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The boys had been turned away from six pubs.
Six.
Every one of them was packed shoulder to shoulder with shouting supporters draped in red and white scarves, tankards already sloshing over as the wireless crackled with pre-match analysis. Every doorway had a queue spilling onto the cobblestones. Every window glowed with the promise of a seat that had long since been claimed.
Peter emerged from the latest pub looking thoroughly defeated and exhausted.
"Let's just go back to my place and listen on the wireless," he groaned. "I'm tired of walking."
"Nonsense, Wormtail!" James declared. "This is the World Cup! England hasn't made it this far in nearly fifty years. History is happening tonight. We're supposed to experience it with other people."
"Preferably, people already drunk," Sirius added.
Peter threw his hands into the air. "You three are exhausting."
Remus blinked. "Three of us?" he asked. "I'm not the one insisting we keep marching around Diagon Alley."
"You encouraged him," Peter accused.
"I said, 'I'm sure we'll find somewhere,'" Remus replied.
"Exactly!" Peter pointed triumphantly. "Encouragement."
Sirius slipped an arm around James's shoulders and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"One more place, Prongs," he murmured. "I don't think Peter or Remus can survive another rejection. And, if I'm honest, I'm becoming increasingly distressed by the fact that I don't currently have a pint in my hand."
James eyed him suspiciously. "One more?"
"One more. If it doesn't work out, we retreat."
Peter perked up immediately. "Really?"
"Yes," Sirius said. "But I refuse to go to your place. I am not spending the biggest Quidditch match of our lives listening to commentary while your mum knits cardigans in the corner and asks us every fifteen minutes if we'd like another biscuit."
"My mum is very hospitable."
"Your mum is lovely," Sirius agreed. "Which is precisely the problem. I don't want to have to mind my language every time England misses a goal."
"So where do we go?"
"My flat," Sirius said. "Assuming James can't find us a pub."
James had already stopped listening. His eyes swept up and down the street.
Every tavern had a queue winding out the door. Every bar was overflowing. Every pub looked just as hopeless as the last.
Then, tucked between an apothecary and a florist, he noticed a little shop none of them had ever paid attention to before.
A painted sign swung gently in the evening breeze.
La Vie en Rose.
Window boxes overflowed with pink flowers.
Beyond the glass sat velvet armchairs, tiny marble tables, polished brass lamps, and enough candles to illuminate a cathedral. Tiny golden fairies no bigger than hummingbirds flitted through the flower arrangements, dusting the petals with shimmering pollen.
James frowned. "I don't think that's a pub..." He leaned closer to the window. "...but people are definitely drinking."
Remus followed his gaze. "There are four empty seats in the corner."
Sure enough, beneath a wall covered with enchanted photographs of springtime Paris sat a little table that looked as though it had been waiting specifically for them.
Sirius grinned.
"This'll do."
Peter stared through the window.
"It looks like my grandmother decorated it."
"Which explains why there are four empty seats," Sirius said.
"We're going to be the only men in there."
Sirius clapped him firmly on the back. "And yet, against all odds, I believe we'll survive."
James hesitated only a moment before pushing open the door. A little brass bell chimed overhead.
Every conversation in the room stopped.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward the four young men standing awkwardly in the doorway, three of them wearing England scarves and expressions that suggested they had taken a very wrong turn.
Peter whispered, "I think we've wandered into a hen party."
Sirius straightened his jacket. "Nonsense...Though I will admit we are bringing the average beard count up considerably."
The hostess seated them beneath a canopy of hanging roses.
Everything was pink.
Pink cushions. Pink curtains. Pink candles.
Even the sugar cubes were pink.
Peter looked deeply uncomfortable. "I feel a headache coming on."
A witch appeared beside the table, carrying four menus.
She had vivid green eyes, dark red hair twisted into a loose bun, and the sort of effortless smile that made James momentarily forget why they'd come.
"What can I get you, gentlemen?" She asked
"Four pints," Sirius said immediately.
"I'm afraid we only serve wine."
The four boys blinked.
"You don't have beer?" James asked.
"No."
"Cider?"
She smiled. "No."
"Whisky?"
"No."
Peter looked ready to cry.
Sirius recovered first.
"Fine." He straightened importantly. "Bring us a bottle of whatever your favourite is."
The witch laughed. "My favourite?"
Sirius shrugged, "You seem trustworthy."
