwear.

Lily giggles, even as his knee gets pinned in the space between her thighs.

Barty sighs, his hands wrapping around her waist to hold himself up. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Doing what?” Lily leans up on her elbows.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accuses, squeezing her waist.

“No!” Lily swears. “It’s just… You have to take your shoes off or I won’t be able to take you seriously.” She is laughing, barely able to get the sentence out.

Barty rolls his eyes, but he leans back to pull off his shoes, throwing them to the floor with as much drama as possible. “Better?”

Lily nods, satisfied— or at least on her way there— and she slides further up the bed, resting near the headboard.

Barty takes advantage of the transition to peel out of his jeans, the thin fabric of their underwear the only barrier once he takes his place again, supporting himself on his forearms as he kisses down her body.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” Barty promises, a nip of teeth, a soothe of tongue. “So good that you’ll be too wrecked to laugh.”

Lily does her best not to squirm as his lips trace a path from her jaw down her neck, pressing into the hollow of her throat. He glides with purpose, his mouth taking its time down the center of her chest, the outline of her bra, and Lily hastens to unclip it, throwing it to the side, giving him more space to lavish his attention.

“Do you want that?” Barty asks, his tongue sliding along the valley between her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach. “Do you want me to wreck you, sweetheart?”

“Ohmygod,” Lily gasps, his mouth slowing down near her hip bone, a cool puff of air escaping his lips, teasing along the lace at the curve of her hips.

“You liked that one.” Barty smirks, his head pillowed on her thigh. “Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

She rasps out an agreement, the sound needy, torn from her throat without her permission as he puts himself to work, his mouth hot through thin fabric.

“Sweetheart’s a win,” Barty decides, way too smug down there.

Another drag of his tongue and Lily’s legs threaten to squeeze together, her knees clenching around his head, but Barty pushes them apart again, his hands a heavy weight on her thighs, holding her in place. The constriction isn’t rough, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on her skin, and Lily reaches for his hair, her fingers threading through the soft strands, tugging just enough to make him exhale against her.

He slides a finger under the fabric, finally touching her, and Lily keens, arching her body to make the friction last. 

“Christ,” she moans.

“Nah, it’s just me,” Barty says, his thumb adding pressure where she’s seeking it most.

“Shut up.” Lily scoffs, pulling his hair to bring him back up her body. “Come here.”

Barty follows, scrambling up the sheets, and Lily wastes no time in retaliating, her hand creeping up his leg, slipping into his boxers. When she wraps a hand around him, Barty sags forward, connecting their lips with a groan that vibrates through where their chests meet.

Lily can taste herself on his tongue, and it’s exhilarating. She speeds up the movements of her hand, Barty’s hips moving in time with her until his mouth hangs open, his eyes fluttering, and he reaches out a hand to cease her movements.

“Wait, not like this.” Barty says, his eyes squeezing closed to hold off the rise of his oncoming orgasm. He takes a deep breath.

Lily retracts her hand, watching as he removes his boxers. “Do you have—”

“Yes,” Barty says, leaning over to rifle through the drawers beside his bed, retrieving a box of condoms. “Are you sure?” There’s that hesitant look again, a crinkle between his brows as he looks her up and down, assessing.

Lily nods, heat blooming in her chest at his unabashed staring. “I am so sure.” She shimmies out of her underwear, letting them join the rest of their clothes on the floor.

Barty’s smirk returns, and he rolls on a condom, leaning down to kiss her as he lines himself up. He waits for her to nod before pushing inside, and Lily sucks in a breath, a hiss between her teeth at the heady feeling of it all.

He stays still for a moment, their eyes meeting, mutual desire crackling between them, and then he starts moving, a slow start, his palms a soft caress against her sides. Lily pulls his hands to skate across her chest, encouraging him to to press, to tease, to let his touch linger, her every nerve alight with anticipation.

Lily has never thought too hard about sex. She’s had it before, and it’s always been satisfying— she’s never had to fake it or anything. She had a long-term boyfriend in secondary school, so they made the jump together, giving up their respective virginities, and it was nice— both sets of their parents had been at a Christmas Eve service for their church, and he and Lily had snuck off to his house, skipping out on Midnight Mass. It was fumbled and hurried, he lasted about two minutes, but it was a good first time.

Every time after that was swift and heated— hands in the backseat of parked cars, steamy showers while they prayed Petunia wouldn’t knock on the bathroom door, and rushed afternoon delights before his parents made it home from work. Being in school and living with your parents doesn’t leave many options for intimacy and privacy, but they made it work, quick and easy and enough to satiate their teenage urges. They had broken up over winter break of year thirteen, and Lily’s hasn’t been with anyone in that way since. Well, there was Sev during freshman year, but that was a bouncing makeout session on a stiff dorm mattress, cut short when he didn’t have any condoms. He’d gotten her pretty hot and bothered, so that sex would have been good too, but no real loss there either.

Since the failed encounter with Severus, Lily’s been in a dry spell, but it didn’t bother her— she had important things to focus on, and while sex was good, it wasn’t earth shattering. She could take care of herself if she needed, and that wasn’t much different than being with a partner anyhow. With Barty, though? Oh, it’s different. It is so different she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to satisfy herself again. Her secondary boyfriend had been good, but damn if Barty isn’t just better .

He’s got a mouth on him that he knows how to use— not only in dirty ways. He likes to talk during , which is something Lily has never imagined she’d be into, but when it’s Barty? She’s into it. Lily thinks she could do just about anything if Barty was there to talk her through it. Yes, that’s it. Just like that, sweetheart. Good girl.

That’s what does it, every muscle in her body tensing at once, her release hitting her like a symphony reaching its peak, a crescendo rising just to come crashing down. Barty follows a moment after, his hands shaking where they’re tangled in her hair. They pause like that for a moment, their foreheads touching, their bodies connected as their heart rates calm.

“Good girl,” Barty says, pulling back to place a kiss on her forehead, both of their chests heaving from effort, their steamy haze fading into a syrupy sort of afterglow. “Feeling good?” He rolls onto his back, and the cheeky bastard is smirking. He has a reason for it though, Lily is feeling good.

She nods, not much beyond a hum of approval escaping her mouth— as talkative as Barty is, Lily seems to lose all words during moments like this. She feels a bit like melted jelly, spread out and sticky, ready to be reset into her mold, but unsure how this feeling falls into the reversible change category. She’s sure this plush, elegant state between earth and high must last forever, and she doesn’t move to prove herself wrong just yet, the two of them laying next to each other for a beat, staring at the ceiling. There’s a water stain in the corner, some of the paint peeling.

The turntable on the dresser spins to its end, so Barty gets up to throw out the condom and switch out the record, sliding into his discarded boxers, tossing Lily his dress shirt from where it was thrown onto the floor— she would make a snarky remark about how this is very woman written by a man if she didn’t want to wear his clothes so badly. It’s sort of gross, the cologne smell that masks the sweat and rain water that’s dampened the fabric, but Lily slips it on anyways, buttoning the middle few to make herself decent.

“No, the Billie Holiday one,” Lily says, her words returning as she glimpses Barty reaching for a Coltrane LP.

“As you wish.” Barty winks, sliding the Coltrane record back into its milk crate and swapping it for Billie’s self-titled album, the piano intro to Yesterdays trickling in as he settles back onto the sheets.

“I like this song.” Lily lifts his arm, letting it wrap around her as she rests her head on his chest. “I could lay here forever.”

“It’s a good record.” Barty pulls at a strand of her hair, twisting it between his fingers. “We can listen to the whole thing if you want. I’ll get up when it’s time to flip it, then you never have to move.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, whatever you want,” Barty says, and Lily’s glad to find that term of endearment gets to stick around.

They stay quiet, the low croon of Billie Holiday filling the space, the sound of sirens bleeding up from the streets below. Barty’s fingers in her hair seem to be twirling in time to the music, his feet tapping at nothing near the base of the bed, and Lily finds herself keeping time with a subtle nod of her head— two musicians mentally mapping the same song.

Lily lets her fingers wander across his bare chest, tracing tattoos, a collection of black ink etched forever onto his body. A moth rests at the center of his chest, the wings asymmetrical in their patterns, a lace-like texture letting his flushed skin show through. There’s an astronaut under one of his pectoral muscles, untethered, floating amongst stylized stars— delicate line-work that mimics the path of constellations.

It’s the tattoo along the bottom of his ribs that makes Lily’s movements stutter, her fingers ceasing their skating, settled and still where they were walking along the divots between rib bones. It’s a flower, twisted leaves and curling petals— a blooming lily that Barty has inked into his skin. There’s some cursive script along the lily’s stem, illegible enough to hint that it’s someone’s handwriting, a looping L at the start, the letters after it bleeding together.

Barty’s breathing pauses, Lily’s head no longer rising and falling with this chest. “You can ask, if you want.” His hand stills in her hair, the knots he formed earlier all untangled now.

Lily glides her pinky along the flower tattoo, and Barty shivers under her touch. “Does this say—”

“Lillian,” he confirms. “My mother’s name.”

Lily shifts, resting her chin on his chest to look up at him. “Your mom’s name is Lillian?”

“Lily.” Barty swallows. “She went by Lily.”

It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s switched to the past tense, and that makes Lily feel a bit sick to her stomach. She didn’t know. They’ve been seeing each other for a while now, and it’s hitting her that she doesn’t know much about Barty’s family at all— certainly not enough to know that his mother is dead.

“Remus took me to get it,” Barty continues when she doesn’t say anything. “He makes a surprisingly good stress ball, squeezed the shit out of his hand.”

“Barty—”

“Still haven’t convinced him to get his own, but I’m sure with Sirius it’s only a matter of time.”

“Barty,” Lily says again, propping herself up on her elbow.

“Juilliard?” he sighs, and the nickname feels a bit sour now. Has he ever called her by name?

Lily powers through, shifting to a sitting position, legs criss crossed on top of rumpled sheets.  “Tell me about her.”

“What?”

“What was she like?” She doubles down, hopeful that she’s not reading this completely wrong.

Barty gets a soft smile, the corners of his lips ticking up. “No one ever asks me that,” he admits. “It’s always how did she… or when did she…”

“We can talk about those things,” she insists, “but I’d like to hear about her life too.”

“She was my best friend growing up,” Barty says, and he doesn’t seem sheepish or embarrassed to admit to being a momma’s boy. “Always supported the music dream, put me in lessons as soon as I expressed interest. Paid for ‘em too, since my dad wouldn’t.”

“What did she do for work?” Lily purses her lips, thinking. Her parents have had a joint bank account forever, though she supposes not everyone is like that. Sybill’s mother is always going on and on about her backpacking fund, an account at a fully different bank from her husband— a fraction of her paycheck set aside for girl’s trips , the code phrase for her and Sybill on wilderness retreats where they microdose in the mountains.

“She didn’t need to work when I was very young, but my parents separated when I was twelve, and she was a librarian at an arts elementary school after that.” Bartys shifts up the bed, moving to rest against the headboard, and Lily slides a pillow behind his back to cushion him against the wood. “They had a music collection in the library, old records with their original sleeves from the thirties, and Mom was always sneaking piles home for me to borrow, letting me spin them on my granddad’s old turntable.”

“You didn’t check them out yourself?” Lily finds herself staring at Barty, trying to see the twelve-year-old he once was in his face now, but it’s difficult— like with Remus, she hasn’t really thought about if Barty was a different version of himself before she met him. What did he look like before the tattoos, before the harsh lines of his cheekbones cut through baby fat?

Barty bites his lip, a pause before saying, “Dad made sure I was in private school.”

“You said they divorced?” Her head is starting to hurt from all of this new information.

“Not legally.” Barty scrubs his hands over his face, then lets them settle on his neck, fingers interlaced behind his head. “Mom and I just moved out, and they cut contact, only really talking when it was about me until— yeah.”

“Mary said something about your dad.” Lily pulls at his arm, placing his hand to rest on her knee, letting herself fidget with his fingers. “She said he was, um, loaded?” it comes out as a question when she realizes it’s an inappropriate thing to say. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that, or at all really—”

“It’s fine,” Barty says. “He would say he’s well off, but that’s just what bastards say when they don’t wanna use the word rich.”

Lily blinks. “Do you two—”

“Are you thirsty?” Barty pulls his hand away, sitting straighter. “I’m thirsty. I’ll go get us some—”

“Tea!” Lily pushes him back onto the bed. “I can make tea. Remus keeps tea in your cupboards for me. You stay here and I will be back.” She hops down from the bed “With tea.” She fishes through the clothes on the floor for her underwear, slipping them up her thighs. “How do you like your—”

“Tea?” Barty asks, his eyebrows high with amusement.

“I’ll surprise you,” Lily decides, and she flips the record to its B-side before tip-toeing into the kitchen, trying her best not to let it feel like a retreat.

They left the lights off with their earlier haste, but as unfamiliar as Barty’s room is, the rest of the place is comfortable, a space associated with her best friend, so Lily flicks the lights on without needing to look for the switch. She sets a pot of water on the stove— Remus still hasn’t submitted to getting a kettle— and sifts through her collection of tea bags hidden amongst the overflowing spice cabinet. Two mugs get placed on the counter, awaiting milk from the fridge and honey stored on the counter near the fancy coffee machine that Remus never uses, preferring his old percolator. The espresso machine must be Barty’s, perhaps paid for by his rich father.

Lily watches the water begin to boil, letting it heat up until she sees steam rise. It’s mid-pour on the first mug that she hears keys in the lock, the door swinging open making her jolt, boiling water spilling onto the counter and floor. She jumps, the puddle barely escaping her beige painted toes.

“Lupin, I swear to god,” she hisses.

“Where the hell are your clothes?” Remus looks her up and down— a glimpse of her bare legs, the only garments she’s got on being her underwear and his roommate’s shirt, loosely buttoned.

Lily’s cheeks are red with embarrassment as her friend stares. “I thought you were spending the night with Sirius.” She’s not even wearing a bra.

“So you decided to spend the night here?” He sets down his things near the door, grabbing a dish towel to mop up the water, and Lily lets him, stepping aside to lean against a counter, watching as Remus refills the pot and sets it back on the stove.

“It was sort of spontaneous.” Lily adjusts the buttons on Barty’s shirt, closing it to a more modest level.

“You had spontaneous sex?” Remus laughs, full bodied and bright, and he looks her up and down again. “Did you even shave your legs?”

“Remus.” She shushes him, shooting a glance towards Barty’s bedroom, the door still cracked open.

“What?” Remus gives her doe eyes, false innocence betrayed by the devilish curve of his lips. “I’m happy for you.”

“You are?”

“I am.” Remus nods, pulling a third mug down from the cupboard. “I think it’s good for a person to have good sex.”

“That’s a Sirius quote if I’ve ever heard one,” Lily says, joining him after he’s poured the water, steeping two mugs of English Breakfast and one Earl Grey for Remus. It’s a routine they’re used to, and it becomes easy to ignore Lily’s improper state of dress as they go through the motions of making tea.

“It is a Sirius quote,” Remus confirms, “But he’s right.”

“You two are having good sex, then?”

“Very good sex, thank you.” Remus doesn’t even blush.

“You’re welcome?” Lily rolls her eyes, milk and honey lightening the tea to a pale brown color.

“To good sex.” Remus holds up his mug in cheers, a cheeky raise of his eyebrows. “Yours was good, yeah?”

Lily lets her tongue slide over her lips, a cheeky grin of her own forming behind the rim of her mug. “A lady doesn’t divulge those sorts of things.”

“Yes, but you’re a slut now, Lils,” Remus reminds her, taking a swallow of his tea.

“I thought I was slut-adjacent.” Lily crosses her arms, pouting.

“I think being naked in my kitchen after having sex with my roommate has tipped the scales.” Remus says, knocking their shoulders together in a playful gesture. He shifts his tone to a whisper to ask, “Is he good? Barty, I mean.”

“His mouth, Lupin.” Lily almost moans just thinking about it. “I swear it’s ungodly.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes, then you can go for round two.” Remus says, another sip of his tea. “I just came by for some clothes and the book I’m reading.”

“You sly fox.” Lily swats his arm.

Remus takes a long sip of tea, eyeing her over the edge of his mug. “Twenty minutes.”

“Tell Sirius I say hi.” Lily rises on her toes to give Remus a peck on the cheek, then grabs her two mugs and slips back into Barty’s room.

The record has spun to its end, and Barty’s fallen asleep, his mouth slack, his features still, an arm draped over where Lily was laying before. She places his mug on the bedside table and lifts the needle on the record. It’s easier to picture a younger version of Barty when he’s asleep, his muscles relaxed, the tension in his shoulders gone. He looks peaceful, adrift from the things that weigh him down during waking hours.

Lily cards her fingers through his hair, pushing stray wisps off his forehead, and she crawls back into the bed to finish her cup of tea. Barty’s arm finds her leg in his sleep, his palm pressing into her thigh, and Lily lets one hand continue its caress through his hair, soft between her fingers.

Chapter Text

Lily’s head is pounding, a steady pulse in her temples that matches the rhythm of her heartbeat, erratic and punishing. Blood rushes in her ears, drowning out the sound seeping in from the neighboring practice room— an oboe that’s been focusing on scales for the last twenty minutes or so, going back to fundamentals after the crushing critiques of midterms. Juilliard’s student body has made it halfway through the semester, but the upcoming spring break is no reprieve. Finals are getting closer, audition season is starting, and the pressure of showcase is creeping up— McGonagall’s a looming presence for the bunch that were straight-laced and talented enough to gain a spot.

Lily should be composing. Practicing rep. She should at least try her hand at warmups and scales like her neighbor. Lily is laying on the floor instead.

The ceiling of the practice room is lit by fluorescent lights, rectangular beams that belong in a hospital. From Lily’s spot on the floor, she can see the way one of the tubular bulbs flickers. She squeezes her eyes shut, drapes a dramatic arm over her brow, and sighs. Her legs are stretched out, one under the piano bench, the other reaching towards the door, the toe of her boot inches away from the poorly insulated wood. Her body is splayed out on the carpeted floor, her hair a mess of tangles from pulling at it.

Lily has a feeling that her nervous system would sink back to baseline if her chest was crushed by a weighted blanket, but all she has is a stack of binders, and they’re not heavy enough— she tried, the booklets of music slid right off and wound up scattered across the floor. Perhaps she could flip the piano bench and—

The door swings open a quarter of the way, stopped by the heel of her boot. Lily scrambles to sit up, her knee hitting the underside of the piano bench hard, the pain that radiates through her kneecap enough to make her curse. The retraction of her legs allows the intruder to step through the doorway, Severus Snape with his arms crossed over his chest, a crossbody satchel, colored binders sticking out of the worn, brown leather.

He rolls his eyes, though the moment they land on Lily, his arms fall to his sides, his jaw going slack. “Lily?” He clears his throat.

“I’ve got the room for…” She checks her watch. “Eleven more minutes.” Lily lays back down, arms folded over her stomach, and she straightens out her sore knee. She refuses to be embarrassed for her Floor Time. Midterms have been stressful for everybody.

“I didn’t know anyone was in here.” Severus wraps one hand around the strap of his bag, the leather there faded in color, his habitual gripping spot. “There was no music,” he explains, a justification for entering a closed practice room without even knocking.

“No need to remind me,”  Lily groans, her eyes sinking shut for a moment. “I think I only played for five minutes before giving up.”

“Well, to be fair, no one could focus over that noise.” Sev nods his head to indicate the wall that connects to the neighboring practice room, the oboe screeching up another octave.

Lily laughs, her hand coming up to gesture towards Severus, “See, you get it.” 

“Yeah.” His smile wilts. “Should I go?”

“No, no, that’s alright.” Lily remains on the floor.

Severus shoots a glance at the door.

“Play something,” Lily orders, not thinking, not really.

Severus blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Play something?”

“I’ve got ten minutes left on my time.” Lily lifts herself up onto her elbows, peering at him from her spot on the floor. “Ten minutes during which you could play.”

“You want me to take the last of your booked time?” Severus, bless him, looks like a deer in the headlights, his eyes wide with confusion.

“Yes.” Lily nods, a smile creeping up her lips. “But since it’s still my time, I’d like to stay. Hear you play.”

“You want me to play? For you?” Severus clarifies, his brows rising in disbelief.

“I haven’t heard you since first year.”

“We had class together last semester,” he argues, “You heard me then.”

“Critique with Malfoy doesn’t count, and I was conveniently in the bathroom when you played,” Lily admits. “A lot.” She’s less sheepish now than she has been, and she’s starting to forget why she spent so long avoiding Sev. The usual twist in her stomach hasn’t appeared yet, the need for a weighted blanket dissipating.

Severus rolls his eyes, slides his bag off his shoulder, and slides onto the bench seat in front of the piano, climbing over Lily’s outstretched legs. He interlocks his fingers, extending his arms to stretch them, and he rolls his shoulders back. “Any requests?” He cracks his neck.

“What are you playing for showcase?”

“No, not that one,” Severus groans. “Something easy. My mind is mush after midterms.”

Lily hums, racking her brain for something easy. They don’t go back to basics much as fourth years, so she thinks back to first year, watching Severus play during McGonagall’s freshman seminar. His hair was shorter then, just barely past the tips of his earlobes, and he was more wiry, his wrists delicate and boney where they hovered over the keys.

Lily smirks, and it’s audible in her voice when she says, “Clair de Lune.”

Sev scoffs.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re evil for that one,” he says, but he places his fingers over the keys anyway, only taking a beat before he begins to play from memory. He’s less of a ginger pianist than Lily remembers, the notes coming from him instead of at him. Sev moves with his breath, his chest rising and falling with the melody, the tension and resulting releases led by his lungs.

From this angle, Lily can’t see his fingers well, but what she does see is the way the shiny surface of the piano reflects them, an inky black mirror playing his movements like a film reel, a ripple in a puddle. Lily allows herself a moment to indulge, staring up at the ceiling as she lays on the floor, the notes of the familiar piece filling the room, drowning out the oboe next door.

Severus has what Lily doesn’t— the ability to play a well-known piece like he’s the one who wrote it. Sev moves through the sections like he’s making it up at this very moment, the music flowing freely, yet not in a way that seems reckless. He’s not like Barty, hitting the keys with abandon as he moves through a song like he’s shoving his way through a crowd at Grand Central, leaping onto a train right as the doors close. No, Severus moves like he’s wading through quicksand, the music coaxing him deeper as he pushes his way through, gliding across the composition. He’s hitting all the right notes at all the right times, yet it still, somehow, feels like Sev, not Debussy.

Lily didn’t pick this piece of music to embarrass him, but the memory replays in her head without permission— Severus in first year, fumbling the notes, his face beet red and McGonagall, never one to mince words, tearing him to shreds with her critique. He almost cried. Maybe he did, even, but Lily was too busy trying to avoid eye contact to notice. Sev plays it now like he’s redeeming himself. Smooth like butter, warm and glossy like melted glass. When Lily closes her eyes, it’s just her and the music.

Until it isn’t. Severus clears his throat, the piece over, and Lily peels her eyes open.

“What are you playing for showcase?” Severus asks, twisting to face her, and he cuts off the compliments Lily was about to pay him.

She sits up, folding her legs into a criss cross position. “Listz. Mephisto Waltz.”

Severus lets out a puff of air, a bemused laugh. “Of course.”

“And an original composition,” Lily adds.

“Huh,” Sev hums.

“What?”

“Nothing, just—” his lips tick upwards. “You’re really serious about this. The whole composition thing.”

“Not really.” Lily pushes her hair back, her fringe long enough to tuck behind her ears now.

“I thought you had Lovegood’s class?”

“I do.”

“And you’re doing an original piece for showcase?” Severus presses.

Lily nods.

“Seems pretty serious to me.” He shrugs. “I think it’s cool, though,” he adds, “Seems fitting.”

“If I ever manage to get it done,” Lily says, suppressing the urge to pull her hair, tug at the roots to ease her headache. She takes a breath, but doesn’t say anything else.

Sev just lifts his head, a half nod that cues her to continue.

“I’ve been listening to a lot of jazz recently,” Lily explains, “Been to a few jam sessions. Played at one or two.”

“Lily Evans, I’m shocked.” Severus is grinning now, an awkward sort of smile that takes up too much of his face. “Never pegged you for anything but classical. Sometimes when I see you I swear it’s like you’ve got Beethoven in your earbuds while you walk down the street.”

Lily feels her face go red at the accuracy, but she doesn’t think much of it because he just revealed that he watches her walk down the street, and that is much more of a reason to blush. With a cheeky raise of her eyebrows, Severus does, his cheeks going pink, a spill of rosé on a white table cloth.

Lily smiles. “Laugh all you want to, but playing with them made it so much easier to compose.”

“How do you mean?” Severus reaches for his water bottle, chugging a few sips before placing it on the floor, and Lily’s glad to see someone else respecting the no drinks on the piano rule.

“Maybe it’s about being around other artists,” Lily guesses, “Creating together instead of performing.”

“So do that,” Severus says, and it’s almost patronizing.

“Do what?”

“Host a jam session.” The awkward smile is back. “With classical musicians this time. Jazz isn’t the only genre allowed to improvise, Lily.”

Lily has to stop her jaw from dropping. “Sev, you’re a genius.”

Why didn’t she think of this? Yes, she loves— woah, likes — being a part of Barty’s world, but why not take the best bits over into hers? She loves— enjoys — listening to Barty and The Skittles play jazz, but jazz isn’t what she’s meant to play. Lily has played jazz with Barty a handful of times now, but she’d never try to get him to play classical with her. She lo— knows — Barty, and he wouldn’t be interested in that anyways.

Severus coughs, his cheeks flushed crimson. “I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use, but I’m happy to help.”

“Really?” Lily smiles. “You’ll co-host?”

He blinks. “Oh, sure.”

“I have Lovegood’s class in a minute, so I can pull people from there maybe. Oh, and Sev?”

“Yeah?”

“How are we gonna do this? Host a jam session, I mean?” Lily asks, biting her lip. She got all carried away without thinking of logistics. Yes, it should be fun, but also beneficial. It needs to be productive for her composition, and Lily doesn’t know how to make sure of that. She can’t just replicate the environment of Kingsley and Mary’s place. No, that wouldn’t work for classical musicians, the A-types at Juilliard will expect more decorum than that and they wouldn’t get anything done with that much booze.

“I’ll handle the logistics if you think you can get people there,” Severus offers, and the pair of them exchange phone numbers to communicate further plans.

When Lily walks into Lovegood’s class it’s with a smile on her face and a spring in her step, her boots making a satisfying clicking sound that underscores her movements. The green dress she’s wearing is swishy, fabric ruffled just above her knees, and it flounces a bit as she walks. In a matter of ten minutes Sev has managed to turn her mood around, her meltdown on the floor of the practice room forgotten for the sake of seeking out which classmates might be good to include in the jam session.

