Chapter Text
PART THREE
God Save the Queen!
The fascist regime!
They made you a moron
A potential H bomb!
God save the Queen!
She ain’t no human being!
and There's no future
In England's dreaming…
JUNE 7th, 1977
Cokeworth, the little smoggy blot of nothing on the map just northwest of Leicester. Shy Cokeworth. Filthy Cokeworth. Cokeworth that you only take notice of because it accounts for one of the many railway stops between Leicester and Nottingham. Wet and rainy Cokeworth, occasionally hot and muggy Cokeworth. Tired, dreary, perfectly ordinary Cokeworth, neat little suburban areas contrasting with the older, crumbly bits of town downhill, all of it blotted out by the enormous eyesore of a mill, closed for good now, rearing up above it all.
But today, for one single day, Cokeworth is bright and colourful.
A thousand tiny pennants flutter cheerily in the brisk wind, and the Union Jack is proudly strung from every house, every shop window. The people of Cokeworth mill excitedly about, setting up long tables covered in white cloths, children ride bikes with ribbons of red and blue threaded through the spokes; laughing families, friends, neighbours line up to take photographs as grannies arrange an assortment of cakes, trifles, bowls of crisps and pitchers of squash…
The atmosphere inside 8 Dorlcote Close couldn’t be more different.
“I don’t see why we’ve got to celebrate the bloody Queen’s Jubilee,” Lily says grumpily, tossing aside her well-worn copy of the Mill on the Floss. “She’s a parasite as far as I’m concerned. Wizards and witches haven’t got kings or queens.”
“Maybe that’s why they’re all such freaks,” Petunia says nastily from behind her usual tabloid magazine. “They ought to show some respect to our sovereign.”
“Oh yeah, because democracy is so freaky,” Lily snaps back. “Better ring the ancient Greeks and let them know that tyranny and despotism is back in.”
Petunia’s retort is cut through by the tired voice of Graham Evans. “Girls, enough. It’s been nearly a month, we ought to just try and enjoy the celebration as best we can.”
“Yeah, right,” Lily says under her breath.
“I need one of you to pop round the shop and get a few packets of crisps and things,” Graham continues. “I promised Mrs Jenkins we’d bring something, and seeing as I haven’t got your mother’s talent for cooking…” He breaks off sadly.
“I can’t,” Petunia says. “I’ve got to fix my hair.”
“Yeah, heaven forbid old Mrs Jenkins sees you without your usual coiffure,” Lily snarks. “She’ll throw a fit.”
“Lily!” says Graham sharply. “Just go and get the crisps, will you?”
Lily grumbles, but gets to her feet. “Fine, I’m going.”
She snatches up her bag and keys by the door. She can hear Petunia and her dad talking in low voices in the sitting room, and feels sure they’re discussing her lousy attitude. But Lily doesn’t care— the thought of celebrating anything, let alone a useless old hag who does nothing but represent a last vestige of British colonialism, is agonising, unbearable, when faced with the void that Rosalind Evans has left in their home.
Lily slouches miserably down the brightly decorated street towards the off-licence. The bell jangles jarringly as she pushes the door open and begins to greet Salman— but it’s not him at the counter.
“Oh,” says Severus when he sees her.
“Great,” Lily says. “Just great. Just what I needed.”
“Happy Jubilee,” Severus says dispassionately. “Want a flag?”
He indicates a basket of small, plasticky Union Jacks sitting on the counter beside the till.
Lily snorts and heads for the snack aisle, haphazardly grabbing a couple of bags of crisps without paying much attention to her selection. Then she goes to the refrigerators and picks out a can of lager.
She tosses the crisps onto the counter and slams the can down a little too roughly.
Severus eyes the lager. “Isn’t it a bit early?”
Lily disregards this. “And a packet of Rothmans.”
He slaps the cigarettes on the counter moodily, adding up the total with his eyes. “That’ll be 96p.”
