Red by Rockinfaerie
Separations and Reunions, Part Two
He took a cup gratefully from the plastic tray, cradling it in his hands for a moment to allow the warmth of the contained liquid seep into his skin. As he sat back into the lumpy sofa, drinking slowly from the chipped rim, he cast his eyes about the sitting room, which was beginning to darken on this rainy summer afternoon.
A small bay window to his right revealed the narrow road that he and Sirius had walked. The large, square houses were all incredibly alike, each with rather shallow front gardens and small, neat hedges. It was a confusing place, a labyrinth of residential streets full of such dwellings, and though it was obviously quite densely populated, it seemed strangely remote; there was no evidence of war or ruin, or violence of any kind.
The only unsettling sound heard was a constant, buzzing moan, which seemed to emerge from the garden of the adjacent house. Their host, however, did not seem encumbered by it, and for a moment James wondered if, after the long motorbike journey a few days before, he could be imagining it. He was relieved, therefore, when Sirius asked, gesturing to the garden window as she handed him a spotted pink mug from the tray,
"Um, what is that noise exactly?"
"Oh," she laughed, her slippers shuffling against the rug as she moved towards the source of the sound. "That's just Mr Stevens, mowing the lawn. Don't worry – it's no threat to you."
She smiled vaguely, and then moved to the mysterious, cubed contraption in the corner of the room, twisting its dials and assembling the crooked dual aerial perched on top.
"Have you lads acquainted yourselves with the telly yet?" she asked, a look of satisfaction spreading across her face as a fuzzy moving image appeared on the front surface of the machine. "I hope you don't mind if we have Coronation Street on in the background – I have to say, I'm hooked at this stage."
Having no clue how to discern what she meant, Sirius and James merely mumbled their consent, shifting uneasily on the flat cushions.
"And help yourselves to some soup if you'd like it," she said, pointing to the tray where there were three bowls of a dark green, watery substance. "It's cabbage soup. I'd have gotten more ingredients if I'd known I'd have guests tonight, but you see, I like the taste of very little else."
Taking her own bowl and a steel soup spoon from the tray, she nestled into the armchair nearest to the "telly". And though she had just declared her addiction to some sort of entity that emitted from it, it soon became apparent, to the relief of the boys, that she had more interest in conversing with them.
"Now that we're finally settled," she said, tugging a shawl around her shoulders and looking at James, "I think I can ask how your mother is."
"She's fine," he replied automatically, though he guiltily suspected that she was far from it upon his departure. "She's living in France at the moment – she asked us on our return to drop in and see how you were…"
"And how am I?"
"I… I beg you pardon?" he asked, taken aback.
"What do you intend to report?" she elaborated, looking amused. "A good journalist should always validate his or her facts before relaying them to others. Though I don't suppose either of you have become journalists – do you have any intentions of doing so?"
Bewildered, they both shook their heads in reply.
"I thought not. It's a shame. We're a dying breed, you know. I used to write for The Prophet – in the old days. It was the only proper job out there for someone as atrociously magic-less as me."
She looked wistfully at the small fireplace, where a fat tabby purred contentedly.
"Then, of course, I got the sack. They claimed they wanted to change their angle to a more 'exciting' one. Have you seen what it has become?" she asked, to no-one in particular, before answering herself with a flick of her hand. "Sensationalist rubbish. 'Good riddance,' I say!"
She floated her spoon on top of the thin soup, filling it before lifting it to her mouth. Having finished his tea, James thought it impolite to refuse the meal she had prepared for them, however frugal, and cautiously tasted from his bowl. It wasn't the worst thing he had ever tasted (ill-advised dares throughout Slughorn's Potions classes had provided him with the ability to realise that the horridness of food is all relative), but that said, he would have rather eaten one of Mrs Figg's doilies if it hadn't been lacking in propriety.
"So," she began, after a short, awkward silence which had followed her outburst elapsed, "are you still at Godric's Hollow?"
"No," James answered, looking up from his efforts at soup-depleting. "I haven't been there for ages."
"It's a shame," she said, scratching the thick fur of the tabby absent-mindedly. "It's such a pretty place – and a far cry from here, at that."
She sighed, as she looked around the small purring living room, and out at the identical houses along the road.
"It doesn't seem so long ago that you were a wee one, no higher than that table, running around, and my sister chasing after you into some ditch or whatnot…"
James smiled at the memory. Her sister, Helena Bartley, had been his nanny and parents' housekeeper for years, and he fondly remembered her. There had been many times when he had dragged her out into the lashing rain, only to pet the winged horses, or had refused to sleep simply because he knew it irked her. In retrospect, he knew that he must have been a demanding child, but she was always patient, and though she could be stern, she always had such a kind manner that it seemed impossible that she could ever be truly angry.