They’re in their usual studio today, Professor Lovegood setting up for a lecture at the front of the room, her bag on the piano bench, a music stand loaded with sheet music and notes. There are some bullet points up on the whiteboard, Lovegood’s plan for the class period along with an inspirational quote from a famous composer. Today’s quote, “Music is the only language in which you can’t say a mean or sarcastic thing.” -John Erskine. Below the quote she’s added a parenthetical, (I beg to differ, we shall discuss), written in dark blue Expo marker. 

“That’s a nice color on you,” Professor Lovegood says as a greeting, eyeing Lily up and down from the dress and its matching headband to the floral embroidery on her boots.

“Thanks, Professor,” Lily smiles and takes her usual seat near a window that overlooks Lincoln Center, bunches of tourists and afternoon opera enthusiasts gathered to take photos on the plaza below. Any university in New York City will use the phrase the city is your campus on its brochure, but views like this make it seem more true.

Professor Lovegood hands her laptop to Remus so he can plug it into the speaker system, pull up her slides for the lecture that will start the class, and she says to Lily, “You seem happy. Colorful, perhaps, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Lily thinks of Barty. The color of his eyes, the color he takes his tea, the color of the sunrise from his apartment window. The way even music has color again, something of a phenomenon Lily remembers from childhood— her father blasting the radio in the car while Lily would stare out at the dreary clouds outside, watching swirls of color paint across the sky. She thought it was a childhood figment, but ever since Barty, music has color again. He’s made the color she allows outside of school seep further into her life, her usual all-black outfits buried at the bottom of her hamper. Lily doesn’t think much about separating herself between Juilliard and Life anymore. She’s just Lily, no matter where she is, and that feels good for a change.

“I am happy,” Lily agrees.

The classroom fills up, students taking their seats in the chairs that are placed in a semi circle around the piano, and Emmeline sits beside Lily, sliding her violin case under her seat, tucking her sleek, black hair behind her ears. Emmeline is the sort that wears clothing just short of business casual to school, designer loafers and a fitted blazer. Her makeup is minimal, but she has a very reliable gloss on her lips, always a berry color that stays shiny through the whole class period without being reapplied. She’s amiable and kind, but really, Emmeline is one of the most gifted violinists Lily’s ever heard. The pieces she creates for class have hit all areas on the scale: romantic and languid, bright and blustery, and it’s always a tune that makes it impossible to keep from stomping one’s feet, sheer willpower the only thing keeping Lily tied to her chair instead of dancing. Emmeline would be the perfect candidate for the jam session.

It takes Lily two full minutes of convincing herself before she says, “Emmeline?”

Emmeline turns to face her, pulling a strand of hair from where it’s stuck to her lip gloss. She’s got an easy smile on her face that reminds Lily of Mary, and that helps ease her nerves.

“A friend and I were thinking about hosting a jam session. I need help with this composition I’m working on,” Lily says. “Would you be interested? It’s going to be super casual, a bunch of musicians just playing for fun. Some friends and people from class if I can gather the troops.”

“Sounds great!” Emmeline grins. “I could use some music for fun after midterms.”

Lily nods her agreement. “I think we all need it.”

“Can I invite Alice?” Emmeline asks, nodding towards the girl as she enters the classroom. Alice is majoring in conducting, but she plays a bit of everything. A jack of all trades type. She had long wavy hair in first year, but she was a victim of the college chop by second semester and has kept up the blunt bob ever since. She’s the only fourth year Lily knows who’s still in the dorms, working as an RA on top of her studies, yet somehow still the epitome of cool. A piercing in her left eyebrow, a string of patchwork tattoos on her left arm, a strand of amber dip dye tucked behind her left ear, if Alice was split down the middle, her halves would be unrecognizable.

“Yes, please,” Lily says. “Invite anyone.”

Emmeline tells Alice, who loves the idea, and the three of them agree to pass the information to other promising prospects after class.

Lovegood claims everyone’s attention, and the speakers play through a few Leonard Bernstein pieces while she leads the conversation, analyzing the composition and taking comments from students. The conversation turns into a lecture on narrative composition, focusing on musical theatre and film scores, and Lily catches the way Remus lights up at this— he wants to score films after graduation, and he’s worked on a few student films at NYU, Marlene’s friends’ projects. Lovegood dissects the John Erskine quote, arguing that narrative composition needs to be able to convey all sorts of gut twisting emotions, say the mean and sarcastic things Erskine claims music can’t.

Then it’s time for some hands-on work, and Professor Lovegood gives everyone the same thirty second scene from a movie, releasing the students to the various midi keyboards around the perimeter of the room to compose a score to play behind it. It’s meant to be a quick exercise, so the work time is cut short for students to share their version, and a conversation unfolds about how much underscoring impacts the emotions of a scene. As the TA for this course, Remus only gets to share on a few occasions, but Lovegood makes sure he does for this one, knowing about his ambitions for film.

They’re given a longer film scene for homework, a project they’ll present after spring break, a more detailed version of the in-class exercise where they’ll utilize midi tracks to build out a composition for the scene. Class is dismissed, and Lily gets a few more people interested in the jam session, texting Severus so they can confirm a time and place. She wants it to be her own thing, and Remus might get weird about Sev for no reason, so she omits the jam session from her conversations with Remus. If he hears about it and brings it up she won’t lie, but she won’t go out of her way to make sure that happens.

The jam session is planned for spring break, and Severus is able to secure his Aunt’s apartment on the Upper West Side as the venue. Sev says her walls are super thick and she’s long since paid off her neighbors to stop sending noise complaints— Lily doesn’t ask, just glad to have the organization taken care of. She’s almost there now, walking the few blocks from the train. Lily stopped at Trader Joes on the way over, her arms slung with tote bags full of charcuterie supplies and strawberry wine from the market in Union Square.

“Sisters” from White Christmas plays from her phone, the ringtone Petunia gave herself.

“What’s up?” Lily answers, sliding one of the tote bags higher up, letting it dig into her shoulder.

“Hi, darling!” Petunia squeals, loud enough for Lily to adjust the volume on her phone. “Just checking in. You’re all set for my arrival tomorrow? Managed to pick up your flat, get those dishes out of your sink?”

“Yeah,” Lily sighs. Her sister likes to judge the fact that Lily doesn’t have a dishwasher or in-unit laundry. “You’ve got the address, right? Sorry I can’t pick you up, it’s just not practical for me to get a taxi both ways and the train is a whole ordeal.”

“God, you sound so American,” Petunia laughs.

Lily scrunches her face. “What part of that was American?”

“It wasn’t what you said, just how you sound, I suppose.” Petunia manages to come off as superior even over the phone. “Anyways, I’m bringing you some sweets and things. Some of those tea bags you like so much.”

“Well, don’t I just feel cherished?”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Petunia instructs. “I can still leave it all here.”

“No, no!” Lily shouts. “Thank you.”

“Much better,” Petunia praises the response.

“Listen, I’m glad you’re coming,” Lily says. “I’ve been seeing someone and—”

“Oh, Lily, did you and Remus finally work things out?”

Lily bursts into laughter at how ridiculous that sounds.

“What?”

“You’re joking.”

“No?” Petunia huffs, and Lily can just picture the crinkle forming between her eyebrows.

“Remus is my best friend,” Lily speaks slowly, making sure to get her point across. “My best friend that is very much gay. He’s seeing someone too, actually. A man,” she adds, turning the corner from avenue to street, looking at the building numbers to find the address Severus sent. 

“Is he really?” Petunia hums, not in distaste, but curiosity. “I sort of thought he was into you, always opening doors and buying your drinks. Though I suppose any bloke that nice and that tall would be gay, wouldn’t he?”

Lily laughs again, one of those full-bodied cackles only her sister can draw out. “Yes, he’s a loss to the straight community that’s for sure.” She stops in front of Sev’s aunt’s building. “Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll see you tomorrow night!”

“See you,” Petunia hangs up, no nonsense.

Lily pushes her way through the glass revolving doors, checking in with the doorman who gives her a code for the elevator and instructs her to press the button for the penthouse— surprising. The elevator speeds up to the top floor of the building, fast, like an express train, and soon the doors are opening directly into the apartment.

The living room is bathed in sunlight, tall, broad windows with the curtains pulled back to let in natural light. There’s a grand piano in the corner, a drum kit set up in the other. The place is clean, but lived in, scuff marks on the carved wood baseboards, vases of flowers with drying petals, stacks of coffee table books and novels, bookmarks sticking out from between the pages. Plush velvet furniture, a wide Persian rug, warm Tiffany lamps, and paintings on the walls. This place is stunning. And so not the tax bracket Lily was expecting. His aunt surely has money, but is Severus rich? Lily’s never seen him wear anything designer, and that leather bag he’s always carrying around is practically disintegrating. She spots the bag now, on the couch, and that reminds Lily that she has to stop her gaping and announce her presence.

“Hello?” she calls, looking off to an archway, the rooms separated by French double doors. “Severus?” If he doesn’t show himself now, she’s going to think she’s in the wrong unit.

The doors open. “Lily, hi,” Severus says, coming to greet her, and the elevator doors close behind her. “Oh, you didn’t have to bring anything.” He gestures to her Trader Joe’s bags, taking the one that was digging into her shoulder.

“I’m co-hosting, of course I did,” Lily argues, following his lead through the French doors, into the kitchen. It’s painted a sunny shade of butter yellow, the cabinets detailed with purple, pansy-shaped knobs— the type of decorating reserved for those who own their apartments instead of renting. The only refreshments laid out are hard seltzers and trail mix, so it’s a good thing Lily brought what she did.

“How’s your break been?” Severus asks, unloading the groceries onto the counter, a carton of strawberries, a box of water crackers.

Lily unpacks her bag too, the wine and cheese, a bag of almonds. “Mostly been hanging out at this jazz club, Rosie’s. You been there?”

“No,” Severus says, and he finds her a tray from a low cabinet, handing it to Lily so she can put together a cheeseboard. “Where is it?”

“West Village,” Lily says, her hip grazing Severus’ as she slides around the kitchen island to wash the strawberries. “You should go sometime. I’m there nearly every night and it’s different each time. Their house band, The Skittles, they’re great.” She’s unable to dampen the smile that forms when she thinks about Barty, the way he plays.

“Maybe I’ll stop by then, if you think it’s a good idea,” Severus says, and he presses his lips together, a thin, expressionless line.

“Sure,” Lily says, drying her hands on a kitschy tea towel, fish embroidered into the fabric. The whole kitchen seems to be themed, but inconsistent, each item fitting into a different decorative category— flower shaped knobs on the cabinets, sea creature tiles along the backsplash, citrus curtains on the window. “Your aunt’s place is so… unique,” she settles on, glancing at the miniature mural on the section of wall under the kitchen cabinets, a blue checkerboard pattern overtop the butter yellow.

“She painted it herself,” Severus says. “Well, she made me paint it, actually. She’s always been one for bold decoration, but she’s a starter, not a finisher. I had to complete most of the rooms after she abandoned her design progress to start on her next wild idea.”

“Really?” Lily tries to imagine Severus covered in bright yellow paint, but the image won’t conjure. He’s probably the type to tape it all out, clean edges and foam rollers.

“My room’s still only half painted.” Severus fishes some colored wine glasses out of a cabinet, pulling them out two by two and placing them on the counter, but not before cleaning them of water spots. “She started that one after I moved out, so I wasn’t around to complete it. I grew up here, with Aunt Sarah,” he clarifies. “She raised me.”

Lily doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say to that, but she’s saved from a response when a voice calls out from the entryway, Emmeline, Alice, and Arthur all arriving together. Severus goes to greet them so Lily can put the finishing touches on the refreshments. The group filters into the kitchen, Alice and Emmeline chattering away, Arthur and Sev looking completely clueless.

“—wants me to just move in already, but I told him that’s not how it works,” Alice says, leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter.

“It’s your literal job, you can’t leave the dorms mid semester,” Emmeline agrees. Her sleek hair is up in a ponytail for once, but she still has to pull a few loose strands from the sticky gloss on her lips.

“What are we talking about?” Lily asks, uncorking the strawberry wine.

“Frank wants me to move in with him,” Alice sighs, accepting the first pour in a blue tinted wine glass.

Lily raises her eyebrows, not adding any commentary. She has no clue who Frank is, but they’re looking at her like she should know, which means he’s been talked about before, which means she wasn’t listening.

Severus saves her, chiming in with a question about if Alice wants to live with Frank or not, then who Frank is. He’s allowed to be ignorant because he’s not really friends with the girls— actually, Lily can’t think of anyone Sev is friends with, but that’s probably because of how staunchly she’s avoided him over the last four years. They learn that Frank is Alice’s longterm boyfriend, but that Emmeline calls him Alice’s fiance because he got her a promise ring on their first anniversary. Alice wears it on a necklace because she thinks promise rings are cringey. Arthur chimes in saying he’s been looking at rings for his girlfriend, which leads Emmeline to lament about her recent breakup.

Severus acts as host by welcoming other guests as they filter in, making sure they’re given wine or seltzer, plates for cheese and crackers, and it becomes a bit of a dinner party, people mingling and pouring drinks. Lily finds that she can barely keep up with the conversation, everyone speaking as if this is just a catch up and not new information, and this makes her realize that she’s never hung out with any of these people outside of class before. Maybe she’s not too different from Sev, a friendless, A-student that people will remember from a one-off party during first year. Has Lily been isolating herself from her classmates? Yes, there’s Remus, but he doesn’t count, he’s—

“You good?” Severus slides up next to where Lily’s leaning against the counter, his shoulder knocking against hers in a friendly gesture, though it lingers perhaps half a beat too long, the scratchy fabric of his starched linen shirt irritating her bare arm.

Lily looks at him, nodding a yes before she says, “Just fine,” though her voice doesn’t sound as steady as she planned.

“You sure?” he asks. “You’ve got this sort of solemn look in your eyes. I’m pretty sure I’m reading this right, but you tell me if I’m way off base or if I should just fuck off or something.”

Lily feels her eyes widen at his language. The casual use of the word fuck sounds unnatural coming from his lips. Severus is usually so sophisticated. “I mean, you’re not wrong,” she sighs.

Sev fiddles with the stem of his wine glass, a shade of sea-green that matches his eyes. 

“I feel kinda bad,” Lily admits, glancing around to be sure no one’s listening, but most have wandered to the living room by now. “I think I don’t know much about our classmates. Maybe I haven’t made very good friends with them.”

He lowers his voice to a whisper, his cool breath by her ear, “So? No one says you have to be friends with people just because you go to school with them.”

Lily hums. “I suppose that’s fair, but it feels, I don’t know, like— like it’s making me question if I’m totally friendless.”

Sev laughs, an actual real laugh, his face splitting into that too-wide smile of his. “Just because your friends aren’t from school doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I’ve seen your posts. You’re not friendless.”

Lily doesn’t say anything, too fixated on the fact that Severus still follows her online when she for sure does not return the favor. Should she follow him back now? Or would that be weird?

“It’s ok if you don’t know their whole life stories.” Severus lets out a snort. “You’re not going to see most of these people after graduation, and if they showed up tonight it means they think you’re talented enough that they would hire you later on if it came to it. That’s really the point of making friends in college anyways.”

“I want people to like me not just because of my talent,” Lily says, a realization as much as a statement.

Sev places a hand on her shoulder, looking right at her when he says, “Everybody likes you, Lily. They’d be stupid not to.”

Lily feels her ears warm at the comment. “People like you too,” she adds, an afterthought.

“They don’t. People respect me, though, and that’s good enough for me.” Sev scrunches nose, his features crinkling like a bunny. “It’s actually better if you’re not too close to people because then when we’re all scattered across states and continents you won’t miss them.”

Lily blinks. “You really think that’s true?”

“I know it,” Severus says. “My brother was so popular in college, friends with everyone, but I’ve never seen him as depressed as he was during his first year post-grad. He kept wanting to fly out to visit people, which was just not practical. Missing people sucks.”

Lily thinks that sounds sort of sad, that Sev thinks the solution to missing people is to avoid having any friends at all, but she doesn’t say that, instead fixating on another piece of information. “You have a brother?”

“Had.” Sev swallows. “Like I said, missing people sucks.”

Lily doesn’t know what to say to that. Her throat is dry as a bone, and the wine doesn’t help much. She thinks of Petunia, her upcoming visit, and imagines for a brief moment how it would feel to miss her endlessly, never be able to see her again. She thinks of Barty, his mother, and wonders if he would give up their closeness in life to miss her less in death. She thinks of Sev, his nameless brother that’s made him afraid to get close to people. She doesn’t say anything.

“Relax, Evans,” Sev says, brushing past her silence. “Let’s start.” He saunters off to the living room, leaving Lily alone in the butter yellow kitchen.

She feels frozen. Nervous. Lily takes a breath, takes a sip from her glass, and looks down at her phone when it buzzes in her pocket. You’re gonna fucking kill it sweetheart <3 . Barty sent her a good luck text, and that alone makes the tension ease from her shoulders, the pulse fade from her temples. She can do this.

It’s not like the jam session at Kingsley’s place, but it’s just as exhilarating. Lily takes the lead on improvisation at first, her classically trained counterparts not used to creating on the fly, but once they find a rhythm, it feels like flying, like the first time Lily went to the symphony as a girl. Her dad brought her into London on a special trip for her twelfth birthday, just the two of them. They spent the day wandering shops, eating sweets by the river, stumbling into bookshops, and in the evening, he surprised her with tickets to see the Philharmonia Orchestra at Royal Albert Hall.

It was a screening of one of the Harry Potter films, the orchestra playing the score live, but Lily couldn’t care less about the film. It was the performance that spoke to her. Lily was enraptured, the music buzzing up her skin, her pulse skipping beats to match the tempo of the percussionists. There’s nothing like the spark of a live performance, the way it can create a tether of connection between audience and performer, a packed house all sitting quietly in the dark, breathing at the command of the conductor. Performing feels like holding people’s worlds in the palm of a hand, sitting in the audience means surrendering control, forgetting everything but sensation, the way a crescendo can reach all the way into a ribcage, rattle someone’s bones from the inside out. Lily feels that spark when she’s onstage, but tonight it’s in this living room, buzzing from the tips of her fingers as they press into the keys, fluttering through her chest as her organs melt, the rise of the woodwinds, the velvet of the violins.

When music feels like this, the world could crumble around her and Lily wouldn’t even notice. Everything else goes away. She’ll play till it aches, till her fingernails break, till the sun comes up. They almost do, making music late into the evening, the sun setting through the broad windows. Lily and Severus take turns playing the grand piano, Sev surprising everyone by getting behind the drum kit at one point. Emmeline leads the string section, three other girls criss-cross on the couch cushions, following her silken melodies. It’s good and it’s bad, and they make magic and mistakes all at the same time. It’s enough to inspire a melody that Lily saves, a voice memo she tucks away to pull out when she’s composing for showcase.

It’s spring break, so Lily sleeps until noon the next day, woken up by the sounds of Sybill and Peter milling about in the kitchen— this man ought to start paying rent one of these days. They share a late breakfast of Sybill’s pancakes, and Peter makes some kind of berry compote that’s so heavenly Lily bites her tongue about him paying rent, happy to accept more syrupy berries from the man as a fair trade. They do all of the dishes, even drying them with a towel instead of leaving them on the dish rack since Petunia will be here late tonight and Lily can’t deal with the lecture. She does a sweep of the entire apartment, picking up around the living room and deconstructing the laundry chair that’s piled up in her room one garment at a time, shoving clothes into her closet and the drawers under her bed. She blows up an air mattress for Petunia, leaning it up against a wall because when it’s on the floor there’s no room to walk.

Managing to remain feeling productive after cleaning, Lily sits down at her keyboard, transcribing the base of the melody she composed at yesterday’s jam session, black ink staining the tips of her fingers, getting under her nails. It’s enough to build something off of, an etude, perhaps a sonata if she can continue riding this wave of inspiration. She works into the evening, stopping when Marlene and the NYU crowd arrive with pizza and brownies for a movie night. Lily grabs a slice and sticks around long enough to watch the beginning of Nowhere Boy — another Peter pick— before she pours herself a drink to pregame while she does her makeup, a gin and sprite warming her insides as she gets dressed. The weather is still flipping between the freeze of late winter and the warmth of false spring, but today’s heat wave is enough to let her pull out a mini dress and borrow a pair of Sybill’s strappy wedges. The ink under her fingernails inspires a bold choice, and Lily lets Marlene paint them black, leaving home with a tacky manicure, hopping on the F to meet the others at Rosie’s. Petunia’s plane doesn’t get in till late, so Lily will have plenty of time before she’s got to be home to greet her sister.

The man at the door waives her cover fee, but Lily throws him a fiver anyway, stepping into the familiar space. The Skittles are onstage, comfortably warm, their set having started a good twenty minutes ago, and the microphone on a stand near the side means they’re planning to pull Mary up for a few tunes later on. Rosie’s feels like stepping into a friend’s house, recognizable faces and well-worn barstools, sticky floors, the smell of smoke and liquor all reminding her of someone she’s never met, some fictional great uncle that throws house parties and smokes tobacco.

While Lily has her favorite spot, she’s sat at nearly every barstool, worked her way around the tables, and it’s just the booths she’s left alone, the lighting darker in those corners, the distance and crowd making it impossible to watch the band. It’s fine for those who only want to listen, but if Lily’s learned anything it’s that jazz is a visual experience as much as an auditory one, the non-verbal communication the best part of watching it live. She skips past her usual table tonight, her eyes scanning the crowd, pausing when they land on a head of tawny curls. Remus has his arm around the back of Sirius’ chair, Kingsley and Mary echoing the position, the last man at the table sitting next to an empty chair, the spot they’ve saved for Lily.

“Is this the famous little brother?” Lily asks the group, stopping to pat Remus’ shoulder, exchange some cheek kisses with Mary.

“The very one,” Sirius says, tugging Lily’s arm to pull her in for some cheek kisses too, playfully jealous of Mary who sticks her tongue out at them which causes Kingsley to press a kiss to the woman’s knuckles. Properly chastised, Mary takes a sip of her martini, a handful of peanuts joining the liquor.

“I’m Lily. It’s so great to finally meet you.” She settles into the chair next to Regulus, catching how Remus wipes her lipstick off of Sirius’ face, replacing her kisses with a few of his own.

“Are they always this sickening?” Regulus asks, his nose wrinkling as he watches his brother. “Or is it just when I’m around?”

Lily laughs, “I’m afraid this is just how they are.”

“God, I need to get a date,” Regulus moans, massaging his temples. It seems like dramaticism is a family trait, his tone so like his brother’s, the roll of his eyes just the same too. They look about as alike as any normal siblings do, similar shades of dark black hair, high cheekbones. The way they dress is different, Sirius artsy and relaxed, Regulus cool and polished, clothes tailored like they were made custom. Lily and Petunia look nothing alike.

“I still say James would go for you,” Remus says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “The way he looks at you says he at least thinks you’re attractive.”

Sirius groans, “I keep telling him that, but Reggie is too—”

“Straight?” Regulus raises an eyebrow. “How many times do I have to tell you, if I could be gay I would! I wish I wanted to date James. He’s the perfect guy for me.”

“If you were into guys,” Remus says.

“Right,” Regulus sighs. “What about you, Lily? You single? I could set you up with my roommate. James is bi,” he clarifies.

“I’m seeing someone.” Lily bites her lip, her eyes flitting towards the stage. Barty’s in his spot behind the piano, the glisten he always gets during gigs beginning to shine on his skin, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His sleeves are still buttoned at the ends, but they’ll end up rolled to his elbows by the end of the night. As if he can feel Lily staring, their eyes meet over the crowd, and for a moment it’s like everything else goes away. Barty’s smirk bleeds into a grin and Lily can feel her own lips matching his smile. He shoots her a wink, something just for her, and Lily’s insides go all sticky, melted jelly trickling through her limbs.

“Her man’s in the band,” Mary says for Regulus’ benefit, and he nods in understanding.

“Which one?” Regulus asks.

“My straight roommate,” Remus chimes in, pointing to Barty who has started showing off, giving Lily that special look he reserves for when he’s feeling cocky, ready to impress a crowd with some musical choice that will change the whole song.

Someone at the table laughs at what Remus said, but Lily isn’t listening, too invested in her silent conversation with Barty. She raises her brows, a challenge, and Barty accepts, his fingers turning reckless and spontaneous, the band catching up after a beat of active listening. Barty takes a solo, and Lily gives him a look, one that means, is that the best you can do? which makes him stand from the piano bench, his fingers remaining on the keys, plunking out notes with speed and finesse, a rolling melody that the saxophone begins to echo, a call and response. Lily responds with a nod of approval.

“Lils?” Remus’ voice breaks through, and based on the looks everyone is giving her it’s not the first time he’s called her name. “You can eye-fuck Barty later.”

“Ah, young love,” Sirius coos, leaning his head on Remus’ shoulder.

Lily’s chest squeezes at the word choice, but she ignores it, waiting for Remus to finish his sentence.

“I was asking if you wanted a drink,” Remus says, letting his hand trail up Sirius’ arm, playing with the strands of hair long enough to rest there, and Regulus scoffs at the display, taking a sip of his drink, amber liquid in an Old Fashioned glass.

“Oh! I was gonna tell you,” Lily says, leaning her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers. “You need to stop buying me drinks.”

Mary cackles, “Hunny, that is a sentence that should never leave a lady’s mouth.”

Kingsley, who’s been locked in on the band, smiles at that. “Is that your way of asking for another martini?”

Lily continues, “No, it’s just because— this is hilarious actually, my sister thought you were into me.”

“What?” Remus goes beet red, his hand stilling in Sirius’ hair.

“She thought we were a will-they-wont-they sort of friendship. Her only evidence being the fact that you buy me drinks sometimes and open doors for me.”

“Sounds like your sister needs to up her standards for friendship,” Regulus mutters, and while it was a joke, Lily doesn’t love people making jokes at her sister’s expense, so she stands, her chair scraping against the sticky floor.

“I’ll go buy my own drink,” Lily decides, heading towards the bar.

There’s a bit of a line up, so Lily waits at the corner of the bar, giving the bartenders space to catch up with the crowd. She watches them cut limes, pour shots, shake liquor over ice, the line dwindling as people start tabs and cash out. There’s a group of girls all wearing sashes, one of them with a white veil glued to a headband, a bachelorette party that orders a tray full of green tea shots. They make the bride-to-be take three in a row before shifting over to a booth, giving Lily a clear view of the man who’s slid up to the front of the line.

“Sev?” Lily calls, projecting to be heard over the band and the crowd.

Severus looks at her, his eyes widening before his smile does. “Lily! What are you drinking?”

Yes, Lily did just storm off in a feminist attempt to buy her own drink, but she’s not about to deny the offer that’s fallen right into her lap. Mary would kill her for that, so she says, “Cosmo,” and lets Severus help her skip the line.

He starts a tab, leaving his card behind the bar, and crosses over to Lily to deliver her drink. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Lily echoes, and they clink their glasses together before taking a sip. “This is a surprise. You being here, I mean.”