Lily shoves the coins towards him.
“Lily?” Severus says uncertainly. “Is everything… you alright?”
“What’s it to you?” Lily replies. “Couldn’t have found a job anywhere else except ‘round the corner from my house, could you?”
“It’s not my fault, Salman’s the only one was hiring, believe me, I looked, I— I… need the dosh ‘cause my dad’s making me pay for the privilege of living at my own gaff now...”
Lily stops at this as he trails off bitterly. She takes a breath, unwilling to tell him how rotten that makes her feel. At least, she thinks viciously, at least he still has both his parents. Then the pulse of involuntary guilt that flows through her at the thought makes her feel, impossibly, even worse.
“He says it doesn’t matter if I’m not eighteen, I’m of age in the Wizarding World and that’s old enough to start contributing to the household, he says,” Severus barrels on, clearly bolstered by her moment of weakness. “He lost his job when the mill shut.”
“Right,” Lily says, torn between clinging to her anger and feeling desperately sorry for him. “Well, I’ll see you later.”
The bell jangles miserably again as she leaves him staring after her, back into the sunny street and the mess of colourful bunting fluttering overhead.
Lily reminds herself she’s got her own problems, her own misery to be going on with. She heads for the park, which seems an appropriate place to wallow in self-pity— it’s full of laughing, joyful kids from around the neighbourhood, kids like she and Severus had once been, before everything went to utter shit.
Lily decides to sit under a tree and observe the children playing on the swings. She lights a fag with her wand tip and cracks open the lager, too sullen and resentful for tears— and so her mind turns again to its new favourite distraction.
Her only solace at that moment is looking forward to a letter from James Potter, who had written a few days ago. It’s been the only event that has diverted her at all from the black hole of apathy that currently envelops the Evans household. It hadn’t been much, just ordinary day-to-day things; Sirius Black’s found himself a flat in London, and even though he visits frequently, James still misses his best mate… Lily can picture him in what she imagines to be an empty, enormous country house, pacing the halls in that restless way of his, flying across the countryside on his broomstick…
Something about the world post-Rosalind Evans has made Lily unwilling to lie to herself any longer— and in any event, nursing feelings for the boy she’d once hated above all others is better than dwelling on her own conspicuously empty kitchen. Idly, Lily takes a swig of lager and sinks back into images of him, messy black hair, warm hazel eyes behind his glasses, the steps beneath the Owlery, the feel of his arms around her body… the thrill of excitement as they huddled together under his Invisibility Cloak…
Lily lets out a slight groan at her own stupidity and raises the dangling fag end to her lips, inhaling deeply. She’d sent her reply almost right away, and perhaps it had been a little too long, a little too desperate…
She crumples up the empty can decisively and gathers up the bags of crisps, trying not to let herself hope that his owl will be waiting for her at home.
But as she draws close to her house, she sees him instead, standing outside 8 Dorlcote Close— Lily’s heart leaps up and then thunders down, reminding herself that she had tricked herself into thinking it was him at the chippy only a few days ago— and he turns. And it’s him.
“Oh, there you are,” James says. “I was just about to ring the doorbell.”
“What— what are you doing here?” Lily says, stunned. She adjusts her grip on the crisps self-consciously. “How d’you know where I live?”
“You put it on the envelope.”
“Right.” One of the packets of crisps slips from her grasp. He hurries forward to pick it up.
“Here—” James says, straightening. Then he looks around bemusedly, taking in the bunting strung between the houses. “Er— what’s going on here, exactly?”
“Oh,” Lily says, a laugh escaping from her lips. “It’s the, er, Muggle Queen’s Silver Jubilee. You know, twenty-five years since she’s been on the throne. So all of Britain’s celebrating…”
“Mad,” James remarks. “I heard something about the Muggles having a Queen, but it all seems a bit archaic if you ask me. Wizards have governed themselves for most of history.”
“Try telling that to Petunia,” Lily says. “She reckons our kind ought to show more respect for the sovereign.”