The sisters had lived in the centre of the village, in a low terraced feline-filled house opposite the only tavern, with shallow steps leading to the door and moving stained glass in the kitchen window, and some clucking chickens in the yard behind it. He knew that Sirius thought this an odd expedition to make, but in truth, these women had been as much a part of his childhood as the silver sky or the dew-soaked heather of the vast grounds behind the Potter's cottage.
Ms Bartley, he remembered, as he stared into the thin cabbage soup, had been a far superior cook, and many a morning had been spent in the kitchen of the cottage at Godric's Hollow, staring at the swirling flour that seemed to settle everywhere, and the sweet, warm smell that always promised a very pleasant dessert. She had died some time after his entry into Hogwarts, and for some time afterwards he would take refuge in accessing these untroubled memories... before this habit, like many of his childhood, drifted beneath the surface of his mind.
It was only during his school holidays that he had been able to observe the demise of the tiny wizarding village of Godric's Hollow - traditional residence for a few old, respected families, and a refuge of sorts for retired academics and ministers alike. It had experienced a gradual exodus since his childhood; the growing climate of fear and its very remote position being clear contributing factors. On his last visit, the old tavern was silent, the redbrick houses lining the main street lifeless and empty, and the cottage gardens abandoned and sadly overgrown.
He had always known Arabella Figg as Helena's thin, widowed sister - a curious, though utterly benign, cat-loving entity. It interested him, staring around the room in which they sat, to see remnants of that old life still present in this calm, Muggle suburb - a gloomy oil painting on the wall to the left of the "telly" had once hung in their tiny hallway, and the delicate floral plate which rested, dust-covered, on a modern side-table in the corner, had once belonged in their kitchen. Thinking about the possibilities of her neighbours discovering the slow animation of the framed painting, and the fruit-producing abilities of the little plate, led him to conclude that Mrs Figg didn't actually receive many visitors. This made him wonder, with a sudden pang of sadness, at the extent of her isolation; trapped, as she was, in a maze of identical streets, unhappily forging a Muggle identity (being blamelessly cut-off from her own world by her incapacity to produce any magic of her own).
"...I remember you used to get yourself so muddy. Have you finished with school?"
He had been brought back into the cabbage-smelling sitting room by Mrs Figg's wavering voice, and he looked up from the soup, which he had been stirring automatically, to see her lined, inquisitive face peering at him from the armchair.
"No..." he replied. "We've got another year left - we're going back on the first of September."
The woman nodded, returning her gaze to the cubed and aerialed contraption, and offering the bowl of soup to a black cat who had emerged from the adjoining kitchen. He remembered instantly that she would never have gone to Hogwarts - would never have experienced dormitory-life, breakfasts in the Great Hall, parchment essays by firelight, or midnight trips to the kitchens. Perceiving Sirius's slightly desperate glance in his direction, he pondered upon these issues only as he downed the remainder of the broth - unpleasant, but not entirely intolerable.
"Sorry 'bout all that, Padfoot," he apologised some time later, as they walked together towards a supermarket at the end of a quiet residential street. It had been a rather lengthy, uncomfortable visit, which he knew his best friend could not have enjoyed - yet he did not regret making it; he knew that she had appreciated it much more than they had. "We've still time to get the food."
"Just about," Sirius replied mildly, looking at his watch as he walked the motorbike along the path. "Milk, bread and perhaps some butter. I don't intend to live on curry chips for the rest of the summer - much as I love them," he added wistfully.
In the few days since their return to England, they had both undergone a massive lifestyle change. Gone were the formal, salad lunches in the refreshing shade of Mme Demarchalier's farmhouse; instead was the aformentioned diet - procured from a chipper conveniently situated in a very battered Victorian building, a few doors away from the flat Sirius' uncle had left him.
Their manner of dressing, likewise, had had to undergo a change - it was always necessary to act inconspicuous in the Muggle world. This had ellicited a day-long trip to a tailor's - an apparantly exclusive establishment expensively furnished with long, flattering mirrors and rather unctuous assistants, whose initial attitudes towards the boys - who had arrived dressed in a strange array of mismatching and poorly-fitting Muggle garments - had quickly developed from disdain to servitude on noting the intonations of their accents and the amount of money they were willing to spend.