“A good one, I hope,” Severus says, his fingers tap , tap , tapping on his glass, the condensation dripping down his knuckles. His fingers are more slender than Barty’s, long and strenuous from drilling octave jumps.

“Any excuse to get more people into jazz,” Lily says, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Though, I admit I’m a bit biased.” She nods her head towards Barty and the band, watching Severus follow her gaze.

“You spoke so highly of the place, I had to come check it out,” he says.

“Is it living up to my speeches?” Lily asks, watching as Mary gets pulled onto the stage, joining the crowd in cheering for the sit-in.

Mary gives a short intro, expressing her love for The Skittles and Rosie’s as a venue, giving a shout out to her manager, Kingsley, which he heckles her for from his spot in the crowd. The band rolls into a song Lily recognizes as one she’s heard Ella Fitzgerald sing on a record at Barty’s place, Mary’s plush voice singing the lyrics, Look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree …

“Lily?” Sev says, and maybe he said something else too, but Lily wasn’t listening.

“Sorry,” Lily apologizes. “Let’s go sit. You can join my friends and I if you want.”

Severus blinks, his expression twitching for a moment before it settles again. “Sure.”

Lily leads the way through the maze of tables, stopping short when she spots Remus. Shit . What’s he gonna think of Severus joining them? She hasn’t gotten around to telling him about the jam session yet, and he hasn’t brought it up either, so either he knows and is waiting for her to come clean, or he’s actually ignorant. The first would make this easy to explain, but the latter makes her seem like a better friend. However, if he doesn’t know about the jam session, then Sev being here is completely out of the blue— to Remus, Severus is still someone Lily is awkwardly avoiding, not a new acquaintance that collaborated with her on a musical project, making it totally normal for him to sit with them at a bar.

“Lily?” Sev says again.

“Sorry, got distracted.” Lily coughs. “I just love this song.” She can’t just stand here, so Lily bites the bullet, taking her old seat as Sev takes Mary’s vacated spot.

Remus’ eyes widen and his jaw actually drops. Ok, so he doesn’t know about the jam session . “Severus?” it comes out as a question, which Lily supposes is fair. A crinkle forms between his brows and Remus shoots her a look that says, What the hell? which Lily supposes is also sort of fair, but a bit annoying.

“We ran into each other at the bar!” Lily says, her voice stilted as she rushes to explain, make Remus stop looking at her like that. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“Not that crazy,” Sev says. “Lily has been talking about this place non-stop, saying I had to be here.”

Lily blinks. That is so not how she would’ve put that.

Sirius flinches, making it clear that Remus has pinched him under the table, puppeting Sirius to ask, rather pointedly, “So… how do you know Lily?”

“We go to school together,” Lily says at the same time as Sev says, “We’re… pretty close.”

Remus is dumbstruck and Lily feels a bit the same. What is Severus implying? What does pretty close even mean? Why didn’t he just say they’re friends? Classmates, even?

Regulus, who has looked mostly bored or disgusted by his brother this whole evening, suddenly looks intrigued, watching this whole exchange like it’s a soap opera— someone ought to get the guy some popcorn.

Kingsley looks between Lily and Severus like they’re a tennis match, then he shrugs and stands, grabbing his empty glass and giving it a pointed shake as he walks away, signaling his retreat to the bar without saying a word.

As Mary goes into her next song, Remus regains the ability to speak, “I wasn’t aware you guys were hanging out.”

Lily swallows, shooting a glance to Regulus of all people, a silent plea to jump in and save this train wreck.

To his credit, Regulus reads her look well, skipping over Remus’ question to ask Severus about his major at Juilliard. As the conversation becomes about music school and beauty school— Regulus having just gotten his license to cut hair— Lily and Remus have a silent conversation with their eyes that goes a bit like this:

What the fuck?

You’re asking me as if I have a clue!

This is crazy, Lils.

I know.

Does he think this is a date?

Ohmygod. I hope not.

What about Barty?

Fuck, I don’t know.

Lily practically chugs her cosmopolitan, willing the alcohol to do something, anything, to give her the strength to fix this.

Lils.

I know.

He said you were ‘pretty close.’

I FUCKING KNOW.

“You ready for another round?” Severus asks, spotting her empty glass.

Lily’s eyes flit to the stage, and when she looks at Barty he’s already staring, a confused wrinkle between his brows.

“Come on,” Sev says as he finishes off his own drink, oblivious. He stands to walk to the bar and Lily rises before she can stop herself, stumbling after him because the vodka in her cosmo has decided to hit her all at once.

“Lily?” Remus is stunned, disentangling himself from Sirius to trail after them towards the bar.

Severus cuts through the crowd, much more sparse now, only a few barstool stragglers.

“Severus, wait,” Lily says, her adrenaline pumping, her pulse hammering in her ears. How could she have misread him so profusely?

“Yeah?” he says, his expression remaining calm, unaware of how they are not even close to being on the same page right now.

“Let me pay you back for the drink,” Lily says.

Remus approaches the bar, but Sirius appears behind him, pulling him aside, the two of them watching, whispering.

“I’m sorry?” Severus’ expression waivers, a stutter of his lips. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Or just let me get your next one?” she offers, resisting the urge to look at Remus for help. Lily doesn’t know how to navigate this.

Severus steps closer, a pout forming. “Not to sound pretentious, but I’ve got the money, Lily. Let me treat you well.”

Lily retreats, her back pressed to the bar, but Severus seems to read the action differently, one hand coming up to play with the ends of her hair, and Lily feels her heart seize in her chest. Barty loves playing with her hair. Barty . Her gaze snaps up in an instant, her eyes locking with Barty’s across the crowded bar, and he stands up mid-song, jumping off the stage, shoving his way through the crowd to get to her.

“I think I may have given you the wrong impression,” Lily sighs, looking down at the hand in her hair, Sev’s slender fingers twirling a ringlet.

Severus looks up, pulls his hand back. “Lily?”

“Is something going on?” Barty’s voice cuts through everything, relief flooding through Lily’s veins. He came, he’s here, and everything will be fine.

Severus turns around, the two men locking eyes, both of their gazes hardening when they see the other.

“Severus,” Barty breathes, his pulse jumping in his throat.

 “Bartemius,” Severus sneers, his body going rigid. “Can I help you?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” Barty spares a moment to look at Lily, a tilt of his head to see if she’s alright.

She gives him a small nod, grateful he’s checking in, but her voice is feeling tight. She didn’t realize that Severus and Barty were acquainted, and clearly they aren’t pretty close .

“I think we’re alright, Bartemius,” Severus spits, his voice sounding harsh.

“I think you should go be alright somewhere else,” Barty says, “and leave my girlfriend alone.”

Lily’s stomach squirms, an inconvenient bout of butterflies stirring at being called Barty’s girlfriend. They haven’t said that yet.

“What?” Severus chokes. He looks at Lily, his expression crumbling, utterly betrayed.

Despite herself, Lily feels her eyes begin to sting. She did that. She made him feel like that, tore that gasp from his lips. It wasn’t her intention, but that hardly matters now.

“Lily, is that— are you?” Severus stutters, his glassy eyes flicking between her and Barty.

“I think I gave you the wrong impression,” Lily says again.

“Oh,” Severus lets out a puff of air, a punched out breath.

Barty puts an arm around Lily, the weight a warm comfort that eases the tension in her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Severus mutters. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, you do now,” Barty says, physically shooing Sev like he’s a stray dog. “So kindly, fuck off.”

Lily flinches.

“Look, Lily, I’m sorry, truly,” Severus says. “If I had any idea I wouldn’t have done anything.”

“What did he do?” Barty says, and this question is for Lily.

“I bought her a drink,” Severus admits.

“No, no, I saw you.” Barty slides his arm off of Lily’s shoulders, rolling his own as he steps towards Severus. “You were crowding her against the bar. Did you touch her?”

“Woah, calm down buddy,” Severus huffs, his arms raising in mock surrender.

“I’m not your fucking buddy, you creep.”

Now it’s Sev’s turn to flinch. “Lily, tell him I didn’t do anything.”

Lily’s heart is in her throat. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. This is getting way out of hand.

Barty steps closer to Severus, inching the other man back. “You need to get the fuck out of my fucking club and stop harassing my girlfriend.” There’s that word again, Girlfriend , and Lily’s butterflies stir up again, leaping into her throat.

There are a few onlookers now, a quiet hush resounding as people watch, and it’s then that Lily registers that the music has stopped.

Someone else calls her name, Remus this time, and Lily inches herself away from the bar. She was expecting worry, sympathy maybe, but Remus looks upset, angry, perhaps. Lily tilts her head, trying to gauge if it’s Barty or Severus that’s making his features scrunch, but Remus’ gaze hardens, and Lily realizes that it’s her he’s mad at.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Barty’s voice is a whisper, tuning Lily back into the altercation. A drink’s been spilled, a glass on the bar tipped over, dripping down onto the floor.

Severus clears his throat, speaking clearly when he says, “What would she think if she could see you now, Bartemius? Think this is what mommy was hoping for from her hospital bed? Think she’d be proud?”

“Say that again,” Barty says, his tone cold, his threat unspoken. “Go on, say it.”

Severus is pale as a ghost, a few nonsensical stammers falling past his lips.

Evan bursts through from the kitchen, looking for staff to help mitigate the scene, break up the fight that’s sure to start at any moment.

Lily looks to Remus, but Sirius has pulled him away again, the pair of them joining Regulus deeper into the crowd.

“No, say it again!” Barty’s yelling now, frenzied, harried, positively seething.

Severus swallows.

Barty’s crying in a moment, tears streaming as he screams, “Don’t you talk about her! Don’t you fucking talk about her like that!”

“I’m sorry,” Severus tries, but Barty isn’t hearing him, his emotions too high.

“Don’t you talk about her like you know her!” Barty cries. “You have no right! You don’t know her, you never knew her!” He steps towards Severus again, his arms outstretched in front of him, and before anyone knows it he’s shoving Severus, palms against the other man’s chest.

Severus stumbles back, and the shove wasn’t that hard, but it’s enough that he backs into a barstool, jerking away with a twist of his body, and he slips in the spill of liquor on the floor, his face slamming into the stone of the bartop. The impact comes with an audible crunch, the sound of cracking cartilage.

Lily finds her voice, a scream tearing its way out as Severus lifts his face, dark, crimson blood dripping from his nose.

“Oh my god.” Barty’s eyes are wide, immediate remorse hitting him. He approaches Severus, hands reaching out gingerly, but Sev swats them away, his own fingers bloody from the reflex of touching his nose.

“You’re crazy!” Severus shouts, his face contorting from the pain, blood continuing to gush onto his lips, down his chin.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Barty says, frantic. “Let me help.” He takes another step forward, but Sev pushes him back, his bloodied fingers staining the cream of Barty’s shirt. Barty looks at Lily, his eyes wide with fear. She places a hand on his shoulder to find he’s shaking, his body vibrating with emotion, panic.

“Get away from me!” Severus is a mess, his eyes watering, his nose twisted and crooked on his face. The blood isn’t stopping, ribbons of scarlet cascading onto his hands, down his arms, as he pinches his nose. It begins to drip onto the floor, a sticky drop of red dissolving into the spilled drink Sev is still standing in.

Barty is crying now, gasping breaths lifting his shoulders and chest as he sobs. No one has done anything to help, everyone standing stock-still, too shocked to move.

Lily looks between Barty and Severus, knowing they both need help right now, but not knowing who to help first. “Lupin!”

He bursts through the crowd at the sound of her voice, and while she knows he’s mad at her, they both know this isn’t the time. “Which one?” Remus asks, unable to keep the judgement out of his tone as he clarifies which one he should help, which one Lily wants to aid. Does Remus really think she’d leave her boyfriend in the middle of a panic attack?

“You take Sev,” Lily says, offended.

Remus’ eyebrows raise in shock, but now that he has a mission, he works fast, supplying Severus with a wad of white cocktail napkins, pressing it to his nose. He calls for Sirius, and the pair of them lead Severus to a chair, Regulus snapping at the bartender to get him some ice, then snapping at the crowd of onlookers, telling them to mind their own fucking business .

Knowing Severus has help, Lily turns to Barty. His breathing is still off, gasping shudders that he forces out between cries. It’s a terrible sound, like a wounded animal, Barty drowning in air, clutching at his own chest. At the bloodstains Severus left behind.

“Barty?” Lily approaches, slow and deliberate.

Barty looks up at her, pleading, and that’s enough for her to reach for him, pulling him down into her arms. His hands stay between their bodies, pressed to his own chest, Lily’s arms wrapped around him, forcing him to lean into her, one hand cradling his head, tugging at the roots of his hair to ground him.

“It’s ok, you’re ok,” Lily whispers, squeezing him harder.

“I—” Barty starts, unable to finish the sentence.

“I know,” Lily promises. “Shhh, you’re ok. Deep breaths, come on.”

“Can you squeeze my hands?” Barty asks.

Lily pulls back, linking their hands together, and he clutches for her, desperate. Their foreheads rest together, their eyes meeting, and Lily lifts their hands to her face, kissing his knuckles.

Barty takes a deep breath, still shaky, but less so, and he squeezes her back.

“Good, that’s good,” Lily says, exaggerating her breathing for him to match.

“Tighter,” he urges, and Lily squeezes his hands harder, the pressure starting to calm Barty down.

“Coming out of it?” she asks.

He nods, a sniffle of his nose.

“Good,” she says, guiding him through another deep breath.

“Thank you,” Barty whispers, kissing her fingers. “Thank you, thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s ok.” Lily guides him to sit in one of the empty booths. He follows her lead, sliding onto the bench seat with her.

Evan approaches with a glass of water, setting it on the table with a clink. “We’re gonna have to talk about this, but not right now.”

Barty swipes a hand under his nose, over his mouth, trying to pull himself together. “Is he alright?”

Evan sighs, “He will be. Just cool down, yeah? The band’s packing up. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He pushes the glass closer to Barty who doesn’t argue, taking a sip of water, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Evan retreats, teaming up with Regulus to settle the rest of the patrons, supplying Severus with ice from the bar. Remus and Sirius are there, soaking up blood, a pile of wadded up napkins building up on the table in front of them, spattered in red.

“Barty?” Lily turns to him, her back to Severus. “What was that?”

Barty sighs, glancing over her shoulder, squinting at Severus and the team of people gathered around him. “Do you think it’s broken? I didn’t mean to break his nose.”

“I know,” Lily snaps. “Of course you didn’t.”

He blinks, surprised. “Right.”

“I mean, that felt personal,” Lily presses, her heart still racing.

Barty’s eyes sink shut.

“Talk to me, please,” Lily begs, tilting his face up, her palm settling on his cheek, a soft caress. “I’ll make up all sorts of stories worse than the truth if you don’t tell me something.”

Barty leans into her touch, her hand settling on the nape of his neck. “We were roommates. Freshman year, before I dropped out.”

Lily’s fingers twitch, stuttering for a moment before she combs them through the hair at the base of Barty’s skull. She always seems to forget that Barty went to Juilliard. He seems so different from anyone else that goes there.

“We didn’t get along,” Barty says.

“That much is clear,” Lily agrees. “What was that he said about…” she hesitates, “about your mom?”

Barty flinches. “I—”

“You can tell me,” she swears, leaning closer, trying to block his view of the others behind her. “It stays between us.”

“I can’t.” Barty brings his hand up, covering hers where it rests on his neck.

“You can,” Lily urges, pushing him.

“Lily, please.”

“It might make you feel better.”

“Just drop it, ok?” he snaps, removing her hand, letting it fall into her lap.

“Ok,” Lily whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Barty says, reclaiming her hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“It’s ok.” She rests her head on his shoulder, the warmth of his body a comforting presence after the evening’s turmoil.

They sit there for a while, not saying anything else, watching the bar change scenery. The band packs up, Mary and Kingsley sending sympathetic waves on their way out. Regulus is sent over with updates, saying Severus will be alright, but that they’re all leaving, and that it was nice to meet Lily, despite the circumstances. Remus doesn’t say goodbye. The crowd grows sparse since the entertainment stopped early, and the lighting gets lower, recorded music pouring over the din of drunk conversations.

“—alright, alright!” a woman’s voice yells, telling off the group she’s with a few feet away from the booth Lily and Barty have nestled in. She approaches them, her high heels clicking with her steps— sleek, black So Kate Louboutins. Her wild curls are pulled up into a bunch on top of her head, a few stray ringlets hanging down to frame her face. “Excuse me,” she’s addressing them now, hands on her hips. 

Lily looks up.

“Would you two mind getting up?” the woman asks, blunt as a butter knife.

Lily begins to shift, not wanting to start a fight, but Barty holds her in place, a hand around her waist.

“It’s not official, but this booth is reserved for us,” the woman says, glancing back behind her. She’s one of only two women in her little group, the other one a bleached blonde with doe eyes and pouty lips lined in red. Sharp, well-dressed men make up the remaining members. One of them approaches, adjusting the cuffs of his button-up.

“Relax, Trix.” He puts an arm around the woman’s waist, a possessive hold not unlike Barty’s. “Sorry about her,” he apologizes. “We don’t mean to intrude.” He’s got a New York accent, clearly born and raised.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Lily says because she’s not sure what else to say.

“Did you invite them to join the game?” The man’s question isn’t for her.

“No,” Trix answers, a huff of air displacing the curl on her forehead.

“Game?” Barty asks, sitting up straighter, his spine aligned with the back of the booth.

“Poker,” the man laughs. “You’re welcome to join. We’re pretty low stakes.”

That gains a cackle from Trix, her head thrown back in laughter.

The man reaches into his pocket, handing Lily a business card. “Name’s Tomi,” he echoes the card, Tomi M. Riddle , and extends his hand for Barty to shake. “I own my own jazz club, East Side, but we come here to blow off steam.” He nods to the other men behind him and they approach, beckoned like a pack of trained puppies. “We’ve heard your combo. The Skittles, right? You’re good.”

“Thank you,” Barty says.

“This is my girl, Bellarix,” Tomi introduces the woman properly, and she wraps a hand around his bicep. 

“Charmed,” Trix says, and in her stilt-like heels she’s about as tall as the man next to her.

Tomi is at least six feet tall, and slender, his arms a bit like noodles, his fingertips delicate and soft, his nails manicured with a clear topcoat. There’s a strong cologne smell wafting off of him, a scent that Lily finds herself drawn to, something warm and crisp like the interior of a luxury car. He’s got a handsome face, if not a bit gaunt— deep, cutting cheekbones and a lean, willowy nose. His hair and eyes are dark, his clothes inky black with bits of silver on his buttons and belt buckle.

“I’m Barty, this is Lily,” Barty says, and the group takes this as their invitation, sliding into the large, rounded booth.

Tomi sits last, pulling Trix down onto his lap, his fingers interlocking over her abdomen, a seat belt to hold her in place. “This is Avery, Amycus, and Rabastan,” Tomi goes around the table introducing the men, skipping over the blonde between Amycus and Rabastan.

The ensemble is cohesive, the men dressed like Tomi, greyscale shirts and suit jackets. The two women are pops of color— Trix in plum velvet, the blonde in a shade of emerald green silk. Lily feels underdressed around these two, both of them dripping in jewelry— sapphires for Trix, stringy pearls for the blonde the same shade as her forty-volume bleached hair. The woman must bathe in purple shampoo. Barty wouldn’t look too out of place if Sev’s blood wasn’t drying on his shirt.

“We play a five card draw.” Avery starts to shuffle a deck of red playing cards, arching them into a bridge shape and letting them fall together in a new order.

Rabastan accepts a drawstring bag of chips from the blonde’s purse, distributing them around the table. “We play for cash.”

“A ten dollar buy-in,” Amycus clarifies. “We’ll keep it simple for your first match with us.”

Wallets are pulled out from pockets, cash placed in the center of the table, and Barty throws in a ten as well.

“Oh, I don’t wanna play,” Lily pipes up, the first words she’s spoken.

“Of course not.” Trix smiles, a condescending peel of lips, a tongue gliding across her teeth. “We can be the good luck charms. You, me, and Cissa.” She winks, her cat-eye liner adding to the feline look of her green eyes.

The blonde, Cissa, is holding onto Rabastan’s bicep, clearly sending her luck his way. “Bellatrix is banned anyways,” she says, lips smacking around blue chewing gum that she passes from cheek to cheek. “She counts cards.”

Trix rolls her eyes. “Only because you taught me how.” She stands, reaching her hand into Tomi’s trouser pocket, emerging with his wallet and disappearing with another wink as she stalks to the bar.

“Yes, well Rabbit’s brother taught me, and I had to share the burden of sitting out,” Cissa calls after her, nuzzling her nose to Rabastan’s chin.

“I’m still trying to get him to pass me the knowledge,” Rabastan sighs.

“Then we’d have to ban you with him,” Tomi says. “Trust me, you don’t want to be like your brother.”

The group laughs, some shared memory of Rabastan’s brother crossing their minds.

Avery, done with shuffling, starts to deal the cards.

“You don’t have to play,” Lily whispers to Barty. This feels odd, and he shouldn’t feel pressured. Is it even legal to play poker in public like this? Maybe they should go.

Barty grins. “Think I can’t handle a low stakes poker game?” He places a hand on her thigh, a warm weight under the table.

“No,” Lily insists, sure to avoid glancing at Tomi and the others. “I’m just saying it’s been a stressful night.”

“This is the perfect way to relax,” Tomi cuts in, his voice saccharine and velvet. “We’ll go easy on him, Lily.”

“Not too easy,” Barty says, placing his cards face down on the table so he can roll his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rabastan, seated next to Barty, says, letting Cissa look at his hand. The woman gives nothing away, her piercing eyes stone cold, her red lined lips not even twitching— a true poker face.

“Just don’t bet the house,” Lily jokes, copying Cissa, looking over Barty’s shoulder once he’s holding his cards again. Lily has never played poker, so she has no idea if this is a good hand or not.

Trix comes back with a tray full of shots, enough for the whole table, so Lily and Barty join them in tapping the glasses on wood-top, shooting back the clear liquid. It’s immediate fire in her throat, not the vodka Lily was expecting, so she sputters, the liquor hitting the inside of her nose.

“Ohmygod,” Lily coughs. “What was that, rubbing alcohol?”

“Everclear,” says Amycus, and he runs his tongue along the inside of his shot glass, licking out every last drop.

“Jesus, Amy.” Avery swats the man in the chest. “There’s ladies around.”

Trix takes this as a challenge, mimicking Amycus, but skipping her own glass in favor of licking into Tomi’s discarded one instead.

Tomi doesn’t bat an eye, settling Trix back into his lap as he insists the game start. Amycus, next to the dealer, goes first, and he doesn’t bet. Rabastan does, so Barty has to match it, sliding a small pile of chips into the center. Tomi does the same. Avery folds.

Cards get swapped out at each man’s request, but Lily can’t follow the game much, the Everclear settling in her stomach, making her insides feel floaty. She’s lighter, her lips turning up into a smile of their own accord, her thigh burning as Barty replaces his hand there, lifting it to play the game, but always returning it to its spot. Her face is flushed, her cheeks warm and red.

The hands are revealed, and Rabastan claims the first victory, celebrating with a quick kiss from Cissa before they start again.

“How’d you two meet?” Cissa asks Lily, stretching the blue gum out of her mouth and sticking it into her empty shot glass.

“Here, actually,” Lily says, thinking of that first show, the way their eyes had met mid-song, an impossible connection over the dense crowd. She giggles, remembering their second meeting, when she called Barty an overconfident jackass. He is overconfident, but he’s not a jackass. He’s so nice, really, and she’s his girlfriend , a thought that kicks up another bout of giggles.

“Alright, sweetheart?” Barty asks, his thumb drawing circles on her thigh.

“You’re not a jackass,” Lily says, because suddenly it’s very important he knows that.

“I’m not?”

“You don’t even look like a jackass,” she swears, studying his features.

His eyes soften, his parenthetical dimples framing his lips, and Lily wants to poke one. The impulse wins out and she does, her pinky moving from one dimple to the other. 

“You’ve never had Everclear before, have you, sweetheart?” Barty asks, and Lily just shrugs, continuing her exploration of his skin. Barty lets her, allowing Lily to trace the lines of his face, continuing his participation in the poker match. His hair is so soft, his body so warm. He sends her a look every now and then, a glance through his thick eyelashes that makes Lily feel like goo. She’s a puddle of melted ice cream. You’re so pretty , Lily thinks.

“Thank you,” Barty pulls her fingers to his lips, and she must have said the compliment aloud. “You’re prettier,” he whispers, and he pushes more chips into the center of the table. When the hands are revealed, Barty takes the win.

“Good luck charm!” Lily shouts, pointing to herself.

Barty pulls her in for a kiss, like Rabastan had with Cissa, and it’s quick, just a peck, but to Lily it feels like a bolt of lightning. She loves kissing Barty. She loves his soft hair and his pretty smile and the way his hands press into her skin. She loves the way he plays piano and how he ran across the bar to save her just because she looked at him the right way. She loves the sound of his voice in the morning, the way he’ll drink tea just to please her before making coffee with his fancy espresso machine. She loves how Barty makes her feel more like herself. She loves— 

Oh. 

Oh. 

She loves Barty.

The realization hits her like a freight train, a bout of nervous laughter slipping out, but no one pays her any mind, blaming it on the alcohol. It’s like the whole world has shifted, everything falling into place. She looks at Barty again, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out how in love with him she is— even tipsy, Lily knows this is the wrong setting for that. She allows herself to think it, staring at Barty’s profile, the curve of his jaw, a constant loop of I love you, I love you, I love you , circling through her head. He doesn’t react, so she must manage to keep that as an inside thought.

Trix brings another round of shots, and Lily doesn’t hesitate before slamming hers, the sensation like a bucket of ice water poured over her head, turning to a boil inside her chest. With this second shot, everything is less funny, more intense. The canned jazz music coming from the speakers feels louder, each song a song about love, a song that makes her think of Barty. It’s like every song in the history of the universe was written about them, premonitions on how she would feel when they met, a cosmic connection plucked out on ivory keys.

Barty’s grinning, the pile of chips in front of him growing. He must be winning a lot.

Tomi’s speaking, but Lily isn’t listening.

Cissa smacks on a new stick of gum.

“I need the ladie’s room.” Trix stands again, not a waiver in her legs, even in her So Kates. “Girls?”

Cissa scoots her way out of the booth, sliding across everyone’s laps, and Lily’s glad she’s on the end. She kisses Barty’s temple and lets him know she’ll be right back, following after the others. Unlike Trix and Cissa, Lily’s legs are jelly, her head spinning when she stands, her vision swimming. Cissa links their arms together, and Lily smacks her forehead because why didn’t she think of that? Cissa is smart.