“Petunia’s your sister?”
Lily nods. “So… what are you doing here, exactly?”
James shifts awkwardly. “Er— well, I was… a bit bored, to tell you the truth. And I couldn’t get hold of Sirius—”
“Nice to know I’m second choice.”
“You’re not— well, I wanted to see if you were alright.”
“I’m fine,” she says quickly.
James raises his eyebrows. “In that case, I’ll bugger off then. I can see I’m not needed.”
Lily grins despite herself. “Come off it, you’re here now. Might as well see how the Muggles throw a party.”
“Alright,” he says, grinning back. “Where should I leave the crisps?”
“Let’s go inside,” Lily answers, moving past him to unlock the door, happily contemplating Petunia’s face when she turns up with ‘James from school’.
“I’m back!” she calls into the hallway, shepherding James in behind her.
“About time,” Graham answers from the sitting room. “We’re late enough as it is—”
He stops and looks up questioningly as James enters behind her.
“Hello,” James says politely, holding out his hand. “I’m James Potter, I’m a friend of Lily’s from school.”
“Nice to meet you,” Graham says, shaking his hand and shooting a scrutinising look at Lily. “Didn’t know you’d invited anyone from school, Lily.”
“Forgot to mention it.”
“Well, anything that keeps you and Petunia from being at each other’s throats is fine by me,” Graham says amicably. “I thought you might have been sneaking off with that Severus.”
Lily feels her face heat and she determinedly does not look at James. “Dad, I told you we’re not friends anymore…”
“Well, no loss. Never liked him, me,” Graham tells James conversationally. “Something dodgy about that boy if you ask me. What do your parents do, James?”
James grins broadly, which Lily suspects has something to do with the slight against Severus. “Well mum’s a Magical theorist, but mostly part-time these days. And Dad was a potioneer, had a line of hair-care products, but he sold the company years ago.”
“Hair care, eh? I expect Petunia will want to hear all about that.”
“I doubt it,” Lily grouses, annoyed. Leave it to her dad to take to James within seconds, despite knowing Severus for years, all because his parents are more respectable. “She’ll probably think it’ll turn her hair into snakes or something. And it’d be an improvement. Where is she, anyway?”
“Upstairs getting ready,” Graham says with a reproving air. “She takes a bloody age, that one. Fancy a brew, James? Lily? I'll put the kettle on.”
“Alright, thank you,” says James.
Her dad disappears off towards the kitchen and Lily watches James move around her sitting room, taking in everything curiously. He pauses to greet a snoozing Biscuit with a gentle scratch between the ears, then resumes his observations.
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Lily says, feeling defensive. In her mind’s eye she pictures once again the palatial estate he must have grown up in.
“It’s fantastic,” James says, peering at the television, rapping his knuckles on the screen. “What’s this thing?”
“It’s just the telly,” Lily replies amusedly, crossing the room to switch it on.
James jumps back as it blares into colour and sound, a pair of newsreaders chattering excitedly about the Jubilee as footage of street parties all over Britain flashes past in the background. “Wow!” he says. “We learnt about television in Muggle Studies but I’ve never seen one. So where are these people?”
He looks around as if expecting to see them just outside the window. Lily bites back a laugh.
“Probably in a studio in London somewhere,” she says, pressing the button to change the channel.
James stares at the screen, transfixed. “What’s this one?”
“Blue Peter,” Lily replies. “It’s a kid’s programme. They’re doing a special for the Jubilee .”
“And anyone can see this from anywhere in the country, right?”
“If you’ve got a television aerial, yeah.”
Lily switches the telly off as James moves on to the hoover, perched against the wall after Petunia’s latest bout of obsessive cleaning. “What’s this thing do?”
“It’s a hoover, it sucks up dirt—”
Graham reappears with two mugs of tea. “Petunia’ll be down in a second, so better drink that quick. Mrs Jenkins’ll be worried sick about us.”