She disappeared and returned moments later with a bottle and four glasses. It was pink and bubbly and labeled “Ermengarde’s Elf Made Rosé”.
James took an experimental sip. "...That's actually rather good."
Within half an hour they had gone through the bottle. Then another arrived.
Whether Sirius had ordered it or the waitress had simply taken pity on them, none of them were entirely sure.
The atmosphere was strangely pleasant.
Instead of roaring crowds and sticky floors, there was soft jazz drifting from the wireless, candlelight flickering against bottles lining the shelves, and groups of witches chatting over cheese boards.
Sirius attempted to swirl his wine like an aristocrat before accidentally sloshing it onto James's sleeve. Everytime he went to order more wine, the wine list politely rearranged itself when Sirius reached for the cheapest bottle, nudging the expensive vintages back to the top.
Remus discovered he quite liked goat cheese.
Sirius loudly corrected Peter and James’s increasingly dramatic retelling of every England victory since the thirteenth century.
James glanced at his watch.
Five minutes until the match.
He nearly spilled his drink. "It's almost time!"
Peter gasped. "The wireless! We need to change the channel!"
James stood. "I'll ask."
Their waitress was polishing glasses behind the bar with effortless efficiency, each empty goblet lifting itself into the air as she tapped it lightly with her wand. They floated into neat rows above her head before drifting toward the shelves, where they settled into place with soft little clinks.
James cleared his throat.
"Excuse me."
She looked up.
Her eyes were truly an astonishing shade of green.
Not simply green, but bright and alive, like sunlight filtering through new spring leaves. They met him with calm confidence, and she smiled politely.
"Yes?"
"The World Cup starts in five minutes."
"It does."
"Would you mind terribly changing the wireless?"
She tilted her head. "Changing it to what?"
"...the Quidditch?"
Her expression became politely confused. "The Quidditch?"
"England versus Brazil."
She stared at him. Then laughed. "Oh. No."
James blinked. "...No?"
"Absolutely not."
"But—"
"Thursday night is The Real Witches of Upper Flagley."
"I'm sorry..."
She folded her arms. "People come here specifically for it."
James looked around.
Three elderly witches waved enthusiastically.
"Tell him, Lily!"
Another table nodded in agreement.
"We've been waiting all week!"
James looked back.
"Lily?" He repeated the name the other witch had said.
"That's me."
"You'd rather listen to... whatever The Real Witches of Upper Flagley is..."
"It's the season finale."
"...than the World Cup?"
She looked horrified. "Obviously."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm entirely serious."
James gestured helplessly. "It's England!"
"And Lady Euphemia still doesn't know Cassandra is the one who snuck love potion into her father's polyjuice potion."
James stared. "...What?"
Lily leaned conspiratorially across the bar. "And frankly, if she hasn't worked it out after fourteen episodes, she deserves everything that's coming."
"My mother's named Euphemia."
"Is that relevant?"
James shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, so I responded to the only thing I understood."
"Well, your mum has a very beautiful name."
"And you're still refusing her son his one simple request?"
"Correct."
He watched the way amusement danced in her eyes. She wasn't teasing him simply to be contrary; she genuinely believed this ridiculous radio program deserved priority over the biggest Quidditch match in decades.
There was something oddly refreshing about someone so completely unimpressed by his arguments.
Most people eventually gave in to James Potter's enthusiasm. Lily simply met it head-on and smiled.
"You'd deny four patriotic young men the biggest match of the decade? Of a lifetime?"
"Three patriotic men!" Remus interrupted from their table. "Don't forget I'm Welsh."
James turned and mouthed, You are not helping. When he looked back, Lily was biting the inside of her cheek, clearly trying not to laugh.
"I'd deny one very dramatic young man."
"You wound me."
"I suspect you'll survive."
“What if I gave you ten galleons?”
“Not worth it. I have integrity.”
From behind him, Sirius shouted,
"Prongs! Have you convinced her?"
James waved a hand without looking away from Lily.
"One minute!"
"You've been gone five! The match will start without us!"
"I'm negotiating!"
Lily laughed again.
"Negotiating?"
"I think we're making progress."
"We're not."
"I've made you laugh twice."
"You have."
"That's practically halfway to a yes."
"It isn't remotely close."
"So..." James rested his elbows on the counter. "What would get me to a yes?"
She pretended to think, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin. James noticed she had freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, almost hidden beneath the warm glow of the candles. He hadn't noticed them before. Now he couldn't seem to stop looking.