Lily is corralled through the bar, an acidic taste building in her mouth from the lack of a chaser. The lighting is lower in the bathroom, purple and green. There are more girls in here, mini skirts and shared lipsticks in the mirror. The classic exchange of bar-bathroom-compliments get passed between them and the strangers, one girl supplies someone with a tampon, another wipes dripping mascara off a friend. Trix goes into a stall and Cissa joins the gaggle of women primping at the mirror, and since their arms are still linked, Lily gets pulled with her. Cissa disentangles herself to fix her hair, and Lily stumbles, gripping the sink.

“—been together?” Cissa says, pulling a tube of ruby red lipstick from her purse.

“Sorry, what?” Lily looks up, locking eyes with Cissa in the mirror.

Cissa laughs. “How long have you and Barty been together?” She leans closer to the mirror to outline her cupid’s bow.

“Just shy of two months, I think.” Lily takes this as her cue to fix her own face, looking at her reflection. Her eyes are wide, and as she suspected, her cheeks are red and splotchy, fly aways stuck to her forehead with sweat. Her lip gloss has worn off, but when she rifles through her purse to reapply it, she realizes she left it at home.

“You think?” Cissa presses her lips together, rubbing the red into place.

Lily wets her hands in the sink, bringing her fingers to the back of her neck. “We’ve been seeing each other that long, but he just called me his girlfriend tonight.”

Cissa smiles. “You’re smitten.”

“What?”

“Come on, look at that.” She puts her arm around Lily’s shoulders urging her to look closer at her reflection. “The way your eyes light up when you talk about him. Do you love him?”

Lily’s jaw falls open. Is it really so plain on her face?

Trix emerges from her stall, squeezing in to wash her hands. “I think she loves him.”

The trio of other girls in the bathroom squeal for her, clearly eavesdropping.

“I love him,” Lily admits, playing with the words aloud. It feels right, a weight lifting off of her chest. She smiles again, watching her reflection light up with the adoration she’s feeling.

“You gonna tell him?” Cissa pushes Lily’s hair behind her ears, helping to tame the frizz from the humidity of the bar. 

“You’ve got to tell him,” Trix decides, fishing around in her purse, emerging with a tube of lip gloss. She grabs ahold of Lily’s chin, tilting her face and applying the gloss to her lips. It’s got a cinnamon flavor, a slight tingle that reminds Lily of the Everclear still burning in her throat.

“Alright,” Lily slurs, “I’ll tell him.”

There’s a collective cheer, and it becomes a makeshift salon, the other girls in the bathroom joining in to beautify Lily. She borrows pressed powder, a sample of perfume, and a stick of Cissa’s gum, leaving the bathroom minty and floral and glazed as a donut.

The walk back to the table feels like forever, the ground warping under her feet, the clicking of Trix’s heels slow as she matches her pace to Lily and Cissa. The boys are counting money, exchanging handshakes.

“Your man cleaned us out,” Tomi says, nodding towards the wad of cash in front of Barty.

“Oh my god.” Lily wobbles where she’s standing, Barty’s arms reaching out to steady her. “Barty,” she whispers, “You can’t keep that.” Lily doesn’t know how long they’ve been playing, or how many hands they made it through, but it was enough to supply Barty with a large stack of bills.

Barty scoffs, “Why not? I won it fair and square, right gentlemen?”

The others nod, no one looking too put out by losing this month’s rent.

“Maybe we’ll win some of it back next time,” Tomi says. “That is, if you’d like to sit in again?”

“Sure.” Barty nods.

Lily’s stomach clenches. “That’s a lot of money, Barty.”

“I know.” He tucks it into his breast pocket. “Nice to meet you all.”

“Pleasure’s all ours.” Tomi sinks back into the booth, pulled down by Trix.

Cissa gives Lily a hug. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Lily says, waving goodbye to Trix who shoots her a wink. Lily tugs Barty by the belt loops, dragging him out the door, up the stairs to street level.

“Woah, hold on!” Barty laughs, scrambling to catch up.

Lily doesn’t stop, a sense of unwarranted urgency drawing her forward. Didn’t she have some kind of mission? She can’t remember now. Lily continues down the block, pulling Barty along, and her ankle twists in Sybill’s wedges. Barty’s reflexes are fast enough to catch her, his hands settling on her waist to keep her steady.

“Careful there, Juilliard,” Barty says, a fond roll of his eyes. “Wouldn’t want another broken nose.”

Despite herself, Lily cackles at the comment, pulling Barty into a kiss. He makes a noise, a whine of surprise, before relaxing into it, his lips parting, the warmth of his mouth inviting her deeper. He tastes like liquor, sour and strong like antiseptic, but the burn is addicting. His hands find her hair, and her fingers tug at his belt loops, an echo of their first kiss.

Lily pulls back, remembering what she wanted to say, but she hesitates, scared to say it.

“What is it?” Barty asks, his voice honeyed and soft, diffusing all her fears.

Lily places a hand on his chest, searching for his heartbeat. She finds it, a steady pulse beneath her palm. “Would you be mad if I told you I loved you?”

Barty’s eyes widen, and she can feel it in her fingertips when his heart skips a beat. “No,” he swallows. “I wouldn’t be mad.”

Lily hums, “That’s good to know.” She turns on her heel, walking away, suppressing a grin at the sound of Barty’s footsteps trailing after her.

“Juilliard,” he groans.

She keeps walking.

“Sweetheart,” he tries, playing dirty.

“Yes?” Lily turns around, walking backwards, trying to paste on her best cheeky grin as her brain works overtime to keep her balance in these shoes.

Barty reaches for her hand, holding her fingers. “You’re killing me here.”

“Oh.” Lily stops walking, lets Barty pull her close. “Did you want to hear me say it?”

Barty’s eyes sink shut, a tortured moan escaping. “Lily,” he breathes.

“Lily, what?” she teases, her lips ghosting over his.

He opens his eyes. “Lily, please.”

“Alright,” she laughs. “Barty?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” She leans forward letting their lips meet.

Barty kisses her back, but only for a moment before he breaks it. “You love me?” he asks, and it’s a valiant effort, the way he clamps his mouth shut to hold back his smile, but it’s plain in his eyes, the twitch of his lips.

“I love you,” Lily says again, and Barty lifts her into the air, spinning her in circles, pulling out girlish laughter from her lungs.

“She loves me!” he yells. “Lily Evans is in love with me!”

“Put me down!” Lily shrieks, but it’s half hearted, drowned out by giggles.

Barty ceases his spinning, still holding her. “I’m never letting you go now.”

“Why not?”

“Because you love me. Because I love you.” He squeezes her tighter. “I’m in love with you.”

Lily stops breathing for a moment, rendered speechless. She supposes she should have seen this coming, it usually does when one person says it, but she didn’t tell Barty she loved him to hear it back. She just felt it, knew she’d never be able to keep it from slipping out. Knowing he loves her too, well, that only makes it ten times better.

They skip to the end of the block, fingers linked, hands wandering, lips connecting. They climb into a taxi, and Barty throws a third of the cash he’s won at the driver, the excuse they grant themselves to make out in the back of the car, steam up the windows. It takes them ages to climb the stairs to Lily’s apartment, their lips connected the whole way up, Lily’s fingers working to unbutton Barty’s shirt, pull it from where it’s tucked into his trousers. Whispers of I love you get snuck into the spaces between kisses, and when they reach her floor, Lily fumbles for her keys, Barty’s chin on her shoulder, his hands on her waist as he holds her from behind. They walk in tandem down the hall, shushing each other’s giggles, but Lily stops short at the figure sitting on the ground outside her door, leaning against a suitcase. Petunia.

Chapter Text

Petunia looks up from her interlaced fingers, the spot on the baseboard she was staring at, and her gaze snaps to Lily and Barty, still entangled at the top of the stairs.

Lily freezes, her posture tensing which dislodges Barty’s chin from its resting place on her shoulder. His fingers, still settled on her waist, tighten.

The sisters stare at each other, and Lily can feel Petunia’s disappointment pouring off of her in waves, harsh and rocky. A tsunami of distaste, distrust, malcontent. Petunia stands, using the handle on her suitcase to pull herself up.

“Shit, Tuni, I’m so sorry,” Lily says, prying free from Barty’s hold, stepping towards her sister. She stumbles a bit, the strappy sandals twisted on her feet, the alcohol in her bloodstream still circulating.

“Just open the door, Lily,” Petunia sighs, her tone eerily calm. “I’m tired.”

Lily moves into action, shoving her key in the lock. “I can’t believe I lost track of time.” She holds the door open for Petunia, and wheels in her sister’s luggage without being asked. “I’m sorry, Barty and I—” she looks over her shoulder, and Barty is standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking unsure. “Petunia, this is Barty.” She guides Barty inside. “My boyfriend.” The door slams behind them.

Petunia looks at Barty, her lips pursed, her eyes dull.

“Nice to meet you.” Barty offers his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he lies, glancing at Lily for reassurance since his hand is hanging midair, waiting for Petunia to shake it.

“Lily, why is there blood on his shirt?” Petunia asks, stepping past Barty and into the kitchen where she begins rifling through cupboards.

Lily and Barty share a look, and he seems to be mirroring the panic she feels, eyes wide, mouth agape. Barty looks down at his shirt, pulls the fabric away from his chest to get a better look at the dried blood from Severus’ nose.

“Funny story, actually,” Lily starts, directing Barty to bring Petunia’s suitcase into her room. He raises his brows as if to ask, you sure? but Lily waves him off.

“Oh, good,” Petunia fills a glass with tap water. “I deserve a good laugh after waiting outside all night.”

“Shit. Tuni,” Lily says, but then, “Why didn’t you call me? Or Sybill, she should be home.”

Petunia takes a long swallow from her water, letting Lily flounder until she sets it on the counter with a clink . “I did call you. Several times. Until my phone died, actually.” Petunia turns on the sink, rinses her cup, pours dishwashing liquid onto a sponge. “That was between all the pounding on the door, but it seems Sybill can sleep through anything.” Petunia glances at the couch, where Sybill lays, dead asleep. There’s a half eaten plate of brownies on the coffee table. Marlene’s brownies, if Lily had to guess.

“I am so sorry,” Lily says, using an elbow to balance her weight on the counter, holding herself up to unclasp her shoes. “The night was a bit of a mess, actually. This guy from first year showed up to Rosie’s and—”

“Honestly,” Petunia scoffs, her eyes rolling back into her skull. “This is, quite frankly, typical.”

Lily tosses Sybill’s wedges into the lower kitchen cabinet. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“How was your flight, Petunia? Did your seatmate eat stale plane peanuts and almost kill you even though the flight attendants made an announcement about your allergies?” Petunia dries her water glass, running a tea towel in circles along the inside. “Did a fake taxi cab try to scam you at the airport?”

“Oh my god,” Lily groans. “You’re not even allergic to nuts!”

“Yes, I am!”

“Preference isn’t an allergy!”

“I got that ras—”

“Rash at Uncle Simeon’s wake?” Lily asks, her voice loud enough that Sybill stirs on the couch and Barty pokes his head out from his hiding spot in her room. “That was a hickey!”

Petunia gasps, “It was not!”

“I helped you cover it with foundation in the loo!” Lily yells, her voice rising an octave. “We just told Mum it was a rash.”

Petunia cracks a smile. “And she believed it.”

Lily dares to laugh, a frail sound that Petunia matches with crinkled eyes. There’s a beat of silence, infinitesimally more charged by Barty staring at them from the doorway. Lily weaves her fingers into her hair, pulling the strands by the root.

Petunia crosses her arms, her expression pinched and sour. “I have a headache.”

“You want something for it?” Lily asks, but she doesn’t wait for a reply before popping into the bathroom, emerging with a bottle of over the counter pain meds. She tosses Petunia the pill bottle, watches as she refills the water glass she just washed to swallow the meds.

Barty clears his throat. “Should I—”

“I’m sure to be jet lagged,” Petunia says, yawning.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Lily says to Barty, leaning forward to give him a peck on the cheek.

“Nice meeting you, Petunia,” Barty says, hands in his pockets. “I’ll make a better impression in daylight, I swear.”

Petunia gives him a once over, eyes fixating on his shirt. “Baking soda and cold water,” she advises, brushing past him into Lily’s room.

Sybill is snoring on the couch, and a siren blares from the street below. The TV is on, but the sound is low, barely a hum as images flicker— late night sitcom reruns interspersed between advertisements. Lily finds the remote on the coffee table, clicks off the telly. It’s quiet after that, the sound of a clock tick, tick, ticking in the kitchen.

Barty’s leaning on the kitchen counter, elbows bent, and Lily slides up next to him, pressing their shoulders together.

“I can’t believe I forgot about my sister,” Lily says, her voice sounding loud, bouncing inside her aching skull, even as she whispers. “I am the worst.”

“Nah,” Barty says, and he turns to press a kiss to her temple. “I happen to think you’re the best.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you have to.”

“Oh, I have to, do I?”

“Because you love me,” Lily teases, and her insides flutter when Barty lets her press a kiss to his lips.

“I do,” Barty agrees, pulling back, the kiss breaking from their mutual smiling. His hand finds her hair, twisting a strand. “Get some sleep. I love you,” he adds just because he can.

Lily grins, ecstatic that I love you is something they get to say now. “I love you too,” she says, brushing her palm against his cheek, pushing hair behind his hair. “Goodnight, Barty. I’ll call you tomorrow, darling,” she promises again.

Barty lets Lily walk him to the door, and when she sneaks back into her bedroom, Petunia is in her bed, the blow up mattress empty on the floor. Petunia rolls over where she lays, turning to face the window, and Lily takes the hint, saying nothing as she readies herself for bed. She doesn’t even make a fuss about sleeping on a glorified water raft instead of her own bed. Petunia deserves that much.

When Lily wakes up she feels like death. Her mouth is dry as a bone, her eyes are stuck shut from unwashed mascara, her temples pulse with a burning headache, and there’s a tightness in her lungs, a constriction in her stomach urging her to purge it. The blinds have been drawn, eye numbing light dripping into her bedroom, and the door is open, erasing the barrier between the clattering sounds of someone milling about in the kitchen.

Lily sits up, the air mattress dipping, half-deflated under her, and it feels like she’s on a boat, stomach churning on choppy seawater. She has to clutch her stomach to swallow bile. Why did she take those shots last night? The first was a shock to the system, and the second seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Lily is cursing her drunk self for being so careless last night. She should’ve washed off her makeup, chugged a Gatorade, or at least had some toast.

Lily delays the inevitable Big Sister Confrontation by sneaking into the bathroom, eyes down and away from the kitchen. She clicks the lock and turns the shower to a temperature fit to boil lobsters, allowing her skin to bloom red under the stream. Petunia’s expensive toiletries have been unpacked already, so Lily indulges in her sister’s lavender shampoo, letting the scent of home wash down her body in suds that circle down the drain. She opens her mouth, swallowing shower water to quell the dryness in her throat, and when she towels off her makeup, she at least looks more human. Lily runs a comb through her hair and pads into the kitchen in her bathrobe, ready to face her sister if it means she can eat whatever’s making the apartment smell so heavenly. Eating something will diminish the Everclear headache pounding in her eye sockets. 

“Thanks, we like to think so,” Remus says, responding to something Lily didn’t hear. He’s standing at the stovetop, flipping cheese toasties in a frying pan. The counter is littered with fresh fruit and jams, strawberry wine uncorked and poured in Sybill’s fancy glassware. Sourdough is sliced on a chopping board, fresh cheese melting between slices with rotisserie chicken as Remus makes some kind of artisan version of a primary school delicacy in Lily’s grandmother’s pan. What is he even doing here?

“Really, Remus,” Petunia says, accepting a plate with her sandwich, prepped and ready with fresh fruit to pair with it. “I’m not so sure about soulmates, but you and Sirius are just enough to add a sliver of doubt.”

“Those two give us a run for our money.” Remus gestures to Sybill and Peter, intwined on the floor in front of the sofa with their own plates. Peter spreads some jam on Sybill’s sandwich for her, and she accepts it with a glowing smile. Remus and Petunia sit with them, bringing along the strawberry wine to top off glasses— it’s an apartment picnic, and Lily wasn’t invited.

Lily clears her throat, standing at the edge of the kitchen counter. “Smells amazing,” she says, prepping for explosives. Petunia has a reason to be upset with her, and while she doesn’t think Remus does, he’s looking at her with a gaze that could cut glass.

“Remus is a wonderful cook,” Sybill praises, pulling her toastie away from her lips, stretching the cheese into translucent strands. “And with Peter’s homemade jams? Blissful, really.”

“I was just saying that he should open up his own little booth,” Petunia says. “You know, at the farmer’s market? People would line up for this stuff, don’t you think, Lily?”

Peter blushes, muttering bashful denials under his breath, and Lily feels like she’s entered an alternate universe. It’s quite odd to see Petunia sitting with her friends so casually, conversing like they’ve got years of rapport built up, like they’re old friends in their own right. Since when did that happen? And why isn’t she yelling at Lily? Yelling is one of Petunia’s favorite pastimes, especially when the recipient is so deserving.

“Sure…” Lily agrees about the jam. She’s still frozen to the spot, her wet hair dripping down her back, dampening her bathrobe. “So, you all went to the farmer’s market?” Lily asks, trying to squash the bitterness growing in her chest. She was supposed to take Petunia to Union Square. Why didn’t anyone wake her?

“The five of us had a lovely little morning, actually,” Petunia says, biting into a plump strawberry.

“The five of you?” Lily’s brows rise.

“Sirius came along too, before work,” Remus supplies, not making eye contact with Lily. He’s glancing at a spot just over her shoulder, and Lily feels the action sting like antiseptic. “Go ahead and make some lunch if you want. Stuff’s still out.” It doesn’t escape Lily’s notice how he’s made everyone else’s meal, but she doesn’t comment.

“I think I’ll go get dressed first,” Lily decides, adding over her shoulder, “since I slept till noon.” She’s expecting a biting critique from Petunia, but her sister says nothing about Lily oversleeping— odd, since Petunia loves a biting comment.

Things are quiet. Lily makes herself lunch while Remus cleans the kitchen, and he leaves soon after that, brushing off Lily’s invite to stay. Petunia spends the afternoon rather composed, her lips pursed together, her eyes scanning Lily like she has something to say, but she doesn’t speak about it, only sharing the list of things she wants to do while in the city— museums, shows, tourist traps. Lily gives her sister plenty of opportunities to jump in with criticism, almost fishing for the explosion. She brings up her hangover, jokes about the disorganization of her closet, she even offers to skip the Met if Petunia’s tired. And nothing. Just that thin-lipped expression and the promise of a future blow. The Petunia that Lily grew up with would’ve torn her to shreds by now. The silence isn’t peaceful. It feels like anticipation.

Petunia decides to move their Met visit to tomorrow, claiming jetlag, so Peter and Sybill volunteer to introduce her to their movie nights, cracking open ciders and microwaving popcorn. Sybill picks Titanic , and Lily takes this as her moment to sneak off for a phone call, since she’s seen this film dozens of times. She hides out in her room, clicking Barty’s contact from her favorite’s list, ignoring the banners from Petunia’s missed calls last night.

“Sweetheart, hi,” Barty answers, his voice low on the other line, velvety and strained from talking. There’s no music playing, no crowd drowning out the gravel of his voice. Not even the sound of the street that pours over the line when he steps out of Rosie’s to answer her calls.

“Are you not at the club?” Lily asks, plopping down onto the deflated air mattress, her shoulder blades hitting the floor. She’ll have to sleep here the rest of the week. Petunia deserves that much.

“Nah,” Barty sighs, casual. “After last night, Evan’s taken me off the roster for a week. Skittles have a sub in though, so it’s no loss for the combo.”

“Oh,” Lily says. “Seems fair, I suppose.” She forgot all about Barty’s involvement in last night’s altercation, too fixated on Petunia glossing over Lily’s own mistake. She feels like a mouse standing on a trap, waiting for it to snap down even though the cheese is almost gone— too good to be true.

“It’s formality, really. Evan couldn’t just do nothing,” Barty scoffs. “I’m just glad the band isn’t getting penalized,” he says, and it reminds Lily that she’s still awaiting her own penalty for leaving Tuni waiting. Maybe Petunia wants Lily to bring it up? She could be trying to brush past it, though that doesn’t feel like her. Perhaps Petunia’s just waiting for the right time to pounce, to really catch Lily out. She’s probably planning her lecture now, compiling evidence and talking points.

“Juilliard,” Barty’s voice cuts off her thoughts.

“What?” she asks, amusement slipping into her voice from the sudden smile she’s trying to bite back— there’s something about that nickname that makes her insides all tingly.

Barty laughs. “I can hear you overthinking,” he teases. “How’s things with your sister? She seemed pretty upset last night.”

“That’s the thing,” Lily huffs, the air mattress shifting under her weight as she sits up. “She’s just… carrying on. Pretending nothing even happened.”

Barty lets out a low whistle.

“I know, it’s horrid.” Lily presses fingers into her eye socket, scrubbing a hand down her face.

“I was going to say that’s great,” Barty counters, and Lily can hear his smirk.

She pulls the phone away from her ear, neck craning to stare at the ceiling. “You really think so?”

“Would I lie to you, Juilliard?” he asks, teasing. “If your sister wants to move past it that means you’re in the clear. I’d take the win.”

“You don’t think I should feel guilty?”

“She’s fine isn’t she?” Barty huffs out a laugh. “It’s not like her nose is broken.”

Lily hums out an agreement, beginning to pick at the black nail polish Marlene painted for her last night. “I guess she’s fine. Not hurt at least.”

“Exactly!” Barty says, cheerful and certain now.

Lily doesn’t answer right away. She presses her thumbnail deeper into the chipped polish, watching flakes fall onto the floor. “They’re watching a movie,” she finally says. “Everyone’s in the living room.”

“Go watch your movie,” Barty says, adding on when Lily sighs, “You didn’t mean to do anything, sweetheart. Everyone loses track of time sometimes.”

“Love you,” Lily says, standing up, brushing bits of black nail polish off her fingers.

“Love you too.” Barty ends the call.

When Lily creeps back into the living room, Peter and Sybill are sprawled out on the floor, a pile of empty cider bottles building up on the coffee table. Lily cracks one open for herself, and Petunia shifts on the sofa, a wordless offer to sit by her. Lily takes the invitation, settling in next to her sister, letting their shoulders brush. Petunia really doesn’t seem mad anymore when she passes the popcorn to Lily, the pair of them turning their attention to Titanic . Maybe Barty’s right. Lily should take the win.

Something about Kate Winslet dancing below decks reminds Lily of her first jam session with Barty. Then, if the drawing gets replaced with jazz, she can see Barty’s passion reflected onscreen as well. Actually, Leonardo DiCaprio as Jack is quite a lot like Barty— fun and reckless, just the right person to bring Rose out of her shell. He’s romantic and worldly, and he knows just how to make Rose see the possibilities behind her problems. Life with Jack would’ve been an adventure every day, and Lily supposes that’s the real tragedy of this film. It’s not the iceberg. It’s just a girl losing the greatest love she’ll ever know.

Petunia lets Lily lean her head on her shoulder, running her fingers through Lily’s curls as the credits roll. Both of them are crying, and have been for the last hour. Sybill’s the only one with dry eyes, Peter busy wiping his with the hem of his shirt.

“Let’s skip back and watch the dance scene again,” Lily insists, claiming the remote to rewind the film. The group laughs, wet and snotty, but no one argues. They end up watching that scene twice more before turning in for the evening. Lily falls asleep on the air mattress, thinking about Barty, feeling giddy and girlish. She feels lucky that in her version of the story, Jack and Rose get off the ship together. It’s like they’re in their own perpetual dance scene.

Petunia’s visit carries on— the Met and the MoMA, shopping in SoHo, two Broadway shows. They get stopped for one of those street interviews in Washington Square Park, and Petunia spends an entire afternoon refreshing social media, waiting for her clip to get posted.

It never does.

The week passes without incident, and Lily’s glad to have dodged a big blow out with her sister. They bond instead of argue, and Lily thinks it’s nice to have reached the part of sisterhood where they’re both adults. Equals. Petunia shares all the gossip from the neighborhood back home, Lily tells her all about showcase, and they spend two full days quoting terrible jokes from a comedy show they got coaxed into near NYU campus.

On Petunia’s last night, Lily brings her to Rosie’s to watch Barty play, ready for her boyfriend to make a better second impression. Barty can charm anyone, so really Lily’s looking forward to the evening.

Petunia’s wearing a tight pink dress, and Lily wears a short red one, smiling because Petunia didn’t even comment on how redheads shouldn’t wear red . She went as far as letting Lily borrow her red lipstick to complete the look, a geometric tube from Dior— several times the price of Lily’s own drugstore version.

“I’m telling you, Tuni, his fingers are like magic,” Lily gushes, heels clicking on the sidewalk as they approach the laundromat.

“Don’t be crass,” Petunia scrunches her features, slightly tipsy on the gin and sprite they had back at the apartment.

“Filthy mind you’ve got,” Lily gasps. “I mean when he plays!”

“No one’s better than you,” Petunia says, tucking her clutch purse under one arm, paying the compliment like it’s a fact. “Now, where’s the club?” She surveys the street, squinting at the halal cart on the corner.

Lily smirks, glancing at the laundromat. “This is the best bit,” she decides, descending the hidden staircase, Petunia clomping behind.

It’s a weekend, so the basement-level bar is packed— round tables with extra chairs added, barely a gap between bar stools, even the dark booths are overstuffed, groups squeezed close on bench seats. Lily weaves through the crowd on instinct, regulars waving their hellos which she returns, eyes scanning for a break in sightlines, searching for a view of the stage.

Mary’s voice rings over the band, She’d never bother with people she’d hate. That’s why the lady is a tramp. The brass takes a solo, piano comping behind it in a staccato sort of pulse— not Barty’s usual melodic style.

Petunia follows close behind Lily, glancing around at the decor, grimacing at the sticky floor. “There’s nowhere to sit,” she grumbles, coming to a stop when Lily does.

Finally catching a glimpse of the stage, Lily’s mouth parts in surprise. It’s not Barty behind the keys. 

Of course. How could she forget?

When she whirls around to squint at the bar, she sees him at the corner, perched on a stool, chatting to Evan who’s busy with a cocktail shaker.

A glance at Petunia says she’s spotted him too. There’s the faintest crease between her brows, and she tilts her head, observing him from afar.

Lily feels panic rising in her esophagus. She’s talked up Barty’s playing all day, and now he’s not even performing. Lily feels utterly stupid. She completely forgot about Barty’s probationary period, but she doesn’t want to alert Petunia to her surprise, so she lifts her chin, leading her sister over to the bar like this was the plan all along.

“Darling,” Lily greets him, placing her hands on Barty’s shoulders, sneaking up from behind to whisper in his ear.

Barty greets her with a smile and a kiss, sweet and warm. “Hi.”

“It’s packed tonight,” Lily says, eyes flitting to Petunia who’s hovering, not quite inserting herself into the conversation yet.

Barty notices, offering his hand to Petunia. “What do you think? Place up to your standards?”