They sit and gulp their scalding tea as Graham questions James about Hogwarts.
“Have they got a football team at Hogwarts?”
“Er, no, that’s a Muggle sport, isn’t it? We play Quidditch, Lily must have told you about it—”
Graham twists to look at Lily. “No, must have slipped her mind, I had no idea witches and wizards had any sports—”
“Sorry,” Lily says, rolling her eyes. “Not much of a fan.”
“So, James, you play er— Quiddish?”
“Quidditch— yeah, I’m captain of my house team, actually—”
Graham’s eyes seem to shine with enthusiasm, and Lily feels a stab of reluctant amusement. “So what position do you play, James?” asks Graham.
“Well, it’s called a Chaser,” James says, looking at Lily for assistance.
“It’s like a forward,” Lily explains, rolling her eyes again. “Chasers are the ones that score goals. They play on broomsticks, dad.”
Graham listens raptly as James launches into the rules of Quidditch, and presently they hear the clatter of Petunia coming down the stairs.
“Are we—” Petunia grinds to a halt as she spots James sitting on the sofa. “What’s going on here?”
“Petunia, this is James, he’s a friend of Lily’s from school. In’t that nice?”
Petunia’s lip curls, her expression growing frosty.
“Nice to meet you,” James says, getting to his feet. “Sorry to barge in, I just thought I’d like to, er— show a bit of respect for the sovereign.”
Petunia blinks at this, surprised, as Graham says: “That’s nice, in’t it, dear?”
“Well,” Petunia says uncertainly. “We ought to get a move on. So long as the pair of you don’t get up to any funny… magic spells or anything…”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” James says cheerfully. “I’ve studied Muggles for years, I know how to blend in.”
They troop out, Lily and James bringing up the rear. James points out everything from next door’s lawnmower to the dustbins and the immaculate flowerbeds.
“You’ve never been in a Muggle town before, have you?” Lily says, eyeing him.
“No,” James admits. “I’ve been to the village near mine, and around London a few times. But I’d never seen anything like this.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to dreary suburbia,” Lily says, as they begin to hear the sounds of lively chatter and music from Gladstone Lane, where the long tables covered in white tablecloths and a bounty of food are peppered with happy neighbours.
“Fancy a beer?” she asks James as Petunia drifts off to mingle and Graham hurries forward to greet old Mrs Jenkins and add their crisps to the already overflowing table.
“Go on then.”
Lily weaves through the throng towards where Mrs Froggatt from the post office stands guard over an enormous tub of ice containing cold drinks.
“Oh, Lily dear,” Mrs Froggatt says, beaming up at her through thick-rimmed lenses. “So lovely to see you, we weren’t sure whether or not you’d be joining us… we’re all ever so sorry, didn’t get a chance to speak much at the funeral… lovely service… Rosalind was a wonderful lady, simply wonderful, we all miss her ever so much…”
“Thanks,” Lily says uncomfortably. “Er… may I have a couple beers, please?”
“Yes, love, of course—”
Lily takes them quickly and hurries back to where James stands, watching everything with an expression of wonderment.
“Sort of makes you wish you’d been born a Muggle,” he comments, accepting the bottle from her. “Wizards never do this sort of thing, we all live too far apart.”
“I mean, it’s not like this happens every day,” Lily says, taking a swig. “Today’s a special occasion.”
“All this for a mad old bat in a tiara.”
Lily laughs. “I thought you wanted to pay your respects to our sovereign.”
“Oh, I’m full of respect. Sitting in a chair all day must be dreadfully hard work.”
Lily is suddenly immensely glad of his presence, and yet a new nervousness overtakes her. She casts about for a subject. “How’s Sirius?”
“Good, I reckon— bought himself a flat in Brixton, it’s a bit of a dump but he’s happy,” James says with a shrug. “I’m sure he’d love to have you ‘round someday, seems like Mary’s been spending a lot of time there these days.”