This behaviour never impressed James, but he felt that it had to be endured (without, as he had eventually convinced Sirius, their snobbish hosts incurring certain penalties usually reserved for the similarly oily likes of Snivellus Snape). The result, admittedly impressive, of that trip into Knightsbridge was that they currently strolled, not as wizards, but as Muggle teenagers - extraordinarily well-dressed teenagers, but Muggles nevertheless.
The quiet street of houses sloped onto a wide, tarmacadam roadway, which featured a smooth, whizzing flow of Muggle cars, a tall series of residential buildings, and one modern supermarket. As the boys approached this cement structure, eyeing the bright signage and lines of metal trollies, James was filled with a certain degree of apprehension.
"So, is this the same as one of our shops, or...?" he asked suspiciously, watching people emerge with plastic carrier bags. Even the exterior was so far removed from the little shopfronts of Diagon Alley; he was beginning to question the very nature of this strange establishment.
"Oh, you poor country-boy," exclaimed Sirius in a friendly mocking tone, "confused by this electrically-lit realm of civilised Muggle suburbia!"
"Nonsense, you're as lost in this world as I am," James retorted, and his best friend did not venture to disagree.
A sudden downpour of rain quickened their entry into the shop. The glass doors rushed closed behind them as they silently surveyed the interior, a sight alien to anything either friend had every witnessed; a massive variety of brightly-coloured packages lined infinite aisles of shelves, the floor was a criss-cross of plain, shiny tiles, and everything, from the withered vegetables to the mysterious electronics, was icily bathed in a dazzling, harsh light. The loud words and symbols, which seemed to scream at them from every angle, were confusing to wizarding eyes, accustomed to the dimmer, softer tones of small magical franchises such as Madam Malkin's and Quality Quidditch Supplies.
Sirius began to examine their wares, trailing his finger along the cardboard and plastic packaging which housed each individual item.
"Look at this one," he exclaimed, pulling down a lurid pink box and reading its caption. "'Fade-Out Washing Detergent' - promises to eternally banish stains from shirts and jeans..."
With a slight twist of his mouth, he pried it open with his fingertips, but the box unbalanced and fell, issuing a shout of juvenile laughter and a cloud of pale-blue powder all over the floor, and down Sirius' expensively tailored front.
An anxious-looking freckled boy approached them at a run, wearing a red shirt and apron (bearing the word "staff") and energetically wielding a mop. Knowing that such garments stood out from those of the general Muggle public, James had pulled out his wand, but the boy had knelt down to where the powder had spilled.
"No bother sir, I'll get that," his yet-unbroken voice said cheerfully.
Sirius eyed the mess and its cleaner curiously as James pulled him away, directing him quickly along the aisle.
"You can never be too careful, these days..." he murmured, as Sirius freed his arm and pocketed both hands.
"Please," he laughed dismissively. "As if anyone would choose to inhabit such a guise..."
"Where's the milk?" asked James, ignoring Sirius' accusations of paranoia. "You can't find anything in this bloody place."
"Y'know," said Sirius thoughtfully, as they walked past repeated rows of regular shapes and patterns, "some wizard has probably made a mint out of those products - a simple household spell is all most of this stuff takes."
Finally, they arrived at what seemed to be a map of the building - it appeared embarrassingly small. Having located the dairy and baking sections - both at opposite sides of the store - they decided to separate and make their own way to each. On his own, the place seemed even more foreign, as though the yellow threshold had been a secret border into a distant land. Knowing it was useless to seek any form of familiarity, he continued with his task, imagining the countless distractions that Sirius would probably face along his way.
The milk was cold and thoroughly un-milkish, dressed as it was in a curious cube package and decorated with a sunset and smiling friesian cows. He focused on the labelling on the items before him for some time, before picking up three of said cartons and a foil-wrapped block of what claimed to be butter. Hoping that the transaction would go smoothly, he set about to find Sirius.
The condensation seeped against the front of his Muggle suit as he carried these groceries, searching the limited and at times unintelligable signposts for some clue of where his best friend and the bakery might be. He was just thinking about how useful a marauder's map would be for such places when he bumped into someone.
"Sorry," he muttered, stepping out of her way, annoyed at his own lack of self-awareness. He glanced at the "staff" emblazoned apron, and began to ask, "Could you tell me where the...?"
He trailed off, silenced by the vision of the face who stared incredulously back at him. Instantly he felt hot, his face colouring, and his mind racing throught the improbabilities of meeting her here, of all places.
Her face was completely different in this severe electronic light; her skin looked ghostly pale, and her straight hair clashed oddly with her Muggle clothing - garb which struck him as totally incongruous with the girl he knew. He perceived a definite and unnerving sadness in her brilliant eyes, but her pretty mouth widened in a smile of disbelief.