Petunia lets him take her hand, eyes widening a bit when he kisses her knuckles instead of shaking it. “Very unique,” she says, and Lily’s not sure if she means the club or Barty.

“Well, your sister seems to like it.” Barty lets go of Petunia, an arm settling around Lily’s waist, pulling her closer to the bar stool he’s still seated on. Lily feels a giggle rising, but she clamps it down enough so it reads as a smile.

Petunia nods, sharp and prim before asking, “You’re not performing tonight?”

“Nah,” Barty shrugs. “I’ll be back to it soon, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tuni,” Lily tries, not wanting to dig up what’s buried.

Petunia lifts a brow. “What?”

Lily places her hands over Barty’s, now settled across her middle. She leans into him, letting him support her from behind. “You don’t have to interrogate him.”

“I’m just asking questions, Lils,” Petunia says, too casual, a smile lifting her cheeks. “He doesn’t feel interrogated, right?” she directs the question to Barty who’s started playing with the ends of Lily’s curled hair.

“I’ve been asked much worse,” he says, going for a joke.

Petunia doesn’t laugh. “So you’re not playing tonight?” she asks instead.

“Petunia,” Lily says again.

“You know,” Barty muses, ignoring the tension between the sisters, skirting the question. “You were right,” he says. “Baking soda and cold water. Blood came right out.”

Lily tenses.

Petunia’s brows rise.

Barty shrugs, fingers still twirling through Lily’s hair.

There’s a pause. Lily forces a laugh that comes out stilted. “Should we get drinks?” she asks, glancing at the bar.

“Maybe we should go,” Petunia says.

“What?” Lily snaps, peeling out of Barty’s grasp. “We just got here.”

“We came for your boyfriend, and if he’s not playing then I see no reason to sit through jazz.” Petunia glances at the stage, eyes narrowing. “No offense,” she adds, catching Barty’s wide eyed expression.

“I’m not offended, but Mary might be.” He’s going for levity again, sharing a teasing look with Lily, trying to break the ice.

Lily doesn’t melt. She stays frozen, no words forming. Her sister and her boyfriend are pulling her in opposite directions, and Lily doesn’t know who to defend right now. She wants to stay at Rosie’s. But it’s Petunia’s last night in the city. Maybe she can argue for one more song? At least a drink. She doesn’t want to snub Barty just because he’s not onstage, but she also doesn’t know if she can deal with an evening of pouting Petunia. The trip’s been going so well.

“You should go,” Barty decides for her, fingers tracing the empty tumbler glass in front of him.

Lily snaps her gaze to him, ignoring the smile blooming on Petunia’s face. “You sure?”

“Of course,” he says, shrugging again. “We can always spend a night at the club. Go be touristy with your sister.”

Lily leans in to kiss him, just a peck. A silent thank you. “I’ll call you,” she promises, turning to her sister. “Where should we go?”

And that’s how they end up in Times Square, seated in the statue of liberty booth of Margaritaville.

The glasses are absurdly large, bright blue liquid and blended fruit with a heavy pour of tequila, sugar instead of salt on the rim. Lily isn’t even sure what it is she’s drinking, but it’s added a pleasant burning to her chest, a subtle warmth to her cheeks, and the slightest tick of a smile to the corners of her lips. Petunia looks equally soft, the crinkle between her brows smoothened, the purse of her lips flat and downturned. While Lily’s a smiley drunk, Petunia’s a frowny one.

“Should we order more fries?” Lily suggests, picking at the soggy remains of her kid’s meal, shooting a glance at Petunia’s still-crisp fries.

Petunia pushes her plate towards Lily, offering her the untouched fries. “Subtlety has never been your specialty,” Petunia says, her eyes rolling in mock annoyance. Really, she’s fond. Lily knows that much.

“Should we do another round?” Lily asks, munching on fried potatoes. “Want to be hungover when you get to Heathrow?”

“Lils… I’ve got to say something,” Petunia says, stirring the ice cubes in her electric blue drink.

Lily swallows, reaching for her water glass. “Go for it.”

Petunia straightens her posture, hands clasped on the table. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I don’t want to upset you.” She unclasps her hands, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “But if I don’t say something, I’m not sure who will.”

“You’re scaring me,” Lily snorts, letting condescension drip down her fingers as she sips her water. Liquid dribbles down her chin, and she wipes it up with the back of her hand, a bit of the Dior lipstick staining her wrist.

“What are you doing?” Petunia asks, tone turning tired. “With Barty, I mean.”

Lily blinks. She takes a sip of her cocktail, tongue catching on the sugar around the rim of her glass. It tastes sickly, and Lily’s insides curdle with the sweetness. “I’m dating him,” she says, rolling granulated sugar between her fingertips.

The wrinkle between Petunia’s brows creases again, her expression scrunching in judgment. “Why?”

Lily lets out a humorless laugh, a disbelieving huff of air. “That’s a stupid question.”

“Don’t get mad,” Petunia says, “I’m going to be blunt.”

Lily rolls her eyes.

“I don’t see him for you.” Petunia takes a sip of her drink, draining her glass. “I don’t see you two… working out. Long term, I mean.”

Lily’s jaw softens, her mouth parting in shock. Not at Petunia, but at herself. She should’ve known her sister couldn’t let this visit end without passing judgement over her life.

The painted ceiling of Margaritaville glows with projections, a periodic light show highlighting the margarita in the grasp of the lady liberty booth they’re seated in. There’s a table of finance bros toasting to something, a couple in the corner taking videos of their drinks. 

The waiter comes by to clear dishes, and Lily shakes her head when he asks if they want another round. If she’s going to be lectured, she doesn’t want to stay much longer.

Petunia takes her silence as a cue to continue, “I’m seeing red flags, Lils.”

“Why are you doing this?” Lily asks, a headache creeping in along her temples.

“I don’t know what happened the night I arrived, but he was covered in blood, Lily,” Petunia carries on, ignoring the question. “And it seemed like he couldn’t wait to be rid of you tonight. I mean, he didn’t take your side against me at all.”

“So what, that was a test?” Lily’s voice rises in volume, enough to catch a few glances from strangers.

“Just something I noticed.” Petunia’s tone stays even, the kind of gaslighting that makes the other person feel crazy for escalating, for emoting at all. “Something’s off about him. How well do you even know this guy?”

“I love him,” Lily says, a sting forming behind her eyelids. 

Petunia reaches out, a hand settling over Lily’s on the tabletop. “You always did fall for people who needed saving.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lily wrenches her hand back, exasperated. Hurt. “You always do this. You always come in and judge me and my life and my decisions.”

“Lily—”

“No,” Lily snaps. “Just because I left home and actually made something of myself doesn’t mean you get to take your jealousy out on me. I’m finally happy, Tuni, and you can’t stand to see it.”

Petunia frowns, but stays frustratingly calm, her lips pressed together as she thinks. “I’m not jealous of you, Lily. I’m sad for you.”

Lily’s throat tightens, her eyes blurring as she stares at the glowing ceiling, the stupid fake palm trees. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she says, voice rough with unshed tears.

Petunia pays the bill.

Lily stops in the bathroom on their way out. The lipstick’s worn off, and she stares at her red-eyed reflection for long enough that Petunia peeks in to check on her. They take a cab home. Lily’s too tipsy and too upset to navigate the subway from Times Square.

Lily takes a scalding shower, letting her fingers prune under the hot water. When she sneaks into her bedroom, Petunia’s taken the air mattress.

Chapter Text

The ride to Lincoln Center is a long trip via the red line, standing room only until half the car gets out at Times Square-42 St which means Lily can squeeze into an empty spot on the bench between a pair of French tourists and an old man filling out the crossword. The noise of the train car is drowned out by the volume of Lily’s headphones, a voice memo recording of her own composition playing in her ears.

Coming back from spring break hit like a freight train, and Lily’s hardly had time for anything besides shutting herself into practice rooms and emerging after sunset to eat cold takeout Sybill leaves for her in the fridge. Prep for finals and showcase has consumed her existence, and Lily’s almost glad to be overbooked. It leaves her emotions less time to linger. Forces her brain to stop thinking about Petunia’s visit. If she’s playing piano, Lily can forget everything for a while.

Everything except McGonagall’s showcase.

Lily’s sharing her two pieces for showcase in a peer review today, and she needs to feel the music in her bones, memorize the phrasing, breathe it in like oxygen— hence, the headphones. Mephisto Waltz feels like muscle memory by now, months of drilling leaving it settled in her fingers, buried in her stomach. It’s Lily’s original piece that still feels like reading music instead of playing. She listens to her recorded-self stumble over some keys, restart the section, run it again until it’s clean and precise.

The voice memo reaches its end, and Lily restarts it, squeezing her eyes shut to picture the positioning on the keys, her fingers mimicking the notes by pressing into the side of her thigh. It’s a rolling melody, plush and flourishing, the sound of a garden in bloom. In her head, Lily can hear an orchestra behind it, soothing strings and the whooshing of woodwinds, phantom melodies filling out the sound. There’s a subtle shift of the train, a turn that she knows by heart, so Lily stands up as they pull into the station for Lincoln Center, climbing the stairs into the sunshine. Lily walks through the plaza, savoring the two minutes of daylight she’ll get before stepping into the Diamond building, heading for room three-o-nine.

Lily’s not the first one here. Fifteen minutes early, the space is plenty occupied, even without McGonagall’s presence. Only ten students were chosen for this showcase. With Lily here, they’re waiting on four others to file in. Emmeline’s on the side of the room, adjusting her music stand, tuning the strings of her violin. There’s Wilkes with his oboe, shaving a new reed down to size. Caradoc is seated, pulling his cello out of its hardshell case— watching him lug that makes Lily glad she doesn’t play an instrument with such a heavy load to haul. There’s a singer massaging her vocal chords, eyes darting over a tablet displaying her music. There’s Remus—

Lily freezes. She was not expecting to see Remus here. He’s seated near a window, glancing out into the hallway, unbothered amongst the sea of anxious energy drowning the other musicians. It doesn’t make sense. Remus is a comp major, and everyone in showcase is a performance major. Right? And Remus would’ve told Lily if  he’d gained a spot… wouldn’t he? Lily would’ve thought so, but she’d be one to talk after omitting the jam session with Severus from her conversations with Remus. Maybe he just kept it to himself.

 The singer hands Remus her tablet, and it clicks— he’s just here to accompany her. Not here on his own merit. Which Lily now thinks is a shame. Remus should’ve been picked. He’s surely talented enough.

Lily sighs, a huff loud enough to draw Remus’ attention, and they lock eyes from across the room. She offers up a close lipped smile. A shrug of her shoulders, a silent ask to talk after?

Remus gives her a subtle nod. Sure . He looks tired— purple under his eyes, the sleeves of his jumper fraying at the edges. There’s a paper cup of coffee near the leg of his chair, and he reaches for it without looking, gaze fixed on the singer’s sheet music.

Lily shakes it off, squeezing her eyes shut to recenter herself. She hasn’t spoken to Remus since spring break. Hasn’t had the time. Every waking minute has been in service of showcase, and right now is no different. Lily cracks her knuckles, rolls her shoulders. Remus didn’t get picked, and she doesn’t recognize all the others, and that’s enough to make it sink in how selective McGonagall was in choosing which students to include. Lily’s lucky to be here.

She turns up the volume in her headphones, relaxing into a chair on the side of the room, studying her sheet music, flipping through the pages in her binder. A glance around shows many of the others are also studying by ear, wireless earbuds and corded headphones tethering them to their individual musical worlds.

McGonagall enters, chin held high.

Lily and the others remove their headphones.

“Well,” McGonagall walks to the center of the room, her all-black ensemble giving her a funeral type of seriousness, though her face looks cheerful. “Who’s first?” she asks, hands folded over her lap as she settles into a chair at the center of the room.

Caradoc’s cello is rich and velvety, the contours of his melody reaching the far corners of the room. It’s beautiful. It’s Bach. Lily reminds Caradoc to breathe when it’s her turn to comment, and he takes his critiques with grace, scribbling them down once he takes his seat to watch.

Emmeline on violin is like listening to the silken threads of spider’s web, light and thin, delicate, yet strong. The singer goes, Nyphadora Tonks, and Lily finds herself watching Remus play more than she listens— she’s not a singer anyways, so Lily keeps her feedback vague.

McGonagall stays quiet, letting the students be the ones to give the feedback, but expressions give a clue into her opinions— a crinkle of her eyes, a flicker of a smile. When McGonagall loves a piece, she’ll raise one singular eyebrow, but it’s rare. Lily’s only seen it happen once— a pianist in McGonagall’s studio class last semester. Everyone wants the coveted McGonagall eyebrow.

Another pianist goes, and then it’s Lily’s turn.

She sits on the piano bench, straightens her posture, blinks— and Mephisto Waltz is over, plunked and punchy. Lily knows she rushed part of the middle, but she doesn’t let that faze her. She rolls her shoulder muscles again before starting her next piece— the original. This one feels slow, notes pulled from her fingertips like weeds from a garden, pain in pursuit of beauty. Lily bites the inside of her cheek, her full focus on dexterity, fluidity—

The door clicks open.

Severus Snape looks balmy, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, his chest heaving like he ran to get here. His fingers are curled around the strap of his satchel, his jaw clenched tight as he winces at his own lateness. There’s a bandage on his nose.

Lily stops playing, fingers lifting from the keys involuntarily.

Sev looks at her, then McGonagall who only nods, allowing him to enter the room.

No one says anything, and Lily picks up her piece from the start of the phrase, playing through to the end, her insides burning from the feeling of being watched. She barely registers her critique, but it doesn’t matter. Lily knows she can do better. She watches the other musicians, gives her commentary, sneaks out the side door to the bathroom when Severus plays. Sneaks back in once he’s done.

Lily thanks her classmates and Professor McGonagall, clutching her binder tight as she nods at Remus. Follow me . They walk in silence until they make it outside, Lily’s footsteps pulsing as she follows behind Remus who saunters across the main plaza of Lincoln Center. They hover around the edges, watching tourists take photos in front of the fountain.

Lily feels irritated, her insides squirming as her mind tries to wrap around everything. The fountain is loud enough to muffle the traffic, but not quite enough to overpower the voices in her head. It’s like Lily’s in the dark, and everyone else is sharing matches, skipping over her, never lighting her candle.

Remus leans against a wall, arms crossed over his chest as he stares down his nose at Lily. He raises his eyebrows, clearly waiting for her to start.

“Is Sev’s nose actually broken?” Lily asks, thinking of the bandage on his nose. Her brain has been trying to replay the events at Rosie’s, but the everclear shots she downed afterwards have made it all sort of hazy, and then Petunia’s visit overshadowed any details that stood out.

Remus huffs a laugh, biting and sarcastic. “Is that really what you want to start with?”

Lily sighs, pushing strands of hair behind her ears. “No, ok, you’re right.” She locks eyes with Remus. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Remus says, casual.

“Oh, good.” Lily swallows. “Because I really am.”

“I just don’t know what you’re sorry about, Lils.” His shoulders slump, and Remus lets out a true sigh, long and outstretched. “Here I am thinking you’ve got this secret affair going with Severus Snape—”

“Ohmygod—”

“But you don’t even know his nose is broken?” Remus straightens, no longer leaning against the wall. “Where have you been?” He never uses his height against her, but he’s towering over her now, expression cloudy and concerned.

“I’ve been— just—” Lily stammers, searching for her truth, coming up short.

“We’re lucky Snape’s not pressing charges,” Remus says, features scrunching in poorly masked fury. “I thought Barty got off because you asked Severus to leave it.”

“I’m sorry, ok? I’m all twisted ‘round, I’m so confused, and I—” Her throat tightens, a stinging forming behind her eyes, and Lily thinks she might cry. “I just really need my best friend right now.” She crumbles, expression sinking as her shoulders do, and Lily squeezes her eyes shut, trying to save a shred of dignity.

Remus surges forward, enveloping her in a hug, his arms winding around her like a security blanket. Lily’s arms stay hanging at her sides as she allows herself to be held, breath stuttering as she swallows her guilt for not returning the embrace—for not being there for Remus.

But Remus doesn’t need her to hug him back. He’s selfless like that.

Lily sniffles, pulling back just enough so Remus’ hands still rest on her arms. She finally lifts her hands, clutching his arms in return— not quite a hug, but close. A truce. A pseudo embrace to let him know she’s honoring the distance between them, but still wants to be here.

“Barty broke his nose?” she manages, a realization and a prayer— please let it be false .

Remus winces, but nods. He can’t lie to her. “You’re not seeing Snape, then?”

“Oh, come on!” Lily swats him in the chest. “Give me a little credit!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Remus says, a laugh slipping free. “I just had to ask. Roommate solidarity.”

Lily frowns, now understanding why Remus has been so upset with her. “You thought I was cheating on Barty?”

“I didn’t know what to think!” Remus argues, and Lily wonders if all this stress is what’s caused the purple rings to form under his eyes.

“I’m in love with him,” Lily says, the words wavering on their way out. “I’m in love with Barty,” she says again, more solid this time. “There’s no world where I jeopardize that. You have to believe me.” She squeezes Remus’ arms, tightening her grasp for a moment before she lets go, hands at her sides again.

“I believe you,” Remus says, sagging in relief, and Lily’s glad he’s taking her at her word. “Things with Barty are—” He stops himself, nodding for Lily to follow as he guides them to sit on one of the steps up to the plaza.

The street is busy— yellow cabs and uber drivers, families and couples walking down the pavement. A cluster of pigeons gets disturbed by a toddler, the young boy squealing towards them at a run, grey feathers flying as the birds flutter above the ground. Professor Malfoy gets out of a black SUV, and he sends Remus and Lily a sharp nod as he stalks past.

Lily straightens her spine, once again aware that they’re on campus. Anyone could see them like this, and Lily doesn’t want her Juilliard counterparts to see her crying. “You were saying?” she prompts Remus, knocking her shoulder against his. It’s easier this way— to talk about serious things without looking at one another.

“Barty’s been…. off lately.” Remus fiddles with the sleeve of his jumper, pulling at the knitted fibers around his wrist. “Ever since the Severus incident.”

“Ok, now you sound like Petunia,” Lily scoffs. “Can we not label it an incident, please?”

“Look, I’m just saying, he’s been rather evasive since then.” Remus stretches his legs onto the step in front of them, leaning back onto his elbows. “I know you say nothing’s going on with Severus—”

Lily opens her mouth to protest, but Remus continues.

“And I believe you,” he adds. “But I’m not sure if Barty knows that. He’s been dodging conversation. He’s almost never home, I haven’t seen him in days. Barty used to gush about you two all the time, and now he’s barely mentioned you.”

Lily chews her lip. Does Barty think she’s cheating on him? Is that why he didn’t pressure her and Petunia to stay at the club during her visit? Maybe Barty’s bad impression on her sister is Lily’s own fault. “Petunia said something,” she says, hesitant. “Well, some things, I guess.”

Remus hums, and though Lily’s still looking out at the street, she can feel him nodding. “About?” he asks, pushing her.

“About Barty. About me and Barty.” Lily twists a strand of hair between her fingers, wrapping it around until it constructs blood flow, her finger blooming white. “She basically insinuated we’re a bad match. Said he didn’t take my side against her.”

Remus turns to face her, elbows on his knees. “So he was acting weird then, too?”

“He didn’t make the greatest impression,” she agrees. “And Petunia’s a judgy bitch sometimes, but I can’t say her comments didn’t land. Though, now I’m wondering if it’s my fault. If maybe Barty was acting standoffish because of me.”

Remus grimaces. “I dunno, Lils, but it doesn’t seem too far-fetched.”

“Shit,” Lily whispers. There’s a tension headache working its way through her skull, the pulse of it settling in her temples. She can’t bear the thought of Barty thinking she’s cheating on him. The very idea makes her sick to her stomach, bile rising until her throat tastes of acid. “What do I do?” She releases the strand of hair, moving to crack her knuckles, listening as the bones pop one by one.

Remus shrugs. “Talk to him.”

Lily takes a deep breath, filling her lungs to their capacity before releasing the air in a sigh. Remus lets her lean her head on his shoulder, and they sit there for a while, staring out into the street, watching the afternoon traffic pass.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there,” Lily says finally, pressing her cheek into Remus’ shoulder. “I’m sorry I got all mixed up with Sev. It was stupid.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Lily bites back her disagreement— now’s not the time. “You’re a good friend,” she says instead, and Remus just wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

Lily doesn’t talk to Barty. Not right away. She’s still got showcase, and practice room nine is booked under her name through the evening, so she picks herself up and shoves herself into the Diamond building. She drills piece after piece, fingers darting across the keys, joints aching. The notes blur together after a while, and Lily’s mind wanders— Petunia’s comments, Remus’ intervention, Barty’s odd behavior all contributing to her spiral.

Lily plays until the Diamond building closes, until her fingers are thrumming and numb. She eats takeout for dinner, Sybill’s leftovers, and considers a glass of wine before she thinks better of it. It’s only after she’s scrubbed her face raw and changed into sleep clothes that Lily pulls out her phone, scrolls to Barty’s name, and presses call.

“Yeah?” Barty’s voice is rough, thick like he’s been inhaling the second hand smoke of Rosie’s— a side effect of playing a show. His probation must be up.

Lily taps the speaker button, settling the phone on her bent knee where she’s curled up on her bed. “What are you up to?” she asks, voice drawn out, stretched and slow.

“Just wrapping up at the club,” he says, and Lily can hear laughter nearby, Kingsley and Mary, Gideon and the band. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” Lily hums, fingers skating across her duvet. “Just thinking about you.” She lets her voice get low, going for sultry and sweet. Maybe she should’ve poured the wine. This might be easier with a buzz.

Barty hums, amused. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lily echoes, softer now. She lets her skating fingers slide up her abdomen, featherlight touch settling at the hem of her shirt, teasing her waistband. Barty’s voice is enough of a turn on to give her ideas. Maybe they don’t need to talk at all. “You still at Rosie’s?”

“Wrapping up now,” he says, breezy as ever, not yet reading her suggestive tone. “The band was gonna grab a bite before heading home.”

Lily bites the inside of her cheek. “Or,” she says, slow and honeyed, “you could go straight home.”

Barty sucks in a breath, and the noise makes heat drip into Lily’s stomach like a bead of candle wax. “I could,” Barty agrees, teasing.

“Maybe you should,” she says, letting her eyes flit closed. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” She’s laying it on thick, but that’s part of the game. Barty’s always loved the chase.

“You—” Barty coughs, clearing his throat. “You have?” he asks, the laughter and chatter on the other line fading— he must have stepped away from the group.

“Mmhmm,” Lily hums, indulging herself, letting her hand slip under her own shirt, fingers splayed out over her ribs. “If we both leave now, we’ll get to your place at the same time.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Juilliard?” Barty sounds smug, and Lily can picture the curve of his lips, the way his tongue traces them, wetting just the middle of his mouth.

“What if I am?”

“I’d say I’ll be home in twenty,” Barty says, voice low and breathy. “Fifteen if I skip the train.” He whistles loud, hailing a cab. A few voices yell after him, Mary and Moody, but Lily hears a car door slam. Barty’s ignoring them.

Lily feels her mouth curve into a smile, desire making her giddy. “I’ll leave now,” she decides, ending the call before she loses her nerve.

She’s shaky as she gets herself together, heart hammering with anticipation. Lily doesn’t fix her wild curls, just changes her underwear, blots on some lipgloss, and slides into a sweatshirt she stole from Barty, something oversized and still steeped in cologne. A quick glance in the mirror shows she looks a bit frenzied, but Lily thinks maybe that’s a good thing. Barty likes spontaneity.

The cab ride over is tortuous, and Lily watches as rain starts to fall in drops across the windshield. There aren’t many people on the street at this hour, and even fewer have umbrellas. Pedestrians huddle under awnings, dodging the sudden downpour.

In her haste to get out of the car, Lily undertips the driver, and she nearly slips on the tiled surface of the lobby. She just misses the elevator, but someone inside sticks their arm out to hold the doors, and when they sink shut, she looks over to see that someone is Barty.

Their gazes connect, electricity pulled tight between them. The timing feels kismet.

A woman gets off on the second floor, and suddenly they’re alone, left to ride up the remaining floors.

Barty’s eyes light up with mischief, his hair tousled and slightly damp, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Hey, Ju—”

She doesn’t let him finish his sentence, cutting him off as she pushes into him, connecting their mouths, pressing him against the wall. Lily doesn’t want to talk. She just wants. And she wants Barty to know how much she wants. How much she doesn’t want anybody else.

Barty freezes in surprise, hands clutching her waist to catch her, but when Lily tugs at his hair, deepening the angle, he sinks into it, a groan pouring into Lily’s mouth.

It’s purple and bruising. Teeth and tongues and shared breath. Lily arches into him, chasing his mouth with hers, his knee pressing up between her legs. Barty’s hands are warm, palms sliding up her back—

The elevator dings too soon, snapping them out of the haze.

When Lily pulls back, Barty is smirking, lips blue, hair disheveled. His blinks are slow, his eyes shiny. “Hello to you too,” he says, and Barty adjusts his trousers before leading her down the corridor.

Lily feels electric, her insides buzzing with heat that sears through her bloodstream, weaves into her guts. She lets a hand creep up the back of Barty’s neck, palm settling at his nape as her fingers sink into his hair. She can feel him shiver at the touch, and his keys slip from his fingers for a beat before he gets the door unlocked.

“Do you want some wine?” Barty asks, leaning into Lily’s palm, his mouth parting when she tugs at his hair again.

“I want you,” she says, leaning in to kiss him as the door clicks shut.

Barty’s expecting it this time, so he meets her halfway, one hand supporting her waist, the other climbing slowly up to the center of her chest where he pulls on a hoodie string. “I like seeing you in my clothes,” he mutters, words slipping into the breaths between kisses.

Lily lets him pull her by the hoodie string, trailing after him as they cross the apartment to his bedroom. “I like,” she says, mouth moving to attach itself to Barty’s neck, “you taking me out of your clothes.” She nips at the junction between his neck and shoulder, watching his pulse jump.

“Oh,” Barty gasps, neck jerking as Lily soothes the lovebites with her tongue.

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” she taunts, eyes flitting down to the hoodie enveloping her.

“Right.” Barty moves at her word, hands slipping under the hoodie to squeeze her waist, and the two of them ruck up the fabric, letting it drop to the floor. “God, you’re so—”

Lily cuts him off again, pushing him until he hits the mattress, sinking down to sit on its edge. She moves to straddle him, knees bracketing his hips, and she guides his hands to settle on her ass.

His brows lift in surprise, but Barty takes the moment in stride, one hand squeezing her through her pajama bottoms, the other drifting up to the edges of her bra to trace the curve of the underwire. Lily melts into his touch, her body drawn to the warmth of Barty’s palms. He toys with the lace, circling her through the fabric.

“Mmmm, that feels nice,” Lily murmurs, working open the buttons of his shirt. She wants him to feel good too. Wants Barty to know how much he makes her feel.