“What?” Lily says, surprised. “Do you— are they—”
“Oh,” James replies with a laugh. “I don’t think so, just mates, and she’s in London as well, so…”
“Right,” Lily says.
“But surely Mary’s been telling you all about it?” James says with a frown.
Lily says nothing, clutching the neck of her bottle. She’s had a fair number of letters from Marlene so far, but only a few from Mary. Once she’d broken the news to her two best friends it had become apparent that Mary felt uncomfortable, unsure how to handle Lily’s grief… it was normal, to be expected… Lily couldn’t exactly blame her when before the death of her mother she would have been just as clueless about it. Lily can’t even begin to explain her newfound constant need for reassurance, for contact from anyone and everyone. It feels shameful.
A sudden gust of wind makes a nearby banner sustained by poles collapse, trailing along the ground as people dart out of the way.
“Looks like they might need help,” James says, moving forward concernedly as others rush to rectify the situation.
Lily ambles towards her father, who is shaking one of the bags of crisps into a large silver bowl.
“Oh, Lily, give us a hand,” Graham says, indicating the other bag. “I’ve just managed to free myself from Mrs Jenkins— she’ll want to fuss over you next, so be careful.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Lily says, opening the crisps.
“He’s a good lad,” Graham says casually, indicating where James is helping prop up the banner once again. “I like him.”
“Only because he plays sports.”
Graham huffs. “Well, you know I barely understand anything that goes on in your world. Not that I can make heads or tails of that Quiddish business… but I’m happy there’s good people out there that care about you. Makes me worry less, you know, when you’re off at school. So, he’s your boyfriend?”
“Dad! No, he’s just a friend.”
“Right, ‘course, ‘course,” Graham says slyly. “Well, feel free to invite him ‘round for tea if you like. Maybe Petunia can bring Vernon…”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Graham sighs. “Look, Lily… I know how hard it is for you girls right now… believe me, I… I miss her every day. But all we ever wanted… your mum and me, all we ever wanted was for the two of you to be happy, and for you to get along… it’s not easy, you know, being on my own…”
Lily swallows, a lump suddenly obstructing her throat. “Dad…”
The fallen banner suddenly springs into place, straightening itself as if by magic— a loud cheer goes up as James jogs back towards them, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Sorry,” he says, running a hand anxiously through his hair. “You don’t think your sister saw that, did she? It was going a bit slowly by hand and I was getting frustrated.”
Lily feels the blush creep up her face. “Nah, it’s perfect.”
A black motorcycle weaves down a narrow back street flanked with fences, jolting over the crumbling, weed-choked concrete. Riding it is a young man with a mop of dark hair framing a handsome face set with determination. Finally, he stops and dismounts beside some bins, flicking out the kickstand with his foot.
He shrugs off his leather jacket and vaults over a low brick wall, cutting through a back garden and ducking through the gate onto the main street.
The young man regards the bunting strung between the terraced houses of Bensham Manor Road. It’s not quite as extravagant as the display in Cokeworth, but the street is lively and full of children running freely to and fro, in and out of the open doors of the houses.
Sirius lights a cigarette and dawdles in front of a Caribbean restaurant with a sign that reads “Closed for Jubilee.” A few moments later, a girl comes tearing out of the door that leads to the flat above the restaurant and makes a beeline for him.
“Hey,” Mary says breathlessly. “Come on then, we’ll be late.”
“Late for what?” Sirius says through a puff of smoke. “You still haven’t told me what’s so important. Is it this Jubilee thing? It’s all over London, you know.”
“Nah,” Mary says. “Better than that. You’ll see when we get there. I only found about this yesterday, some of Lewis’s mates, you know, from his music, told me about it, only it’s difficult enough to get in unless you know the right people— ‘course, we’ve got magic.”
“My bike’s back there,” Sirius says, nodding in the direction of the alley. But Mary shakes her head.