"The laws of time and space changing," she decided, "so the Quidditch match wasn't scheduled during the season finale of my patrons' favorite program."
"I was hoping for something easier."
"I'm sure you were."
Peter appeared beside James looking thoroughly miserable. "Is she changing it?"
"No," Lily answered before James could.
Peter sighed with the exhaustion of a man who had accepted that the universe was fundamentally cruel.
"I knew it." He shuffled back toward the table. "I guess we'll just go back to Sirius's place."
James watched him leave before turning back to Lily.
"My friends are taking this rather hard."
"So I've noticed."
"I, however, remain optimistic."
"Despite all available evidence?"
"I have a feeling."
"Oh?"
"You don't actually dislike me."
Lily looked him up and down thoughtfully.
It should have made him self-conscious, instead he found himself hoping she'd continue.
"That's a remarkably confident conclusion."
"You've insulted me several times."
"I have."
"But you're still smiling."
"I smile at difficult customers."
"Difficult?"
"You've attempted emotional blackmail, patriotic guilt, and bribery."
"I haven't reached shameless begging yet."
"So there are more tactics?"
"Oh, dozens."
She laughed again.
Merlin, James realized he was beginning to enjoy making her laugh almost as much as he enjoyed watching Quidditch.
Perhaps more.
"I'll be more careful in the future," Lily said.
"I certainly hope not."
For just a moment, they simply looked at one another. The chatter of the wine bar blurred into the background. James had walked over, intending to convince a waitress to change the wireless.
Instead, he found himself wondering what she did when she wasn't working. Whether she always wore her hair pinned up like that. Whether she laughed this easily with everyone or only with customers who refused to take no for an answer.
She was clever.
Quick.
Beautiful.
Every answer she gave seemed to arrive half a heartbeat faster than he could think of his next question.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had matched him joke for joke.
Then Sirius bellowed from across the room.
"PRONGS! IF YOU COME BACK WITHOUT QUIDDITCH, YOU'D BETTER COME BACK WITH HER FLOO ADDRESS!"
James closed his eyes and rubbed his palms over his face.. "...I'm going to kill him."
Lily laughed so hard she had to steady herself against the bar.
When she finally caught her breath, she extended her hand.
"Lily Evans."
James took it.
Her hand was warm.
He realized he'd almost forgotten to introduce himself.
"James Potter."
"I know."
"You do?"
"You've been loudly announcing England's chances of victory to the entiriety of Diagon Alley all evening."
He winced. "I thought I was being inspiring."
"You were being loud."
"And obnoxious?"
"And obnoxious."
"And yet you remembered my name."
"I suppose I did."
She gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go. A minute passed before she glanced toward the door.
"Your friends left, you know."
James blinked.
"What?"
"Your friends."
She nodded toward the empty table in the corner.
"They got tired of waiting for you."
James looked over.
Sure enough, the wine bottle was gone. So were Sirius, Remus and Peter.
He chuckled. "That's fair."
"You don't seem particularly upset."
"I'd probably have done the same."
Lily tilted her head. "Don't you want to listen to the match of the century?"
James looked toward the wireless.
The opening commentary had already begun and the radio was still on the soap opera channel. Somewhere, England was probably taking the pitch.
A few minutes ago he would have sprinted back to Sirius’s flat with teh rest of his friends so not to miss a second. Instead, he pulled out the stool opposite the bar and sat down.
"I suddenly find myself much more interested in having you explain The Real Witches of Upper Flagley."
"You do?"
"If I'm going to miss the final of the World Cup..."
He smiled.
"...I might as well understand what I’m listening to instead."
Lily rested her forearms on the polished bar and smiled back. "Oh, it'll take quite a while to catch you up."
"I've got time."
"You'll need to know about the cursed vineyard."
"The what?"
"And Lady Euphemia's third husband."
"There were three?"
"There were four."
James laughed. "This already sounds more complicated than professional Quidditch."
"It is."
"I look forward to it."
To his own surprise, he meant it.
He suspected Lily could have spent the next three hours explaining magical soap operas, cauldron regulations, or the proper way to prune Venomous Tentacula, and he would have listened just as intently.
Not because he cared about any of those things. But because every time she smiled, her eyes seemed to brighten. And every time she laughed, he found himself hoping he'd said something worthy of hearing it again.