"You look," she began, sounding almost as embarrassed as he felt and setting down a stack of small boxes on the shelf behind her, "as though you've just raided the BBC costume archives."
"Well, I felt like I should try to blend in," James answered somewhat vaguely, unwiling to admit that he hadn't the least idea of what she was talking about.
"I'm not quite sure if you've succeeded," she laughed.
"Why are you... wh..." he stammered, trying to establish the phrasing of his question. "What are you doing here?"
"I think I have more of a right to ask you," she answered, folding her arms. Though she still looked amused at the sight of him in Muggle clothing, it seemed to him that she was beginning to close her expression, as though unsure if it were actually him. The same thought suddenly occured to him as to her own identitiy, and he wondered why the growing distrust of others, which had been cultivated by random attacks and fearful headlines, had not unleashed itself on seeing her.
"I'm..."
The repetitive music which seemed to pipe from invisible enclaves wove through the otherwise empty aisle, and for a moment he focused on her, deliberating. Through this sterile, life-sucking environment came the soft smell of leaves and twigs, the cool grass and burning fireworks. He knew that her current breathing sustained the same rhythm, that her comportment had the same unintentionally graceful air... and though this seemed to comfirm that he was definitely looking at Lily Evans, it scared him that, though he knew her so little, he recognised such fundamental details.
"I'm..." he began again, clearing his throat, rubbing his one empty hand through his hair, "here on a visit - someone I know lives on..." The address evaded him.
"Who?" she asked bluntly.
"Arabella Figg," he answered uncomfortably. "She's... a friend of the family. Likes cats," he added pointlessly.
She looked down at the alternately tiled floor, and up the aisle, as though searching for a reason to move away. Her hand was in her pocket, and he knew well what she was clutching.
"All right, well..." she began, as if about to make off. She was not convinced.
"It's me," he exclaimed earnestly. "James Potter - I've played Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team for a year - Seeker before that..." she narrowed her eyes, still looking alert, but remaining stationary. He tried desperately to think of some other fact, known only to them. "We... sat together for a while, after the final - I threw leaves in your hair... and then you threw some in mine."
He fell silent, blushing wildly, but closely watching her reaction. This little speech had made him feel quite pathetic, and he wondered at the power of his rapidly beating heart, which had made him so desperate for her to acknowledge him for who he was. It had taken the desired effect, however; she relaxed, a sincere smile spreading across her face, a relieved expression lifting her painfully sad eyes.
"Sorry," she then said, in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. "I just... I mean, what with the attacks and everything... and the extreme strangeness of meeting you here, I just didn't know..."
"So..." he began, seeing another customer enter the aisle, examining what was stacked on the shelves.
"I work here," she answered, having seen his inquisitive expression. She gestured at her apron vaguely, as though faintly unhappy about this declaration, but unwilling to show it.
"You're going back though, aren't you?" he asked, slightly panicked that she had entered a career already. "To school, I mean."
She paused, smoothing her red apron. "Of course," she then said. "And you, I take it?"
"Of course," he repeated cheerfully. "Right now I'm staying in Sirius' flat in London - he's here too - I think he got lost in the... bread section."
"This is mad," she exclaimed, glancing around as if expecting to see Sirius beside her. "I've been working here every day, since the holidays began... my sister lives nearby - I've been living there..."
Her words trickled off into nothing, and she looked at the floor. This scene might have evolved into one of dull, uneasy awkwardness, had there not been a massive crash nearby. Both, following the sound to the bottom of the aisle, were beset by the sight of the Muggle customer, who gesticulated in an irritated manner at the mess of glass and splattered jam on the floor.
For an instant, Lily looked as though she was about to cry. Instead, she walked briskly over to the woman, and told her in a false, cheery voice, that it was nothing to worry about - the very same assurances he had recently heard from the boy wearing the same apron. The woman sighed loudly, as though the girl was to blame, before stalking off, leaving Lily kneeling over the mess.
He knelt beside her in the aisle, watching her glare silently after the perpetrator. He wondered how, having heard her smart classroom retorts on many occasions, she had remained so subserviant.
"Don't -" she implored, seeing that he was about to perform a vanishing spell.
"What - you expect to do this by hand?"
"Muggle area, James!" she said exasperatedly, tearing a roll of cloth from her apron. "Do you know how many times I've gotten those stupid letters - 'The Ministry of Magic has been informed... this is a warning... indecent magical exposure...' even when they - the Muggles - haven't actually seen anything..."