“Unless it can fly, we’ll never get there in time. Half London’s closed off. Let’s just Apparate.”
Sirius shrugs, flicking away his cigarette. “Fine then.”
Mary grips his arm and turns on the spot; they reappear behind a wrought iron gate that looks out onto a wide, tree-lined avenue.
“Where are we?” Sirius says, looking around.
“Charing Cross Pier,” Mary says, tapping her wand against the gate; it springs open. “This way.”
She leads him around the corner towards an embankment pier, at the end of which Sirius can see a gaggle of people clustered around a Muggle boat— not as big as some of the ones he’s seen on the Thames, but bigger than any vessels that wizards typically make use of.
“We’re going on that?” he says sceptically.
“Just wait and see,” Mary replies, steering him forward.
As they draw near, Sirius notes that this particular group of Muggles is clearly unusual, in both behaviour and dress— their clothes are ripped, painted, held together by bits of metal; dark makeup is smeared on many of their faces, and their hair is oddly shaped and brightly coloured. Their movements are erratic, their faces unfocused in a manner that Sirius recognises as drunkenness, despite it being early in the afternoon. Thumping music of the sort that Mary’s brother Lewis listens to is blaring from somewhere on the boat.
More of the strange Muggles are already on the boat, on which a yellow banner is strung, painted with words in red and blue:
H.M.S. QUEEN ELIZABETH WELCOMES SEX PISTOLS THEIR SINGLE GOD SAVE THE QUEEN OUT NOW
Sirius squints at the words, unable to make heads or tails of their meaning.
“What’s a pistol?” he mumbles to Mary.
She laughs. “I’ll explain in a bit.”
Grabbing his hand, she tugs him through the crowd. They stop before a broad-shouldered man, who looks down at them suspiciously with a fag dangling from his lips.
“We’ve been invited,” Mary says confidently. “Sirius Black and Mary MacDonald.”
He regards a crumpled piece of paper clutched in his huge fist, eyes narrowing. “I don’t…”
Next to him, Sirius feels Mary make an odd movement. The man’s eyes seem to momentarily drift out of focus. Then he nods.
“Yeah, go on then.”
Mary turns to wink at Sirius, and they head up the gangplank, joining the crowd on the boat, who are just as strange— if not moreso— than those ashore. Most are downing cans of lager— one of these cans is suddenly thrust into Sirius’s hand.
“Mate, why aren’t you drinking?” shouts a man with spiky black hair, before lurching away into the crowd.
Sirius shrugs and opens the can with a pop. “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“It’s a band,” Mary says, somehow already in possession of a can of her own. “The Sex Pistols. It’s punk music. They’ve got a new song out— look, that’s them over there.”
Sirius follows her nod towards a group of people near the prow. The most immediately eye-catching is a man with unnaturally ginger hair and a white suit jacket, who speaks seriously, almost sullenly to his companions, and the photographers who hover around him.
“Who’s he?”
“Johnny Rotten,” Mary says.
“What sort of a name is that?” Sirius says. His attention is diverted by a group of people huddled on the floor near the entrance to the cabin— using little paper tubes, they inhale some sort of white powder.
“What are they doing? Is that snuff?” Sirius asks Mary in a low voice, thinking of his mother’s little silver box at Grimmauld Place.
“Oh,” Mary says, making a face. “Probably sulphate. Best to just stay away from that stuff.”
Raised voices and a sudden shuddering under their feet alerts them that the boat is getting underway. The feeling of the floor vibrating is disconcerting to Sirius, and he grips the rail behind him as they slowly begin to chug away from the embankment. The wind is biting against his face, but as they pick up speed he feels secure enough to let go and wander vaguely towards Johnny Rotten and his entourage. Over the music and the wind Sirius can’t discern much of their conversation, so he turns back around and rejoins Mary at the railing, watching London float by.
“So what’s this lot all about?” Sirius asks Mary. “They don’t look like most Muggles.”