Barty’s shirt joins the hoodie on the floor, and their lips connect again. Lily works the higher angle she’s got, pulling up to make his mouth chase hers, and they fall into a rhythm, heat pulsing in the inches between their bodies. They swallow the noises the other makes, and when Lily sinks into Barty’s lap, she can feel how much this is affecting him. A devilish idea forms, and Lily’s just honeyed enough to lean into it.

She traces his sternum, one finger sliding down the center of his ribcage before settling at the front of his trousers. She kisses him once more, then pulls herself up, standing as she works open his belt, pulls down his zipper in a slow, tantalizing move before settling to her knees at the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to,” Barty says, his throat bobbing, his breathing shallow as he tries to cage his longing. They haven’t done this particular act before, but it’s clear he wants it now that it’s on the table. It’s visible in his blown pupils, the way his teeth press into his bottom lip.

“I know,” Lily says, fingers wrapping around one of Barty’s ankles. “But I want to. I want to make you feel good.” She licks her lips, staring up at him from her spot on the floor. “Can I do that, baby? Can I make you feel good?”

Barty all but whimpers, nodding his assent, and he lifts his hips, allowing Lily to pull his trousers and boxers down to his ankles.

When Lily takes him into her mouth, Barty’s hands twist into the duvet, knuckles going white, muscles tensing. His mouth falls open in a groan. “God,” Barty pants, chest rising and falling in erratic stutters of breath. He stares down at her, eyes sinking shut when Lily circles her tongue just the right way, hands pulling him forward by the backs of his thighs, making his head fall back with a cry.

A strategic swallow rips another groan out of him, and Lily can feel her own arousal growing, her cheeks burning warmer the longer he looks down at her, his mouth parted as he tries and fails to hold back his sounds. Barty flits between staring at Lily and staring at the ceiling, and it’s clear that it’s an effort to hold back his release, the image of Lily on her knees too much for him to handle with grace.

The blatant arousal she’s drawing out of him stokes her own fire, heat settling between her thighs, and Lily shifts on her hips, desperate for stimulation. The carpet burns her knees, the drag just enough to distract her, letting her focus on Barty’s pleasure. She breathes through her nose, one hand moving to Barty’s, guiding his fingers to sink into her hair.

He waits for a nod from her before tightening his hold, tugging at the roots of Lily’s curls as she moves, tongue circling. Barty doesn’t push, doesn’t pull, doesn’t take. But he receives, pouring out bits of praise as Lily works her jaw, sliding off to catch her breath, a bead of saliva connecting them.

“So good, baby,” Barty whispers, sucking in another breath when Lily surges forward again. He only lasts a moment before he’s pushing her off, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth twisting even as his hips move forward, chasing the heat of her mouth.

Lily wipes away spit and precum with the back of her hand, swallowing around her raw throat.

“You’re…” Barty starts, but he can’t finish. His hand moves to tilt her face, thumb and finger lifting her chin, and Lily stands slowly. Barty looks blissfully undone, his hair stuck to his face with sweat, his mouth bruised.

Lily must strike a similar vision because Barty can’t tear his eyes away. He pulls her in, their lips meeting in a kiss, and when Lily lets her tongue slide into his mouth, Barty whines at the taste of himself. She pours all the unspoken words into the kiss, pushing her desire into his mouth, letting his fingers trace her body. Lily kisses him until they’re both dazed and burning, until she’s sure Barty hears the message her hands have carved in lines along his back— I love you. I need you. I want only you .

When Barty pushes Lily onto her back, she melts freely, giving into the want that’s been thrumming under the surface this entire time. It’s all she can do to shimmy out of her sweatpants, dragging off her underwear with them as they join the growing pile of laundry on the bedroom floor. Barty kisses a line down her stomach, nipping and soothing as he transitions to her inner thighs. He skips past where she wants him most, sucking bruises down her legs, kissing the bend of her knees, then trailing lower still, until he’s stretched out between her calves, making his journey last down to her ankles.

When his hands skate back up her thighs, Lily squirms at the attention, her back arching off the mattress as she tries to guide his touch. “Barty,” she moans when his fingers slip between her folds, sudden enough to surprise, just enough to tease.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, licking his bruised lips in faux innocence, his fingers toying with her as things grow slicker.

Lily isn’t sure if the whine she releases is because he’s pulled away, or because he’s slipping a finger into his mouth to taste her. “Oh,” is all she manages, breathless and scratchy, her jaw still working to soothe her throat.

Barty looks debauched, his eyes glazed with want, his mouth red and bitten as he pulls his pinky out, letting saliva string down his hand. “What do you need?”

“You,” Lily gasps. She tugs at his arm, pulling him up her body as her other hand reaches for the nightstand drawer.

Barty climbs over her, hands circling her waist as he settles on top. His knees cage her in, one on either side, his cock hard and heavy against her stomach. He lets out a shaky breath as Lily tears open a condom, and he lets her roll it on, his grip tightening, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

She allows him to set the pace, knees spreading as he presses inside, hands clutching at the sheets. Barty pauses for only a moment before he starts to move, his forehead dropping to hers as he sets a rhythm, their bodies pushing and pulling in tandem.

Lily gasps, head tipping back into the pillows as lust blooms hot inside her chest. “Yes,” she encourages him, watching his mouth fall open, his eyes wide and dark.

“So good,” Barty groans, praising her body as she tightens around him, an involuntary squeeze of pleasure. He’s soft with her, moving at a steady pace, whispering assurances into her ear like always.

But Lily didn’t call him tonight to slide into predictability. She needs to take control, show him how much he means to her. She needs to prove he’s the only one she wants, that no matter what Remus says, Severus is the last thing on her mind.

It’s a split second decision when she flips them over, pressing Barty into the mattress, arching her back, working her knees as he rides him.

“Lily,” he says her name like it’s a breath, like it’s automatic, and Lily thinks it may be the first time he’s called her by her name in bed. It’s always sweetheart, baby, Juilliard . Never just Lily.

It sparks something in her, and Lily chases it, rolls her hips with intention, trying to coax her name out of his lips again. Their movements become erratic, both of them desperate for the impending release, hanging over the edge of a cliff. Lily’s ready to throw herself off, surrender fully to sensation, to the sounds of man beneath her.

“God,” Barty hisses, hands flying to her waist. “You’re—”

“Mine,” Lily says, palm pressing into the moth tattoo at the center of his chest, bracing herself as she pulls up, sinks back down, taking him deeper with every thrust. “You’re mine, Barty.”

Barty nods, face flushed, lips wet. “Yes,” he agrees, voice wrecked.

“And I’m yours,” Lily whispers, watching the ripple of tattoos on his abdomen, sharp intakes of breath bringing the ink alive. “My name,” she mutters the request, quiet enough to be passed over if Barty wasn’t cataloging her every reaction.

“Lily,” he cries, raw and ragged, velvet and syrup. “Lily, Lily, Lil—” and he’s coming, jaw going slack as he reaches the crest of his pleasure.

“Christ,” Lily manages, rolling her hips once, twice, three times before she’s careening over the edge, collapsing on top of him in a sticky tangle of limbs.

They catch their breath, sweat cooling on her back as Lily rests her cheek on Barty’s chest, listening to the slowing thrum of his heartbeat. He softens inside her, but doesn’t pull out until she rolls off of him.

Barty exhales, a drawn out breath as he ties off the condom, tossing it into the trash without leaving the bed. He collapses onto his back, lifts an arm so Lily can burrow into his side, a hand resting on the moth tattoo.

“I love you,” Lily whispers, the pads of her fingers climbing the rungs of his ribcage, circling the scrawled Lillian tattoo— the one for his mother.

“Mmm,” Barty hums, sweet and buttery, still soft from sex. “Love you too, sweetheart.” He huffs a laugh, amusement coating his tone.

“What?” Lily looks up at him, chin poking into his sternum.

“I don’t know what brought this on,” Barty says, beginning to play with her hair, “but I’m not complaining.” He smirks, smug and content, and Lily would have half a mind to swat him if this wasn’t her plan all along.

“I just wanted to,” she says, soft. “I wanted you.”

“Well, you have me,” Barty says, letting his eyes flutter closed. He falls asleep before she does, and Lily listens to the sound of his breathing, the early morning traffic starting on the street below as the sunrise peeks through the blinds.

When Lily wakes, her face is pressed into a pillow, her body twisted in sheets still sticky from last night, the blanket thrown to the floor. She shivers, rolling over to reach for Barty, searching for the warmth of his body, but she can’t feel him. She pries open her eyes, squinting against daylight to see she’s alone in bed.

Barty’s not in the kitchen. Not in the shower. Even Remus’ room is empty. Lily’s been one-night-stand-stranded. And she’s not even in her own apartment.

Lily tries calling him while she gathers her clothes. Once, then again, and again— each time, voicemail. She takes the train home in yesterday’s pajama bottoms, pulling the hoodie over her head, closing her eyes against the harsh lighting of the subway. Last night felt perfect. Lily thought everything was going alright, that they were finally back in sync. What could she have done wrong?

She showers, slides back into Barty’s hoodie, drags herself to class, trying to talk herself out of her paranoia. Maybe Barty had an early morning gig. Maybe his phone is dead. Maybe there’s an explanation for all of this— something so reasonable that it would never even cross her mind.

Lily slumps into her seat in Lovegood’s comp class, fighting the urge to burrow into Barty’s hoodie.

“You alright?” Emmeline leans in, whispering over Professor Lovegood’s quote of the day. “You look awful, Lily.”

Lily forces a smile, tense and terse. “Been living in the practice rooms,” she says, and it’s not a complete lie. “I’ll be alright.” She hopes that’s not a lie either.

“Here.” Emmeline fishes through her bag, passing Lily a tube of berry flavoured lip gloss. “When you look good, you feel good.”

During their break, Lily tries him again— no answer. She doesn’t leave a voicemail. What would she even say? When she slips back into the classroom, Emmeline starts weaving a braid down her back, fingers gentle. It’s too tender a gesture— Emmeline doesn’t even know what’s going on— and Lily has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying.

In every spare moment— on the steps of the Diamond building, in the hallway outside practice room nine, over a cup of coffee Emmeline brings her— Lily tries again, dialing over and over. Every time her phone buzzes she thinks it’s him, but it never is. He’s ghosted her— no missed calls, no texts to explain.

Barty’s silence gets under her skin, infiltrating her nervous system until she feels frayed from the inside out. By evening, her fingers are shaking over the keys, and she leaves her practice room before she’s meant to, blessing the flautist in the hall with her remaining booked hours.

Lily leaves campus and heads straight to Rosie’s, bag full of music binders slung over her shoulder. The club is packed for a weeknight. Lily lets them wave her cover without protest, for once too anxious to care. She feels sick to her stomach, her insides crawling up her throat before sinking down to her toes.

Mary’s at the bar, martini glass half drained, head tilted back in laughter that stops when she sees her. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Lily takes a shaky breath, voice cracking on the exhale. “Where is he?” Her eyes scan the bar. A new combo is onstage. The Skittles are nowhere to be seen.

Mary assesses Lily, thumbs wiping at her cheeks with the care of an older sister, clearing away the tears Lily didn’t even know had started falling.

“Oh, hunny.” Mary pulls her into a hug. “It’s not as bad as all that.” Her arms are warm. Comforting. Foreign.

It takes everything for Lily not to crumble, the sudden childish wish for Petunia to be here instead washing over her. She wants to collapse into her sister. Push her away. Fight with her. It’s her fault any of this is happening. It’s Severus’ fault. Remus’. 

Lily sniffles a bit, wiping her nose with the sleeve of Barty’s hoodie. “Is he here?” she asks again, pulling out of the hug.

Mary winces. “Baby, what’s going on? Today’s the day ,” she whispers that part, like Lily should understand the significance. “You sure you want to talk to him now?” Her purple lipstick is cracking at the center. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Mary’s looking at Lily like she should know what she’s talking about, like she’s frustrated at having to spoon feed her information, but Lily has no clue. No context. She’s in the dark here, and for once she wants someone to throw her a damn match.

“Mary, please.” She needs to see Barty, and she needs to see him now. 

Mary sighs, but she nods, pointing Lily towards a corner booth.

Barty’s sitting alone. Three empty tumbler glasses in front of him, his fourth swirling with amber liquid as he spins the glass. He doesn’t so much as shift when Lily approaches.

“Barty,” she tries, and his name is enough for him to look up, eyes golden and dazed.

He blinks, face twisting, eyes crinkling before his features sag into something soppy and neutral. The new band plays low and slow, the guitarist plucking at an acoustic while their lead girl sings softly, Two drifters, off to see the world…

“You left,” Lily says, voice wet and rough. “You didn’t call me back.”

“Phone’s off” he says, voice scarily calm even as he slurs a bit. “Now isn’t a good time.” His lips move like they’re numb, pumped full of novacaine.

“Are you drunk?” Lily’s shocked. Sure, Barty has been known to have a drink or two, but four heavy pours of scotch on a weeknight is a bit much, even for him.

“You should leave,” he says, a bit of emotion seeping through the haze, his fist curling against the table top. “Please,” he adds, softer, almost begging. “You shouldn’t see me this way.”

Lily has to ask. Has to clear things up. “Is this about Severus?”

The words have barely left her mouth before Barty flinches. “I haven’t forgotten what he said, if that’s what you’re asking,” he decides, throwing back his scotch in one smooth knockback.

“I’m so sorry Barty,” Lily rushes to say, frantic. “Remus told me—”

“Yeah, well, Remus shouldn’t have said anything,” Barty snaps, eyes wide and unfocused, far from sober. “It’s not his story to tell.”

Lily frowns. “He was just trying to help.”

“It’s not his job to fucking help!” Barty stands, slamming his glass down onto the table. “And it’s not your job to replace her, Lily!”

The words hit like a slap across the face. A bucket of cold water down her spine.

“I—” she chokes, mouth falling open. “What are you talking about?”

“My mother,” Barty spits, eyes burning. “Who else would I be talking about?” He gives her the same stare as Mary, like Lily’s a complete fool who should’ve known.

Lily shakes her head, trying to etch-a-sketch her spiraling thoughts about Severus. “I dunno,” she mumbles, because saying I thought it was about my ex-situationship from freshman year feels impossibly small now. “Barty, talk to me, please.” She steps closer, suppressing the squeeze in her guts telling her to flinch. Barty needs her. “You’ve barely even mentioned your mom.”

“She died four years ago.” He says it with his eyes closed, like shutting out the world can make it less true. “She—” he sinks down into the booth, letting Lily settle next to him. “She was in a coma, did you know that?”

Lily shakes her head. She didn’t know.

“I lived with her, after my parents split up,” he says, and while Lily’s confused about the backtracking, she doesn’t comment. Barty deserves to tell this story how he wants to tell it. “They never divorced, not legally, but they were as good as.”

“I remember.” Lily nods. That’s the part he says a lot— not legally . She places a hand on his arm, a grounding touch, just enough to say I’m here . “You said she paid for your music lessons.”

“My father was never one to support my fantasies,” Barty scoffs, “but Mom always did. I lived with her until I was sixteen, but then—” He swallows, eyes closing. “Then she—”

“That’s when the coma happened?” Lily offers, wanting to say the hard parts before he has to, wanting always to protect Barty, even from himself.

He nods. “And so I moved in with Dad for my last two years of high school. It was like living with a stranger,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his face, rubbing at his reddening eyes. “I wanted to play music right out of high school, but he made me apply to colleges. Said if I was going to embarrass him by giving up the family business for music, I may as well do it at the best possible place.”

“Juilliard,” Lily whispers, connecting the dots.

“Juilliard,” Barty agrees. “So I went. And I stopped visiting my mom in the hospital everyday because classes were so…”

Lily just nods. She gets it. First year at Juilliard is no joke.

“Yeah,” Barty says. “Well, it was almost finals week, and I was utterly fried, and I wanted to visit Mom, just to talk to her, just to—” He’s crying now, silent tears streaming down his blank expression. “I called the hospital, and they said, there’s no Lillian Crouch admitted here , and I thought well, that’s utter bullshit because I’d been visiting her there for nearly two years by then.” He doesn’t blink the tears away, just lets them trace lines down his sallow face. “So I called my dad, thinking they’d moved her or something, and—” He stutters out a breath. “They were going to up the annual billing at the hospital, so dad made a business decision.”

“What?” Lily presses, her stomach sinking with unspoken realization.

“He pulled the plug on her, Lily,” Barty whispers, hot tears sliding down his perfect face. “He killed her because she cost too much.” He’s beautiful when he cries, his face pink, his eyes glowing and glassy. “He weighed the invoice against her life and decided she wasn’t worth it.”

Lily whimpers, her own eyes blurring with tears. “Oh, Barty.”

“All that bastard cares about is money, and because they were still married, he got to make all the medical decisions. I wasn’t even consulted.”

“I can’t even imagine.” Lily feels sick. The smoke in the air seeps into her lungs, turning sour in her stomach.

“I was rooming with Severus at the time,” Barty says. “He saw all the worst bits.”

It clicks then, the things Severus said about Barty’s mom. The reason Barty shoved him.

“I dropped out of Juilliard,” Barty continues, tears drying in tracks on his cheeks, still untouched. “I didn’t sit for a single final. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be his perfect little Juilliard graduate, not after what he— what he did to her.”

“Of course,” Lily soothes. “I’m so sorry, Barty.” She pulls him close, his cheek to her chest, and she kisses the top of his head. His shampoo smells like eucalyptus, and Lily lets herself breathe it in, the scent calming her nervous system.

“It’s the anniversary,” Barty mumbles. “That’s why I turned my phone off. I can’t bear to see that my dad hasn’t called.”

Lily’s heart breaks at that, and while she’s still a bit hurt he didn’t think to wake her this morning, can she really be mad at someone on the anniversary of their mother’s death? “Should we go?” she offers, fingers running through his hair. “We can go somewhere quiet. Just sit and—”

“Nah.” Barty straightens, sitting up. His hands scrub under his eyes, his face red and blotchy. “I was thinking I’d join Tomi and them for a round of poker. Get my mind off everything for a little while.”

Lily nods slowly, a knot tightening in her stomach. She barely remembers the last poker game, but she’s not in a place to argue with what Barty thinks will calm him down.

The crowd applauds, the end of one song into the next, and the singer’s voice turns feathery, her lilt almost birdlike as she emulates Marylin Monroe, I wanna be loved by you …

The poker crowd is the same as last time, Tomi and Rabastan, Avery and Amycus, Cissa who smiles when Lily sits on the end of the booth. They’re happy to deal Barty in, treating him as an old familiar friend, Avery clapping him on the back as he throws cash into the center, and Lily has the private thought that maybe he’s played with them more than the once. The idea leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but that might just be the memory of—

“Everclear,” Trix sings, placing a tray on the edge of the table, her long acrylic nails tapping on the shot glass she claims for herself. “You should’ve said we’d be having old friends!” She swats Tomi on the chest when she spots Lily, lips parting into a manic grin, glossed and silver in the middle to match her jewelry. “I can get more shots.”

“We’re fine,” Lily says, too fast.

Amycus raises a brow. “Can’t handle your liquor, red?” he says, and the nickname feels different than when Kingsley says it.

“I’ve got finals coming up,” Lily says, not that she owes an explanation, “and it’s a weekday.”

“Right, it’s a weekday,” Avery snorts, tapping his shot on the table before downing the clear liquid without a wince.

“We’ll just drink to you, Lily,” Tomi says, his smile calm and kind, his eyes alight and sparkling. He clinks his shotglass against Trix’s, the two of them keeping eye contact as they down the liquor.

Amycus follows suit, but Cissa offers Lily a sympathetic smile, and she pushes her shot forward on offer.

Lily shakes her head, but before she can slide it back, Barty claims it, swallows it, and smacks his lips with an exaggerated ahh sound that gains a laugh from the table. Cissa doesn’t seem to mind— she shoves a stick of blue bubble gum into her mouth— so Lily bites back a comment, reminding herself of the whole dead mom thing .

As the bets increase, Lily’s anxiety grows. “That’s a lot of money,” she mutters, just quiet enough for Barty to hear. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” he brushes her off, sifting through his cards, one hand coming to rest on her thigh under the table. She’s wearing jeans, and his fingers run along the inseam which would be distracting if her nerves weren’t already fried.

Trix eyes Lily from head to toe, taking in Barty’s sweatshirt, the loose braid Emmeline weaved. “You look rough,” she says, surveying and syrupy, like she’s commenting on the decor.

“Bellatrix,” Cissa whispers, chastising her sister. “I have to go to the lady’s.”

Trix nods, and the two of them slide out of the booth just as Rabastan wins the hand, a wad of cash being surrendered to his section of the table top. The girls don’t walk away, and Cissa clears her throat, her sharp gaze insinuating should Lily join them. She blows a bubble, bright blue.

“You two go ahead,” Lily says, and the glare she gets in return makes her feel like she’s broken Girl Code. She doesn’t have to pee, and she’s too invested in the absolute stack of cash her boyfriend is handing over for the next hand.

“Go on, Lily,” Tomi says, “We’ll take good care of him. It’s all in good fun.”

Lily bites her lip. She doesn’t want to leave Barty, especially when he’s so emotional— but a glance his way shows his usual wicked grin, a devilish glint in his eyes as he examines his new cards.

“You gonna be alright if I—”

“Sure.” Barty shrugs, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, not even looking away from his cards.

Cissa takes the opportunity, pulling Lily up from the booth, and Trix shares a brief whisper with Tomi before Lily’s escorted off to the bathroom, a girl on either side. She remembers thinking Cissa was smart last time they met, but when the platinum blonde reapplies her lipstick in the mirror, she misses the cap three times. Trix seemed kind last time, helping Lily fix herself, sharing her makeup, but when she does it this time it comes off as judgy, the wrinkle between her brows so reminiscent of Petunia that Lily gets nauseous.

Trix has applied her cinnamon lipgloss to Lily’s mouth, and Cissa’s handing her a tissue to blot, the two of them commenting on vapid, useless topics, and Lily can’t shake the feeling that something is off. She straightens from where she’s been pressed against the sink, the sudden urge to get back to the table taking over the polite feminine autopilot she’s been operating with.

Lily pushes open the bathroom door, ignoring Cissa’s whine of protest, and she cuts across the bar, beelining for the darkened booth. When she makes it back to the table, the men are laughing, jovial and arrogant, Tomi boasting the latest win. The sheer stack of bills in front of him makes Lily feel woozy. That much money could pay her rent in Manhattan for a year.

“Oh my god.” Her jaw drops. Barty’s the only one with no money in his pile, and she catches him just as he folds his wallet shut— empty. No chips, no bills, no sticky notes with an IOU written on them. “Barty, tell me you didn’t just lose your entire wallet?”

Tomi leans back in the booth, slender fingers counting his bills while his eyes flit over Lily’s shoulder— Trix and Cissa circling back, their faces masking shame and guilt with powder and lipstick. Lily wipes her own mouth with the back of her hand, scrubbing Trix’s gloss off her lips.

“Tough hand,” Tomi says, casual like Trix, smiley like Cissa, flippant like Avery. How much of this whole group is an act?

Lily doesn’t respond. She can’t find the words, too fixated on Barty, the way he stares at the table, mouth parted.

“He kept going all in,” Rabastan offers, shoulders lifting in an easy shrug. “What were we meant to do? He’s taken ours enough times.” And that statement is enough to confirm— he’s been playing with them for a while.

There’s a silent conversation happening with people’s eyes, Trix and Tomi in an argument, Cissa and Rabastan apologizing, Avery and Amycus cataloging money and sticky notes, and all of it seems to be going straight over Barty’s head. Hell, it went straight over Lily’s the first time. How drunk was she?

It doesn’t matter. She’s sober now. “Christ, Barty.”

“It’s just money,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “It’s— it’s no big deal. I can handle myself.”

“This is insane, you see that right?” Lily feels crazed, devilish eyes painted in cat eye liner staring at her, Cissa and Trix on high alert. “Barty, let’s go.”

“Lily, come on,” he whispers, a quiet scolding. He glances at the other guys, and it’s clear he’s trying to save face. He doesn’t see it, but Lily does, and she knows they have to get out of here before it gets worse.

“No, this is ridiculous!” Lily pulls Barty up by the arm, and he stumbles slightly, the scotch and everclear mixing below the surface. “Let’s go,” she says, and it’s not a question.

The girls snicker, the guys sending an oooo Barty’s way, but it’s Tomi that stops them. “We’ll be in touch about the IOUs, Bartemius.”

Barty opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s already swaying. He lets Lily guide him away, the two of them climbing the stairs up from the basement of Rosie’s.

Lily lets go of him as soon as they reach street level. “What the hell, Barty?” She whirls on him, uncaring of the group of smokers on the sidewalk— let them have a front row seat.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Barty drawls, reaching for her, trying to grasp her hands in his.

Lily pulls back. “No.”

“It’s fine, I’ve—” Barty sighs. “It’s not a big deal, you’re being—”

“Don’t you dare call me crazy!” Lily shrieks, though his calm demeanor is making her feel a bit crazy. Does he not see how much money that was? “That’s my rent for a year,” she continues, suddenly suffocated by the fabric of his hoodie, the weight she’s been carrying around all day. “Hell, with your little sticky note promises, I’m scared it might be two.”

Barty rolls his eyes. “I’ve got the money, Lily.”

“How?” Lily steps forward, charging into his personal space. “How do you have the money? I mean, fuck! All you do is play in a jazz bar!”

Barty flinches, face rippling with emotion before it goes stoic. “Well, that’s what daddy’s for, sweetheart.”

Lily chokes. She might actually throw up, stomach muscles clenching as her throat convulses.

“He’ll bail me out,” Barty clarifies, rather chuffed with himself. “Guilt pays, at least.”

Lily holds back a gag, sputtering out, “You can’t be serious.” She coughs, the sound wet as she tries to hold back her vomit.

Barty reaches forward, trying to support her.

Lily slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” Her other hand shields her mouth. “You can’t act like he’s your enemy, then let him clean up your messes.”

“Why not?” Barty asks, and to Lily’s horror, the question seems genuine. “You heard what he did, Lily. He killed her. He killed her, and if I have to live with that, he does too.”

“So what? You gambling away his money is some kind of fucked up comeuppance?” Lily spits onto the curb, her mouth tasting of dirty money— maybe that’s why Cissa chews gum.

“I’m saying why not have a little fun?” Barty tries, sliding into his playful voice, the one that reminds Lily of Jack coaxing Rose into the lower levels of the Titanic.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” she asks, a disbelieving laugh cracking through the anger. “Money is different to me. I wasn’t raised like you, jumping between Manhattan highrises, my daddy paying my way through Juilliard. I can’t overtip every driver and hand out dollars to every homeless person. I’m here on a scholarship!” Lily cries, feeling like she’s trying to explain the real world to a child. “My dad drives a lorry! My mum’s a housekeeper! Do you think that’s by choice?”