"Ok, well I'll help you anyway," he said stubbornly, picking sticky shards of glass out of the spilt jam and putting them aside. She nodded, and, though his knowedge of Muggle cleaning was undeniably limited, he flattered himself that his assistance quickened the process.
The paper cloth absorbed the red fluid from the glossy floor as though cleaning a wound, and the smell of preserved strawberries lingered in the stuffy air. Soon all that was left was a faint stain on the floor, which Lily deemed adequately clean. Still, they remained kneeling.
"Are you all right?" he asked her seriously; he had never seen anyone look so downtrodden, so close to defeat... and he couldn't bear to witness the misery of anyone he cared about.
"Fine," she answered lightly, untruthfully. Seeing that she was not about to retract her statement and elaborate, he offered a hand to help her up; she accepted, unusually, and they stood silently for a moment before a loud voice broke through the unpleasant piped soundtrack.
"Prongs," Sirius exclaimed, grabbing his arm, "Where in Hades have you been?! I've been looking everywhere, and then got lost among what I was told was the toiletries section... this place is bizarre."
He was clutching a variety of things - a bare loaf of bread was just visible beneath a cluster of tins and condensation-covered packages.
"It's just Tesco," objected Lily, laughing at his astounded expression when he turned and recognised her.
"No," he replied in an astonished fluster, as though this were a rapidly disintegrating dream he no longer comprehended and from which he wished to escape, "I haven't the faintest idea of what this is..."
James bent down to retrieve the milk and butter from where he had left it on the floor, when suddenly a light above them flickered off, leaving the illuminated area in a gloomy shade of grey.
"Oh," Lily exclaimed, looking around her as a muffled announcement projected from some mysterious place, "we're closing - they're telling the last customers to leave."
"Where will we pay?" asked James quickly, wondering how much Sirius' collection would amount to in Muggle money.
"Just take them," she answered, beckoning them hurriedly "- there's a door over there."
"Look Evans," said Sirius, mantaining the selection in his arms with an admirable degree of skill, "I'm all for nicking stuff from Honeydukes, but... stealing lettuce?"
"There's a first time for everything," she replied, opening a narrow door to reveal an empty and puddled car park.
"You won't get into trouble?" James asked her, concerned, as he squeezed through after Sirius.
"Nope," she replied, with a certain steeliness in her eyes, "I'm quitting tomorrow."
Sirius stood still, freeing a hand and pulling from his pocket a battered pencil and throwing it on the wet ground. "C'mon," he called, looking at the sky, "it's getting dark!"
"Will you come with us?" James suddenly blurted out, and he felt himself redden again.
She seemed understandably taken aback - she stood in the doorway, her face conveying a mixture of amusement and anxiety. "No," she then replied with a laugh, lowering her head and turning, on the verge of retreating inside, "I.. I'm sorely tempted! - but I don't think I should."
"Bye then," James said sadly, as Sirius grabbed his arm and began to pull him away.
"See you in September," she called, and there was an audible note of determination in her voice, as though such casual words were voiced as a vow.
The back of the shop was bare and windowless, and, the door having been closed, devoid of ways in which curious Muggles could view this rear car-park.
"You do the honours," Sirius said, nodding towards the pencil, half-submerged in a puddle. "My hands are full."
James sighed, looking around, ensuring that the gated lot was fully enclosed by a high wall. Then he quickly performed the task, until instead of a pencil, standing in the puddle in all its shining metal glory, was Sirius' motorbike.
They were soon flying, invisibly, through a misty evening sky. The forceful wind rendered conversation impossible, but even if they had been freer to communicate, James wouldn't have known what to say. His thoughts were a confused jumble, producing images and sounds which connected and disconnected as excitedly and uncontrollably as bludgers. He found it difficult to believe that this encounter with Lily Evans had actually occured - it seemed so utterly unlikely - yet he forced himself to acknowledge it. He knew perfectly well that, once they returned to Alphard's bedsit, with its oil-stained floral wallpaper, carpet worn to grey and curious oriental tea set, Sirius would jokingly taunt him with allusions to fate. Though he knew he would scorn them in reply, James could not help dwelling on the strange odds her being employed by the only Muggle supermarket he had ever entered.
For him, this summer had been one of painful separations and rather awkward reunions; the knowledge that he was now independant, relieved of the constraints of childhood, had evolved from these. Those wild, flour-dusted mornings, and afternoons of beautiful, carefree leisure, were left behind in a disappearing trail of exhaust, and as they descended upon the dense, chimneyed rooftops of North London, he looked into the darkening future with mixed sensations of rumbling trepidation and soaring excitement.