“I—” Barty starts, but he can’t find words. He stands there, hands slipping into his pockets as he stares at her like he’s seeing her for the first time. The streetlight over their head is almost burnt out, a flickering streak of orange light painting the side of his face, the other half blue and shadowed.

“Christ,” Lily groans, hands moving to pull her hair out of its braid.

“What?”

Lily’s eyes burn, another round of tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know if I can ever see you the same way again.” Her voice breaks, but the tears won’t fall, her vision only gets more and more blurry until Barty’s an impressionistic blob. Dorcas would paint him beautifully. 

“How do I fix this?” Barty asks, suddenly desperate. “I understand, Lily, I do, just tell me what you want me to do. I’m in love with you, I—”

“Be a man,” Lily spits, venomous. “Clean up your own mess—” she twists her way out of his hoodie, chucking it towards him in a heap, watching it land at his feet. “And don’t call me until you do.”

Chapter Text

There’s a buzzing noise from deep within her bag. Lily can feel it vibrating up her leg where she sits, listening and contributing to the final critique before showcase tomorrow. She played well, has taken her feedback to heart, and somehow managed to compartmentalize— falling back into her old habit of separating Life from Juilliard.

The buzzing stops, her phone leading the caller to voicemail.

Severus is up there now, back pin straight where he sits behind the piano, hands folded in his lap as he nods, receiving feedback from each of the students in showcase. His nose is no longer hidden beneath a bandage, but there’s some slight bruising across the bridge, under his eyes— purple and green blotches that make Lily feel a bit sour to look at. They haven’t spoken much, and Lily’s not sure what she should say— Severus isn’t the reason she’s not speaking to Barty. That’s his own doing.

“Miss Evans?” Professor McGonagall prompts, lips a thin line which means it’s her turn to give Severus feedback.

Lily takes a breath. “You’re good, Sev, you know that much,” she says, not afraid to pay him his due, and too resigned to read into what he’ll think of her honesty. “I think I’ll echo what Emmeline said, that you have the technique down, but I’ll add that you should let yourself enjoy it.” Her phone starts buzzing again. “Soak up the moment when you’re up there tomorrow.” Buzz . “You’re talented enough that any of your peers would hire you later on.” Buzz buzz . “So just have fun.”

Severus smiles, that goofy smile that shows too many teeth, and he winces a bit at the movement, letting the smile wilt so as to avoid pressure on his healing nose. “Thanks, Evans.” He rejoins his peers, sitting down in his chair as McGonagall stands, heels clicking as she moves to the center of the room.

Lily’s phone stops buzzing. Another redirect to voicemail.

“You should all feel extremely proud of yourselves,” McGonagall says, pulling her glasses off her nose, folding them in her hands. “This graduating class is a remarkable one, and the ten of you are among the greatest examples. Let yourselves breathe tonight. No practice rooms, no drilling. You will play how you play tomorrow, and that’s that.” She shrugs, and the gesture feels wildly flippant and much too casual for such a momentous occasion, but Lily supposes McGonagall does this every year. It’s only an achievement for them. They’re the ones saying goodbye to their safety net, their musical home of four stressful and wondrous years.

Finals are done. Showcase is tomorrow. In a few days, Lily will walk across the stage in David Geffen Hall. Her phone buzzes again, just a single vibration— a text this time.

McGonagall leaves quickly, avoiding any premature goodbyes— she says they can be sappy tomorrow. Lily gets pulled into a group photo, lifting her cheeks in the smile she uses when she’s onstage. They all pack up their instruments and sheet music, shoulders sagging in relief at the end of their final critique. Someone proposes a pub trip, but the idea gets shot down with the promise of a wild night after showcase tomorrow.

Lily takes her time, allowing herself to stare at the piano at the front of the room, taking in the keys her fingers have shared with so many other musicians. It’s been a nostalgic week for her, walking through each hall for the last time, sitting in her last studio class with each professor. McGonagall said not to drill their pieces this evening, but Lily can’t walk out of Diamond without saying goodbye to practice room nine.

“Looks like we had the same idea,” Severus says, standing outside the door to room nine. There’s someone in there now, the sound of a silken viola running through rep pieces seeping through the closed door. The student looks like a first year, her ID card resting on the piano, a light blue Juilliard lanyard secured to it.

“How long’s it booked for?” Lily asks, peeking through the tiny glass window pane to watch the violist play— fingers flying, eyes squeezed shut.

“Till the building closes,” Severus sighs, and that should be their cue to leave, but neither of them move. They stand there, the overlapping sounds washing over them, overworked freshmen working their fingers to the bone for their last exams this afternoon. It’s a wicked sort of symphony, classical and jazz, chamber music and opera, each room its own bubble of performance.

“I—” Lily starts, glancing over at Severus, eyes flitting back to his bruised nose.

Severus turns to face her, long strands of hair falling into his face. “You don’t have to say anything, Lily. It’s alright.”

“I just—” Lily nods. “Ok.”

The bone of Sev’s nose looks crooked up close, like it’s healed into a new position. A few doors down, a pianist stumbles over the middle section of Clair de Lune , and Lily watches the corner of Sev’s mouth tick up as he tries not to smile.

“Barty—” Severus starts, clears his throat. “Your boyfriend apologized, so thanks for that.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Evans,” he sighs, rolling his eyes in a clear attempt to seem casual. “We both know you put him up to it.”

“I didn’t,” Lily says, letting surprise paint her face— a crack between the barriers of Life and Juilliard. “He—” she swallows, roots of shallow hope pushing into her chest. “He talked to you, then?”

Sev blinks, sea-green irises diminishing as his pupils dilate. “Sent me a text,” he says, and that makes Lily remember the text sitting in her phone, waiting to be opened. Has Barty finally reached out? “I apologized too, for the record,” Severus adds. “I didn’t mean to cause… issues between you two.”

“You didn’t.” Lily shakes her head. “I’m the one who should apologize for that. I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have let things get so far. I wasn’t trying to lead you on.”

“No hard feelings, Lily, really,” Severus says, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t regret first year, but I’m glad we didn’t do anything now.” He pushes his sleek hair behind his ears, one hand coming to wrap around the strap of his satchel— brand new leather. A graduation gift, maybe.

“You’re going to do great things,” Lily says, allowing a genuine smile to slip past, even as an oboe starts screeching in the room behind them. “I’ll be glad to watch you succeed.”

“I’ll be glad to watch you too,” Severus agrees, sending her a nod before walking towards the elevator.

“Sev,” Lily calls, watching him turn over one shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I don’t regret first year either.”

Severus smiles, too wide, and waves. Lily lets herself watch him disappear down the corridor, slipping past elevator doors that slide shut between them. It feels like the first goodbye.

Lily waits until she’s in the plaza of Lincoln Center to pull out her phone, walking down the steps to the sidewalk along Broadway. She scrolls, feet on autopilot towards the red line, and there are two missed calls and a text from— Petunia. Not Barty, then. The roots of hope retreat, and Lily opens the message: Not sure how your boyfriend got my number, but he just called me to apologize. Lily’s pulse quickens. I have a feeling it’s for more than his sour impression on me. I told him to call you.

Lily scrolls through her messages, looking to see if she missed one from Barty, and right when she reaches his contact, her phone starts ringing. She almost lets it fall out of her hands in her scramble to pick up, shoulders brushing with another pedestrian, her heart in her throat, her stomach in her knees.

“Hello?” Lily says, and even the sound of him breathing on the other line is enough to make tears form in her eyes. It’s been too long since she’s heard his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Barty says. “You’re right.”

Lily pulls over on the sidewalk. “I’m right?”

“I’ve been acting like an overconfident jackass,” he says. “I’m going to make things right. With the money, I mean.” A sigh. “I’m not getting my dad involved. You were right, I was trying to punish him for—” He pauses, and Lily can picture the pacing of his feet, the way his hand comes up to ruffle his hair. “It was stupid, and I’m stupid. I don’t want to lose you over something so—”

“Slow down,” Lily urges. She’s so happy to hear his voice. “What are you saying?”

“You said to call when I’ve fixed things,” Barty says. “Tomi and them have been handled, I’ve got it all covered. My dad doesn’t even know.”

Lily could cry. She’s missed Barty like crazy, and to know he was really listening, that he took the time to clean up his mess before calling her…. Well, that makes up for all the silence over the last few days.

“Lily?” he asks, and suddenly her name sounds all wrong.

“What, not Juilliard?” she teases, hoping he can hear the smile in her voice. “You won’t get to call me that much longer, you know.”

Barty exhales, a punched out sigh of relief. “I love you, Juilliard. Let’s talk more after your showcase, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lily agrees, and when they hang up the phone, she feels like she could run a marathon. And why shouldn’t she? Adrenaline pumping, Lily takes off at a sprint, weaving between pigeons and people, letting herself run all the way to Columbus Circle before hopping on the red line.

Cut short enough to avoid clacking on the keys, Lily’s nails are red. A cherry color so deep they could be purple, but she knows they’re red. Red like her lips, painted and precise, her hair pulled back behind her shoulders. She’s wearing all black, a dress that grazes her knees, flowy, yet professional. The greenroom at Paul Hall has been buzzing with energy, the ten seniors selected for McGonagall’s showcase nervous and exhilarated. Lily’s set to play towards the end of the program, so she relaxes into a sofa, posing for Caradoc’s disposable camera next to Emmeline.

“I can’t believe it’s almost over,” Emmeline sighs, pulling strands of hair out of her lipgloss. “Feels like we just got here.”

“It’s been quite the ride.” Lily nods.

Wasn’t it just yesterday she got on a plane to move to New York? She’d never even visited before making the move. It was all so new, so intimidating. She got lost on the subway countless times in those first few months, when now, Lily can navigate most routes with her eyes closed. If her freshman self could see her…  Well, Lily doesn’t know what she would think. She hopes she’d be proud. Lily wants to be proud of herself.

 “I’m trying to leave the nostalgia until we’re actually gone, but it’s not working so well.” Emmeline stretches her fingers, pushing them apart to warm up for her violin. “I feel like every time I walk into a room, my brain says, this is the last time .”

“Lily Evans!” the stage manager calls, leaning in the doorway. “These came for you.”

Lily accepts the bouquet, pink flowers wrapped in brown paper, a cherry red ribbon tied in a looping bow. Warmth spreads through her chest as she opens the card: You’re gonna kill it, Juilliard . It’s not signed, but she knows who sent them— a bunch of peonies. Lily’s mind circles back to one of their more memorable dates.

It was one of the first warmer spring days, and Barty had taken her to explore the flower district. They spent the afternoon window shopping for flowers, Barty asking her all her preferences, not even flinching when she pointed out the best blooms for wedding bouquets. They walked past a window display of fresh pink peonies, and Lily melted, thinking fondly of her father.

“These are my favorite!” Lily had squealed, suppressing the childish urge to press her face against the glass. Peonies had the sweetest smell, and even just looking at them felt like being transported home to Banbury. Her father drove a lorry for a florist, and whenever he had large flower deliveries, he always plucked one peony for each of his girls. Lily had a book in her childhood bedroom where she pressed the flowers to dry.

“Not lilies?” Barty had asked, an amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. They joked about petunias next, continuing their way through the flower market. Lily watched as other men bought flowers for their girlfriends and wives.

“Emmeline Vance!” the stage manager calls, pulling Lily out of her floral induced daydream. “You’re up.”

Emmeline takes a deep breath, places her bow in her right hand, cradles her violin in her left, and follows the stage manager to the wings to open the showcase.

The sound in the greenroom is filtered through a tinny speaker, but Lily still listens to the others play. She doesn’t need to listen to her own pieces in her earbuds anymore— Lily is ready— so she lets herself enjoy the triumph of her classmates, the thunderous applause of faculty and family members. She sits with Remus until he goes onstage to accompany Nymphadora’s vocals, and then she sits with Severus. They don’t say anything. They’ve said it all already.

When Lily’s name gets called, all her nerves sink down from her stomach to her toes, fading to a pleasant tingly sensation in her shoes. There are over two hundred and fifty people in the audience— students and faculty, family and friends, industry professionals— but only one of those people seems to matter now.

Lily has seen Barty play countless times, watching him glisten under the warm lights at Rosie’s, listening as he smashes into keys at Kingsley and Mary’s place. It’s electric, seeing him in his element like that, and it hits Lily now that he’s never seen her play— not really. He’s heard her improv at jam sessions, but that’s music in a moment, poured out in a rush, in a genre she’s only just tapped into. Jazz isn’t what makes Lily tick. Juilliard is Lily in her element.

Applause flickers out, the audience holding their breath as Lily settles behind the keys, fingers outstretched. She rolls her shoulders, takes a breath, and—

The opening notes of Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz No. 1 ring out, Lily’s fingers galloping, pressing into the keys at a rapid pace. Fingers stretch across octaves, the red polish on her nails a visual guide, a map forming where she’s been and where she’s going. It’s furious and ferocious, dynamic and tempestuous. Her body keeps the time, her rushing pulse acting as an internal metronome, her breath guiding the transitions. Notes stack on top of each other, a steady build as the melody rises, her right hand brushing the top notes, her left carving out the bass. It’s a performance, Lily’s hair flipping with the movements of her head, her shoulders curling in as the intensity builds.

Softness floats in, delicate and bruising as the next section forms, and only the sound of a pin dropping could fill the spaces between notes. The audience is in her palm, breathing at her command, moved by her whims. Lily lets the melody pour out like liquid gold, gilded in honey, her foot lifting and pressing into the pedals. A smile creeps up her face, and she thinks of the smirk Barty gets when he plays, all at once understanding his compulsion to grin. 

The pace quickens. Her eyes close, the notes coming at her and from her all at once, a crescendo of music that crashes like a wave on the shore. Fingers climbing, lungs squeezing, a bubble of intensity linking artist and audience.

Lily keeps her eyes shut, listening as the cheering fades, the audience settling down for her original piece, Being This Young .

Lily takes a breath.

Sound is coaxed out of the keys, a pattern of notes lifting into a flourish of ivy and stained glass. Light pours in from a window, milky and pale, the moon bright and pure. Lovers embrace, rain soaking their clothes, sinking into their skin. There’s color, luster and luxury, sticky floors and smokey air. Blood. Separation. Dancing. Bliss and reconnection, roots sinking into soil as something beautiful blossoms, pink petals falling away, blown by the wind.

Lily can feel herself slipping into that space between heaven and earth, a pocket of the universe reserved for artists. Somewhere only rarely visited, somewhere that she knows she’ll be searching to find again for the rest of her life. It’s the best she’s ever played.

The glow of youth is painted onto a canvas, permanently captured, bliss in a bottle. It’s poetry and drugs. It’s electricity, music winding in a cord around her insides, threads tying her fingers to the keys as section by section floods out, sinks into the audience. Liszt was technique and mastery, playing with a rhythm that’s been passed down by centuries, drilled into her fingers since she was a little girl. But playing her own music? It’s blood on ivory, an exposed victory, each note formed from slicing herself open, not fearing the vulnerability of expressionism. It’s art. It’s like Lily can finally breathe, coming up for air amongst the turbulent sea of a symphony etched from only her own two hands.

The final notes ring out, and there’s a glorious moment of pause, a mutual breath as the tension lifts, a suspension of time and space, before the crowd breaks into applause. It’s maddening and loud, and Lily’s hands are shaking even as she folds them in her lap. Her chest rises and falls as she catches her breath, the cheering only growing louder. Lily soaks it in, staring out into the crowd, her eyes blinded by the stage lights. She can just make out the front row, Professor McGonagall seated in the center, one singular eyebrow raised— a golden approval.

It feels like a victory, and Lily wants to laugh and cry all at once. She’s proud of herself. And the thought that Barty is somewhere in the crowd, hidden in the dark, witness to her glory, makes the evening feel like cinema. It’s a perfect moment.

The lobby is chaos, flowers and photos, handshakes and praise. Lily is tingling to find Barty, but this is about her career, so she holds herself back, striding towards McGonagall first, standing with a group of other faculty and several invited industry professionals.

“Professor,” Lily calls, weaving through the dense crowd. “I wanted to thank you,” she says, holding out her hand. “This opportunity— It means the world.”

“There she is,” McGonagall says, speaking over her shoulder at the group assembled around her. She shakes Lily’s hand, her grip firm and steady. McGonagall isn’t one for sentiment. “There are some people who have asked for an introduction,” she says, and that’s enough praise— no compliments needed.

Lily clamps down her giddy smile, accepting congratulations and handshakes, business cards and promises to be in touch soon. Severus does the same, tucking business cards into his breast pocket before veering off into the crowd to embrace an older woman dressed in butter yellow— his Aunt Sarah, maybe. The lobby is full of family and friends, and Lily watches each of her classmates greet their people, their humanity creeping in after their bewitching performances. Caradoc kisses his girlfriend, Emmeline squeezes her sister for a selfie, and Lily knows now’s the time to track down Barty.

“Lils!” Sirius taps her on the shoulder, and she lets him pull her into a hug, the two of them squeezing each other tight. “Remus had to step out for a phone call,” he explains, head nodding towards her group of supporters, each waiting to shower Lily with praise.

“Thanks for being here,” Lily says, allowing Sybill and Peter to sweep her into a photograph, mouths grinning wide.

“Baby, whatever it is, you’ve got it!” Mary says, smacking a kiss onto Lily’s fingertips, lipstick leaving a purple print on her knuckles. “If you need a manager…” she looks over at Kingsley who laughs, echoing her praises of Lily’s performance.

Marlene and Dorcas give her a bouquet, flowers crafted out of thin metallic wire— clearly one of Dorcas’ creations— and they gush over her music. “You’re an artist, Lily,” Dorcas says, and Lily understands now why Barty thought her compliments meant more than others— when an artist sees you, it’s just different.

“Well done,” Regulus says, patting her on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Regulus,” Lily laughs. “Thanks for coming.” Her insides are fluttery, her eyes scanning the lobby for Barty even as she stays still, accepting her compliments.

“This is my roommate, James.” Regulus nods at the man beside him. “He’s never one to pass up on a good show.”

James is a few inches taller than Regulus, his eyes wide behind round glasses. He’s got a subtle red glow to his tanned skin, a flush of exhilaration, a reaction to the crowded lobby, the sweat and sheen. “Your fingers are magic,” he mutters, voice almost reverent. His hair is sheared close to his scalp, and the buzz that remains is bleached so blond it’s almost white.

“Um, wow,” Lily says. “Thank you.” Where is Barty?

“Sorry, I mean—” James clears his throat, flustered. “I loved your composition. So fluid. So meaningful. Really just… wow.” A hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, up into his sheared hair, and his eyes get wider, like he’s realized something. He snatches his hand back, letting it fall to his side.“I’m not usually like this,” he stutters, eyes darting to Regulus. “The hair, I mean. He’s been practicing hair coloring, and I’m the test subject, I suppose.”

“I think it looks alright, James,” Lily says, even though it’s a bit of a lie. James’ features are too dark for bleach.

He grins, quick and crooked, then bites it back when Regulus elbows him.

Lily turns, distracted. “Where’s Barty?”

Sybill squints, eyes creased behind her glasses. “He didn’t sit with us.” She glances at Peter, and they share a look— one of those indecipherable couple-speak types.

“We haven’t seen him either,” Sirius speaks for the rest of them, and even Mary and Kingsley shrug in agreement.

A lap around the lobby yields nothing. Lily checks coat check, though it’s nearly summer, and comes up short. Regulus checks the bathroom. No sign. Maybe he’s waiting outside?

“Lily!” Emmeline finds her on the sidewalk. “We’re all going out! Bring your people!” She nods towards the group of showcase students, their cheerleaders following suit.

“Yeah,” Lily says, searching for Barty on the sidewalk. She can picture his silhouette leaned up against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a streetlamp carving out his features, and yet— Nothing. Her stomach drops. He’d said he’d be here. He sent flowers. There has to be some kind of mistake.

The group starts walking, and Lily gets swept up in the motion, trailing along with her own crowd of supporters as Cardoc leads them down the street. Lily clicks Barty’s contact, and the dial tone pulses in her ear the whole way to the club, call after call going to voicemail. The bouncer at Liquid Luck scans her ID, and Lily shoots off her location to Barty. Surely he got lost in the whirlwind and can meet her here.

There’s a DJ on an elevated platform, gogo dancers on the far end of the bar, head to toe in gold and glitter. The music is a rhythmic pulse, electronic and synth forward, the colored lights matching the steady drumbeat. The dance floor is shoulder to shoulder, and the line for the bar isn’t much different. Lily joins her classmates, angling herself towards the door as a round of shots gets ordered.

“Cheers to no more practice rooms!” Wilkes says, leading the charge in the goal to get absolutely smashed.

Lily gets handed a shot, and while she’s had bad luck with mystery liquids in the past, Severus is in on it, and she doubts he’s taking anything too strong. “Cheers!” she echoes, tapping the glass on the bar top before swallowing the liquor— Pink Whitney. She sets her shot glass on the bar, letting the warmth of the gin slide through her chest.

The door to the club opens, two girls stumbling in, sequins and strappy heels. No Barty.

Kingsley and Mary settle on a pair of barstools, looking for once, out of their element. Regulus gets brought into the Juilliard fold, him and Severus chatting on the outskirts of the bar, hovering near a crowded booth. Sybill drags Peter out onto the dance floor, and Sirius follows after them, Remus’ hands suspiciously absent from his hips— Where is Remus?

Lily checks her phone, scrolling through her messages and checking for voicemails. Barty was in the audience. She knows he was. He just got lost— sidetracked or something. Should she try calling again?

“Everything alright?” It’s James who slides up next to her, leaning on a structural pillar, hand scrubbing at his hair again. The colorful lights turn his bleached buzz into a canvas, fading hues bleeding like a watercolor in the rain.

Lily clicks off her phone screen, ignoring the searing disappointment finding its home in her guts. “Just fine.”

James nods. “Have you been here before?” He’s making small talk, looking down at her, a coy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“James?” Lily asks, another fruitless glance at the door making her mouth taste sour. Where the fuck is Barty?

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna take a shot?” she asks, slipping her phone into her shoulder bag. Barty better be stuck in a subway tunnel with no AC.

“Sure,” James laughs. “Whaddya fancy?”

Barty better be trapped in an elevator.

“Surprise me.”

They end up with tequila, and when James skips his lime, Lily claims it alongside her own, slurping the juices out, licking the mess that drips down her fingers. James swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but Lily doesn’t pay him any mind. She’s too busy tucking the spent limes into a cocktail napkin.

The transition onto the dancefloor is easy, and Lily finds Sirius, both of them partnerless— what is with everyone tonight? She can feel herself smile like Severus does, too wide, letting a tequila induced grin slip across her lips. Barty better be stuck in traffic with the meter running in his cab. The music is loud, and the DJ blends songs into the next seamlessly. A vault track from 1989 plays, and all the girls scream the lyrics, jumping and sweating, the sort of shared euphoria that only comes from growing up as a woman.

Lily isn’t sure who she took her third shot with, or what it was, but she chases it with a cosmopolitan because she’s feeling fancy and wants to swish pink liquid around.  She’s celebrating, right? The lights melt into pink, the whole room tinted rose before it peels into an acid green. The three shots she’s downed churn under the cosmo she’s pouring on top, and Lily thinks if Barty were here, his hands would be squeezing her waist by now. She has to pee.

There’s graffiti in the bathroom, but it’s a single stall which helps avoid any obligatory bathroom small talk. Her lipstick is buried at the bottom of her purse, so she digs past receipts and apartment keys to find the tube of ruby red. Someone knocks at the door, and Lily scoffs, taking her time as she reapplies her lipstick and pushes her hair behind her ears. She’s flushed, cheeks rosy and— there’s more knocking.

“Just a second!” She washes her hands, holding them under the air dryer until the knocking starts again. There’s quite a line that’s formed, and Lily thinks maybe she’s hit the type of drunk where time moves at a warp speed. She should have some water.

Sirius is at the bar, face wrinkled in concern as he listens to Remus, the two of them leaning close to be heard over the music.

Lily smiles, slipping past groups of people to embrace Remus from behind. “Lupin!”

Remus turns, peeling her hands off his shoulders.

“Where have you been?” Lily sways, and she feels Remus’ hands squeeze hers tighter to keep her upright. Sirius darts out a hand too, catching her at the waist. “No matter, you’re here now.”

“Lil—”

“Did you see I got a McGonagall eyebrow?” she whispers, eyes flitting between Remus and Sirius, whose brows are knit together. He must be confused, so Lily rushes to explain, “She only does that when a piece is really very good. It’s rare, which means she thinks I’m really very good. And don’t say I said so, but I think so too. I played tonight and it felt like—” She hiccups, sliding her hands free from Remus’ to tuck strands of hair behind her ears. “It felt really very good, I suppose, is what I mean. Sorry, am I being annoying? You can tell me and I’ll shut up.” Suddenly the downturn of Remus’ mouth strikes her as funny. “Should we take a shot?” She scans the bar, thinking maybe she could do tequila again. Maybe they should grab James. He might let her have his lime like last time.

“Lily,” Remus says, shooting a glance at Sirius. “Have you— Did Barty talk to you at all today?”

Lily frowns, her chest lifting in another hiccup. “He sent me flowers.” Hiccup. “Peonies.” Hiccup . She wants to hold her breath. Or drink some water upside down. Maybe there’s a paper bag she can breathe into.

“Rem,” Sirius starts, voice soft and slow. “Maybe we should go outside.”

Remus nods. “Come on, Lils. It’s too loud in here.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” She spins around, looking at the doors on instinct. “Where is he?”

“Lily,” Remus sighs, her name a rough exhale, his shoulders sagging. “Let’s go outside.”

“No, no, no,” Lily mumbles, thinking of the last time Barty disappeared without a phone call. “He was at showcase. Tell me he was there.” It’s a plea, a last attempt at pulling on a thread that’s already unraveled.

“Barty got arrested,” Remus whispers, eyes squeezing shut like he can’t bear to see her reaction.

The world doesn’t go quiet. There’s no shifting on its axis. People keep dancing and drinking, and the music continues its pulsing, a steady undercurrent to the way everyone else seems to carry on.

“What?” she says, flat and thin— not a whisper, not a shout. Part of her is outraged, but an even deeper part— buried under peonies and liquor— is not even surprised. Fuck. Lily wishes she could let herself be shocked.

Remus doesn’t speak. He can barely look her in the eyes.

“It was a drop,” Sirius speaks for him, the lines of his face smoothening— he can be the impartial party here. He’s not Barty’s roommate or girlfriend. “He— Well, Rem didn’t get the whole story, but it was drugs, or money, or both, maybe.”

“But he’s alright,” Remus adds, eyes opening. “He’s not hurt. He called me as soon as they let him have a phone.”

Lily feels her heart drop like a stone. “Why didn’t he call me?” Her voice is shaky, her hiccups threatening to crawl back up her throat. “Why didn’t he—”

“He didn’t want to ruin your showcase.”

“Well, at least he thought of that,” Lily scoffs. She really could do another shot, but Barty’s decided for her that she has to be the responsible one this evening, so she tides herself over with a lime slice, sucking it into her mouth, letting the acid sting her tongue. “Let’s go.” She doesn’t wait for a reply, trusting them to follow as she squeezes out of Liquid Luck onto the sidewalk.

There’s a line now, and the bouncers aren’t even scanning IDs, just letting high schoolers get away with fakes. The music fades when the door swings shut, but Lily can feel its ghost thrumming in her ribcage, shaking her bones.

“So,” Remus says, standing on the curb while Sirius dials a number, stepping away to make a call. “Should we call his dad?”

Lily’s jaw drops. “No way.”

“Well, what else do we do, Lily?” Remus is panicking, hands tugging at his hair as his chest rises and rises and rises, his breath hitching. “Fuck.”

“We go get him!” Lily decides, her slice of lime between her fingers, sucked dry and sticky. “We— He’s got a bail, yeah?”

Sirius hangs up the phone. “Kreacher’s a few blocks out. Car’ll be here soon.” He slides closer to Remus, a palm coming to rest at the back of his neck, Sirius’ fingers soothing the shaking of his body. “I’m assuming it’s a first offense?”

Remus nods, stilted. “Yeah. He said we can bail him out, which is why I said we should call his dad.”

“We’re not calling his dad,” Lily spits, harsh the way Barty’s made her. “I’ll pay for it.”

“Criminal possession,” the officer says, looking bored behind plexiglass. The lights are fluorescent and buzzing, the room cold from blasting AC. “Looks like he was found with a few grams and some cash. The judge says there’s suspicion of intent to distribute, so bail’s set at a thousand.”

Lily swallows. “A thousand?”

“You wanna post bail or not?”

“Just—” Fuck. “Can you give me a moment?” She pulls away from the window, finding Sirius and Remus hovering at the edges of the lobby. It’s half empty, strangers waiting, fading to sleep on plastic bench seats. There’s a vending machine in the corner, and a man shaking its sides to release a stuck candy bar. It’s all so mundane, so like a hospital, that Lily finds herself growing more antsy.

Remus stops his pacing, and Sirius looks up from a text thread on his phone— Lily can just make out the name Regulus upside down at the top of the screen. 

“What’d they say?” Remus asks, eyes reddened from emotion, residual smoke from the club.

“It’s—” Lily digs her phone out of her purse. “I’ve just gotta check my account and—”

“How much is it?” Sirius asks, clicking his phone screen to black.

“Thousand.” Lily winces, scrolling to her bank app. Maybe Sybill can cover electric this month.

“Lily, you can’t pay that,” Remus says, stricken. “I really think we ought to call his dad. Look, I know he’s—”

“No, you don’t know!” Lily nearly stomps her foot. Her makeup is running from sweat, her fingers are sticky from alcohol. She’s sobering, but there’s still a buzz at the edges of her mind, messing with her sense of time and space, and yet— none of the night staff or strangers have spared her a glance. That’s the thing about New York. There’s always someone crazier. “His dad is the whole reason he’s in this mess.”

“Well, Barty probably has the money himself,” Remus says. “If we call his dad then maybe he can wire—”

“Stop,” Lily shoves Remus away, pushing him back even though he’s not even tried to console her. “Barty would kill me if I called his dad, I know that much.”

“I can cover it,” Sirius says, already fishing his wallet out of his jacket pocket.

“Sirius,” Remus mutters, but it’s half-baked.

“Barty can pay me back,” Sirius says, edging his way over to the plexiglass window. “But it won’t break my bank while I wait. It’s alright, Rem.”

“Thank you,” Remus whispers, and he reaches out a hand to pull Sirius’ to his mouth, planting a featherlight kiss to his fingers.

Lily sighs, relief flooding her with Sirius here to help with logistics even as something else in her begins to feel bitter at seeing how good he is to Remus. They put her name down to pick him up, but the payment comes from Sirius’ black card. Remus coaxes the vending machine shaker to weasel out an extra candy bar, and the three of them sit on the plastic bench seats until Barty can be processed. It’s a long wait, but they don’t say anything. What is there to say?

Lily sips water from a styrofoam cup, feeling herself slide into sobriety. It’s nearing four am before someone says Barty’ll be out soon.

She turns to face the others, and Remus blinks groggily from where he’s fallen asleep on Sirius’ shoulder. “Would you two mind waiting outside?”

Remus is too tired to protest, and Sirius looks like he understands, so there’s no argument as they see themselves out. “If you need us we’ll be in the car. Kreacher can circle the block until you’re done,” Sirius says, his hand a weight of comfort on Lily’s shoulder.

She sits for a few more minutes, picking at the cherry red nail polish on her fingers. How is it that she was onstage just a few hours ago?

A sharp buzzing sound makes her look up as Barty’s shuffled out into the lobby from a secured door. He’s missing his shoelaces, and he’s grasping a clear plastic bag, his wallet and keys and phone tucked away with any other pocket contents they saw fit to confiscate. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal a stamp of ink on one wrist— numbers so unassuming, they could blend into the rest of his tattoos, if Lily hadn’t mapped them with her mouth countless times by now. He’s squinting at the overhead lights, like he hasn’t blinked properly in hours. A hand comes up to rub at his temple, so he must have a headache.

Lily doesn’t have a headache. Her eyes aren’t blurry, and she can breathe just fine. Looking at Barty feels sobering, the last dregs of alcohol simmering out of her bloodstream until all she can feel is resigned.

Barty doesn’t seem to agree. He looks rabid, his mouth red and bitten, his fingers fidgeting. His eyes scan the lobby twice before he finally zeroes in on her. “I—”

“Outside,” is all Lily can manage, not wanting to cause a scene in front of the officers, lest they change their minds and drag him back into holding. The air outside is muggier than the sterile lobby, and the streets smell of trash, eery and empty. She marches to the corner, listening to Barty’s trailing footsteps.

“How—” Barty coughs. “How was your showcase, sweetheart?” He pulls his shoelaces out of the plastic bag, leaning on the post of a no parking sign to weave them back into his shoes.

“Really good, actually,” Lily says, arms crossed over her chest. “Professor McGonagall loved it. People were scouting me in the lobby. My classmates were impressed. It’s the best I’ve ever played.”

“That’s—” Barty swallows, eyes blinking away at the glaze that’s formed. “That’s amazing, baby.”

“It should’ve been,” Lily says, quiet and fragile. “It would’ve been, if you were there.”

Barty bites his lip, a punched out sigh exhaled from his nose. He laces up his shoe, moving to do the other one. A siren wails. Red and blue lights flood the block as another car pulls up to the building behind them.

“What the hell, Barty?” Lily asks, his silence making her blood simmer. “When I said to clean up your mess, I didn’t mean like this. Why call Remus— why not me?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your showcase.” Barty straightens, one shoe still half-laced. “I didn’t want to make this— me— your problem.”

“My problem?” Lily huffs. He just doesn’t get it. Does Barty honestly think calling Lily would’ve made this any worse?

“Fuck, Lily,” Barty whines, hands scrubbing through his hair. “How much did you pay to get me out?”

“What?”

“How much?” he presses, eyes wild.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because!” He’s yelling now, voice echoing off the sides of buildings. “I shouldn’t need my girlfriend to save me!”

“That’s what being in a relationship is!” Lily matches his volume, not afraid to scream. “It’s showing up for each other! Which you would know if you bothered to show up for me tonight!”

“Lily.” He reaches for her, hand coming to cradle her face.

“No.” Lily pulls back. “You knew how important tonight was. Do you know how it felt to walk into the lobby and find you weren’t there? To see everyone else celebrating, and know that the one person who mattered most didn’t even bother to show up?”

“God, Lily,” Barty sighs. “Can you just tell me how much you paid?”

“Do you even hear yourself?” She’s fuming now, hysterical and wicked and wild. “You let me down tonight, Barty! I don’t even have the capacity to understand why you would do something like this. Why wouldn’t you just tell me you needed help?”

“It’s humiliating!” Barty shouts, leaping to a pace, tripping over his shoelace. “It’s fucking humiliating! I should be taking care of things. I was trying to take care of things.”

“Oh, so running drugs for Tomi is taking care of things?”

“He was gonna wipe my debt clean, Lily! I wouldn’t expect you to understand this shit. I’m the man here, so can you stop trying to make me into a child?” And though she’s never met him, that has Crouch Senior written all over it.

“Oh, fuck you!” Lily can see Sirius’ driver at the other end of the street, a black car stopped behind a light as it circles the block.

“I just—” Barty croaks, voice wet with emotion. “I just didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“That’s the problem, Barty,” Lily says, eyes blurring with tears. “You never wanted me to see you at all. You wanted me to see Barty Crouch Jr. The jazz pianist. The fun guy. The carefree fuckboy turned loyal.” Her heart rate is pulsing in her ears. The car gets closer. “You wanted me to see some perfect man.”

“I wanted to be perfect,” Barty nods, tears slipping past his long black eyelashes as he reaches for her. “I wanted to be perfect for you.” His voice turns sweet, his lips pouting and beautiful. “I can be perfect for you, I know I can.”

“That’s the problem.” Lily reaches out, her hand cradling his face. There’s a bruise blooming under his eye. “I never wanted perfect. I just wanted you.”

The car pulls up, and Lily lets her thumb slide from Barty’s cheek across his lips, mapping him out. Barty’s crying, tears streaming down his face, the glow of the headlights making them into little drops of gold. Lily’s crying too, and the pair of them don’t stop even as they slide into the car.

Chapter Text

They take space. Lily walks across the stage and gets her diploma. She auditions for three different orchestras, all invited by people who saw her play at showcase. She and Sybill re-sign their lease, deciding to stick it out in the city for another year.

When Barty texts her, it’s an invitation to talk— a bakery pinned to maps, the same one they went to on their first date. Lily’s not sure if the location was meant to be poetic, or if Barty just doesn’t remember its significance. She isn’t sure why she agrees to go, or what it is she wants out of this conversation, but she figures seeing him might help her figure it out. He’s sitting in a booth by the window, a ceramic coffee cup and a plate of apple pie in front of him. Maybe it isn’t too late to save things. 

She doesn’t sit with him until she’s got a plate of blueberry cheesecake to set down in front of her— the clink of glass making him glance up. “You look good,” she says, because he does.

Barty always looks good. He’s pretty, and for once, it’s not because he’s tragic. His cheeks have filled out, his eyes missing the ring of purple Lily didn’t even realize she had gotten used to. He’s wearing a T-shirt, and it’s odd to see him without a polished button down, the ink on his arms on full display even past where his shirt would typically be rolled up to his elbows.

“They’ve dropped the charges,” Barty says, skipping past pleasantries, dragging Lily’s eyes away from his arms to stare at his honey eyes. “I’ve avoided a trial, with it being my first offense and all. I had a good lawyer.”

“Oh.” Lily presses her fork into a blueberry, watching it burst open. “How’d you swing that?”

Barty sighs, shoulders dropping. “I called my dad.” He tells her because it’s the truth, and not because he’s trying to preserve her image of him, and that alone is enough to earn him back a shred of respect.

Lily can’t say she’d do the same— there’s no way to ever really know— but the thing is, she understands why Barty did it. She can’t even be mad at him for it. It doesn’t make him right, but it makes him real, and isn’t that what she said she wanted?

“I thought you might’ve,” she admits, forcing down a bite of cheesecake. She’s expecting the crust to be gritty, like sand paper, but it’s smooth and sweet. It tastes too good for the moment they’re in.

Barty doesn’t try to explain himself. He just pushes his plate towards her, a silent offer of his pie crust. He’s already eaten the apple filling.

Lily thinks it ought to be raining, but it’s dry. Bright and sunny. Sundresses and sandals pass by out the window, not an umbrella in sight. There’s not even residual gutter water for cars to splash as they whiz past, pedestrians scurrying between them, summertime tourists. It’s a beautiful day.

“I’m staying in New York,” Lily says, stabbing her fork into Barty’s pie crust, pushing her smushed cheesecake over for him to claim.

He takes a bite, then licks his lips, humming, “I didn’t know you leaving was an option.”

“I suppose it wasn’t,” she says, “even if my sister thought otherwise.”

“How is Petunia?” Barty asks, not looking up at her.

“She never liked you,” Lily whispers, holding in a snort of laughter at the memory of her sister’s pinched expression, their fight in a booth at Margaritaville. She never did talk to Barty about that. And shouldn’t she have?  Isn’t that the sort of thing people discuss with their partners? How many things did she just never think to bring up?

“And did you?” he asks, tongue darting out to clean the prongs of his fork. “Like me, I mean?” The question comes out frighteningly earnest, and all at once he looks like that little boy who discovered piano through ballet classes, that sixteen-year-old forced to move in with his estranged father, the eighteen-year-old who lost his mother.

Lily reaches out across the table, her hand settling atop his as she tries to transfer all the comfort he should’ve been given when those things happened. “I’ll always like you, Barty.”

He smiles, all pursed lips and glassy eyes. Lily doesn’t mention the crumb on the side of his mouth, and— That’s it. It’s that small thing that makes this moment settle into her bones. Just a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated to reach out and clear it herself, maybe even playfully licking her fingers afterwards. Now, she waits, watching until he grabs a napkin after another bite of her cheesecake, his mouth tinted purple from cooked blueberries.

There is no great big ending. They don’t scream, or fight, or forgive each other. Barty doesn’t apologize, and Lily doesn’t beg for it. They’re just people, living parallel experiences, lines of life that intertwined, all knotted and messy, before splitting off in different directions again. There’s no going back to untangle the knots, and, if given the choice, she doesn’t think she could even stomach cutting the strings.

It’s jarring, after all the lasts she’s cataloged at Juilliard. Every class, studio, hallway, and professor was given a grand goodbye, each last known before it happened— savoured in preemptive nostalgia. With Barty, all their lasts happened without her even knowing it. She’ll never go to Rosie’s one last time, or kiss him one last time, or allow herself to be held one last time. They never danced one last time, and they never said I love you one last time. Lily can’t even remember the last time she heard Barty play piano.

She thinks about their song, the one they composed in a moment together, an improved piece they formed as a duet back before they were even together. It’s a faded memory, and it hits Lily now that she can’t even remember how it started, the melody impossible to recall. She remembers thinking that their song was special because it could never be repeated, and maybe it can’t be remembered either.

Their plates are clear now, and Barty’s drank his entire cup of coffee. There’s no reason for them to stay, but they sit there anyway, talking about this and that— Remus moving out of his place with Barty, Peter’s jams making their way into a farmer’s market booth. They sit there until the owner clears their plates, a subtle clue-in that the bakery is closing.

Lily’s fingers squeeze Barty’s, her hand still resting atop his. “Goodbye, Barty,” she says, soft and quiet, and so much more than just those two words.

He pulls her fingers to his lips, kissing her hand before letting her go.

“I swear, my ears are going to pop,” Lily says, hiking a cardboard box higher up to rest on her hip. “How high up are we going?”

The ding of the elevator answers her question, Remus leading them out onto the seventeenth floor. There are sconces on the walls, amber light emanating from them, and each door has a little gold plaque on it with the unit number. The lobby had been plush, a velvet seated reception area, and a doorman that greeted them with a bellowed, Mister Lupin , and then made Remus’ jaw drop when he added, Miss Evans , because it turns out that Sirius lives in the building Lily used to sneak onto the roof of. She supposes she won’t have to pretend her uncle lives here anymore, at least.

Upper East Side life seems to agree with her friend, and Remus nods and smiles at other tenants that they pass on the way down the hall. The door to the corner unit is cracked, and music pours out into the hall, so Lily’s not surprised when Remus ushers her inside.

“—hurry up!” Sirius’ voice is yelling from the bedroom. A slight crashing noise follows, the sounds of frantic fumbling with what must be books and knick-knacks.

“You should’ve done this already,” Regulus drawls in return, his voice lazy and bored. “You’re telling me he didn’t already have a drawer?”

“He deserves more than a drawer!” Sirius wails, and Regulus laughs.

Remus’ eyes crinkle in amusement. “I told him to clear out my half of the closet space weeks ago.”

“But then where would he store his seasonal wardrobes?” Lily teases, placing the cardboard box labeled kitchen onto a granite counter top.

The apartment is gorgeous, broad windows and wooden floors, and it looks like Sirius has taken the whole fifty-fifty thing to heart— half the kitchen cabinets are open and empty, half the decor has been pulled down off the living room walls, and if Lily’s to guess, half the bedroom is being torn down right now.

Regulus comes out of the bedroom, two black trash bags in his hands. “Sirius are you sure you—”

“Just do it!” Sirius cuts him off, covering his eyes with his fingers even as he storms out of the bedroom. He stumbles on a moving box, and Remus catches him by the elbows. “Oh, Rem, hi,” Sirius stammers, face flushing in embarrassment.

“Hi,” Remus chuckles, hand sliding up to rest at the back of Sirius’ neck, fingers pressing to relieve the knots there. “What, pray tell, are we throwing out?” he asks, adoration dancing through his eyebrows.

“His entire winter wardrobe,” Regulus mutters, eyes rolling in a way that Lily knows is secretly fond. She settles herself onto a barstool— chin resting in her palms, her elbows on the high counter— to watch.

“Reg!” Sirius grits his teeth, sending his brother a glare that could cut across a crowded room and still send a prickle up the target’s neck.

It makes Lily pull out her phone to text Petunia, finally replying to the string of photos her sister’s sent from Germany. Petunia met a man, Vernon, on her cruise, and the pair of them are thick as thieves. She’s so smitten that she decided to continue traveling with him once they docked back in London, and Vernon’s been stringing her along Europe all summer. In the pictures, Petunia is laughing, lips pulled back from her stein of beer into a goofy smile, and Lily’s never seen her sister look goofy before, so she supposes Vernon must be a good influence on her.

“Regulus,” Remus says, and Regulus takes the unfinished instruction, turning towards the bedroom, hauling trash bags full of coats and scarves.

“It’s a hundred degrees out,” Sirius insists, “I won’t need them.”

Regulus turns around again, headed for the door.

“We’re not throwing away your winter clothes just because it’s summer now, baby,” Remus argues.

Regulus sighs, drops the trash bags on the floor, and lets the couple duke it out as he plops down onto the stool beside Lily. “If these two ever break up,” he says, sarcastic, “I’m taking Remus’ side.”

Lily giggles, her chest feeling lighter than it has all summer. Things have had a sort of flatness to them ever since Barty. She misses the sheen that New York summers have in her memory, but she supposes the color will seep back in eventually. For now, she has to keep her promise to Sybill and stay busy, hence, the whole helping Remus move thing. 

“Deal,” she agrees with Regulus, though she knows it’s a lie. Remus has been her beacon through her own breakup, and she knows she’d have to do all she could to emulate that if the worst ever happened with Sirius. Secretly, though, she thinks the only way Remus stops being Sirius’ boyfriend is when she starts being his husband.

“I mean honestly,” Regulus continues, picking up a stray packing peanut, “the last time Sirius had a breakup is the first time I bleached hair.” His eyes light up at the memory of what must have a been a truly terrible dye job. “He’s made me promise to never let him go flamingo pink ever again.”

The notion of a hot pink Sirius Black is a ghastly one, but it’s enough to give her an idea. “Regulus?” she asks, sweeping strands of long auburn hair over her shoulders— hair that Barty loved to twist and pull. “What do you think about me getting a hair cut?”

Regulus’ eyes light up, and that evening, after they’ve finished hauling boxes, and left Remus and Sirius to christen their newly shared living space, Lily finds herself at Regulus’ place, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. He sprays her hair with water, fingers sliding through the curls, unknotting the worst tangles before coaxing her head to lay back in a sink that’s tinted by layers of washed down hair dye. As he scrubs shampoo into her scalp, Lily thinks of the blue dye in the sink, wondering if James’ hair is still dipped in aquamarine, or if it’s been buzzed and bleached again since then. She decides to ask about it, and Regulus’ lips twist into a smirk.

“He’s a regular Smurf,” he confirms, and as he lets a deep conditioner set in her hair, Regulus flicks through his camera roll, showing Lily unsolicited photos of James with various dye jobs. They joke about what color Regulus could do next, and it becomes a joint conspiracy to see how long James lets Regulus dye his hair, since he’s already gotten his license for color.

The conditioner gets rinsed out, and Regulus’ deft fingers rake through her wet hair, pulling strands this way and that to decide the length. He’s not chatty like most hairdressers. Instead, Regulus stays quiet, hums of focus slipping past his lips as he sections her hair with clips. His hands feel soothing, scissors snipping at the hair between his fingers, and he moves on instinct, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he creates and moulds hair into his own work of art. Lily thinks he may have found the zone, that pocket of space for artists to shape their work in.

 It’s meditative, the snipping sound of scissors trimming her length to her shoulders, and she gets a bit choked up staring at her reflection, the weight of the girl she was falling to the bathroom floor in locks of auburn waves. Tears prickle at her eyes, and she surprises even herself when she urges Regulus to go shorter, reveling in the lightness as he cuts it above her shoulders.

When he’s done, Lily can’t decide if she wants to cry or smile. It looks good. It looks like the new her, but that just reminds her of the version of herself she’s leaving behind. She liked being Juilliard. She liked being that version of Lily— Barty’s Lily. A girlfriend. But something tells her— something small and sparkling and buried deep under her ribs— that she’s going to like being this version of Lily even more.

“You needed that,” Regulus decides, admiring his work, fluffing her now dry bob as their eyes meet through their reflections in the bathroom mirror.

“I did,” she agrees, standing to wrap Regulus in a hug. He’s stiff at first, his arms hovering as he catches up to the moment, but when he returns the embrace, Lily feels herself sigh. She thanks Regulus for the transformation, insisting she pay him next time, and he only laughs in response.

The street outside is humid and steamy, the sun setting in the gaps between buildings. Lily slips headphones into her ears, pressing play on a new playlist— no classical, no jazz, just the canned pop music all girls in their twenties blast after a breakup. She feels lighter, her hair tickling her chin as sweat makes it stick to her face.

In a shop window, she catches sight of herself— tousled hair, rosy cheeks, a bright squint to her eyes from the heat. She doesn’t recognize herself.

Maybe one day she’ll look back at everything with a pair of rose-colored glasses, see these moments as blips in time, no different than the void of a practice room, or the stark spotlight of performance. She’s not sure if memory will make things sweeter, the syrup of nostalgia coating the brittle reality of lost love, or if she’ll grow to resent her choices, the people that hurt her, and the ways she hurt herself. Maybe she won’t remember much at all, and Barty Crouch Junior will be some name that meant something once— a boy who knew her, that she never really knew in return.

She walks until her playlist runs out, then starts it over, letting music mix with sweat, the summer heat and city noise softening her into just another someone in the crowd.

Chapter Text

Eight years later.

Summer in New York City never gets cooler. Barty’s lived here all his life, and still the sewage baked heat of a humid subway station manages to surprise him. His train is delayed, the minutes ticking by as bodies press closer to the edge of the platform, people smelling of sweat and sunscreen and something else that’s just the city. Maybe he ought to call the studio, let them send in a substitute or tell the instructor to use a track until he gets there. He supposes that would be the responsible choice to make, but at this point he’s only cutting it close, so he decides to risk it.

Wind picks up from the tunnel, a warm wafting breeze that means the train’s approaching. The doors slide open, and people shove themselves inside the packed train cars, not leaving much room for those who have to exit. Barty slides in just before the doors close, jostling someone and the tote bag swung over their shoulders.

He looks up to apologize, glimpsing green eyes and auburn curls, a smile tucked into the corners of her mouth. “Juilliard?” he can’t help but whisper, wishing he was less sticky from waiting in on the platform for so long.

Lily squints at him, features scrunching as her mind searches for old memories and melodies. She looks older, her lips lined in red, her cheeks dusted with pink. There’s a softness to her, a lightness to her shoulders, a crinkle on the outskirts of her eyes. It’s like meeting her all over again, a crowded bar, a smokey stir to the air. Then she smiles, lips pulled back in a way that makes her eyes sparkle. “Hi,” she says, a surprised laugh filling out her voice. She sounds different, smoother and steadier.

Barty’s surprised too. Since their breakup, he hasn’t ever managed to run into her once— despite his efforts for the first half of the years since then. “How’ve you been? How are you?” he asks, thrown. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he wraps one around a subway pole and slides the other into his pocket. It’s not like he doesn’t know what her life’s become— it’d be hard to miss her name on the posters hung around subways and advertisement boards, more and more with each passing year. Evans and Potter, composer/lyricist duo.

“Good,” she nods, pushing a strand of hair behind her ears. She’s a bit frazzled, flyaways sticking to her forehead. “Real good.”

“That’s good,” he says, unsure what else to say. “You’re writing plays now?”

“Musicals.”

“Right.” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s not sure how much to say he knows. How much she knows about him in return. Perhaps she thinks he’s still showboating at Rosie’s every night of the week. Though maybe, and part of him aches to think so, she’s not thought of him at all. “Evans and Potter, I’ve seen your name all over,” he says.

“Potter and Potter,” she corrects. “I’m— We’re married.” It’s almost a laugh, the absurdity of delivering this news on a crowded train car. There’s a platinum wedding band wrapped around her ring finger, a diamond at the center. “Just last spring.”

Barty blinks. The train jostles them, turning through a twist in the tunnel. “Wow,” he coughs. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She frowns, just a slight downturn of lips, and it doesn’t reach her eyes— a sympathy frown, then. “It was a small wedding,” she adds, and they both know it’s a roundabout explanation for why Barty hasn’t heard about it. Why Remus never told him— though he supposes it’s been ages since they last spoke anyhow.

“Working on a new one, then?” He changes the subject. “Another musical?”

The frown flips into a smile. “We’re going up at Paper Mill next weekend,” she confirms. “This one’s on a pre-broadway track.” It’s nice how her shoulders straighten when she shares her success, and so much different than the doubtful girl he knew back then.

“I always knew you were a writer,” Barty says, and he takes this moment to watch her, cataloging this moment to remember all the details better than he did the first time. Her eyelashes are pale and velvety, the rise of her eyebrows sharp and sophisticated. There’s a dark maroon polish on her fingernails, and a three ring binder poking out of the bag on her shoulder. Lily is colorful, bright like a sunset, and—

The train stops, the doors sliding open.

“This is my stop,” Lily says, and she steps out onto the platform of Herald Square, disappearing with the crowd, making him doubt if he ever saw her at all.

Barty gets jolted forward, riding the train two more stops before exiting in the West Village. It’s hotter on the street than in the subway, and he finds himself hoping the studio’s fixed the air conditioning unit so it does more than blow warm air around. It smells like shoes and antiperspirant, and overlapping music trickles out into the hall.

He’s right on time, sliding behind the piano just as the dancers settle at their barres, crushed rosin dusting the floor, stiff pointe shoes clunking against strips of marley. Fingers find keys, and Barty plays.