“They’re not. They’re punks. It’s s’posed to be about being against the monarchy, making a statement though I reckon it’s a bit of a publicity stunt too.” She shrugs. “Still, should be good.”
“They don’t know about the war, do they?”
“Nah. But Muggles have enough injustice of their own, believe me.”
Sirius frowns. “Yeah, I know a bit about it.”
“Toby been talking your ear off?”
Sirius nods. Mary’s eldest brother Toby is part of an activist group near where Sirius lives in Brixton, and he’s just as passionate about his cause as his sister is about hers— the few interactions Sirius has had with him have indeed been something of a history lesson, although Sirius doesn’t understand half of what he’s referring to. It’s marginally easier to talk to Lewis, who just plays them ‘dub’ on his beat up turntable and lets them smoke something called ‘collie’.
“Well, it’s just as miserable right now for them as it is for us,” Mary says pensively.
The boat starts to turn at Greenwich, heading at a steady pace back down the Thames. Sirius notes that the mood seems to have shifted into something rowdy and impatient, verging on unstable— sure enough, a commotion breaks out on the deck and they watch as a photographer and a lanky blonde youth engage in an ugly tussle.
“I think that’s Jah Wobble,” Mary remarks, wrinkling her nose.
Johnny Rotten and the rest of them have disappeared, presumably below decks. Sirius crumples up his empty can and tosses it into a steadily growing pile between a coil of rope on the deck.
“They had better start playing soon.”
Almost as soon as she says it, they hear a truly awful screeching noise from somewhere inside the boat.
“Come on!” Mary says, grasping his arm and pulling him along with the crowd of people that seems to surge towards the entrance.
Mary and Sirius manage to squeeze in through the side and are near enough to where a makeshift stage has been erected under a canopy. Sirius has a good view of Johnny Rotten at the very front, the rest of the band behind him clutching odd-looking instruments.
“Alright this first one’s called Pretty Vacant,” Johnny Rotten says almost in a bored voice, which is amplified— Sirius assumes by the weird stick thing he’s speaking into.
Then the music starts to wails of approval from the crowd. It’s discordant, almost ugly and savage, but the crowd seem to love it, dancing in lurching, jerky bursts, smashing into each other with abandon.
There's no point in asking, you'll get no reply
Oh just remember I don't decide
I got no reason it's all too much
You'll always find us
Out to lunch
A girl with short hair crashes into Sirius’s back— he turns and sees her eyes are unfocused, her jaw wobbling back and forth oddly. Mary gives her a gentle but firm push back into the crowd.
“You have to go with it,” Mary shouts over the din, seemingly conjuring a can of lager from thin air and passing it to him.
Sirius takes a swig and goes with it. As he starts making the same lurching movements as everyone else, he finds himself enjoying both the music and the atmosphere— violent, dirty as it is, it’s fun, it’s freeing. He closes his eyes and imagines the look on Walburga’s face if she could only see him now.
We're pretty a-pretty vacant
We're pretty a-pretty vacant
And we don't caaare…
“It’s the coppers!” shouts someone nearby, and Sirius glances out of the porthole to see a few small boats have pulled up alongside, aiming beams of light at them. This doesn’t seem to particularly bother the band, who soon launch into a new song, Johnny Rotten screaming the lyrics with a crazed look in his eye.
More of the police boats have gathered around them now, and one of the policemen is shouting something at them through a megaphone that can’t be made out over the music. The boat starts listing to the right.
There’s a clunk as the boat makes contact with the pier, and now Sirius can make out the words being said through the megaphone:
“Get off the vessel as soon as you can. The licensee of this premises wants you off, so please leave now, before there’s any further trouble.”
“Yeah, right,” Mary says. “There’ll definitely be trouble.”
The power shuts off— the drummer is still hammering away and they can hear Johnny Rotten screaming “NO FUN! NO FUN!” over the jumble of confused voices and general mayhem.
“C’mon.” Mary grasps him by the arm and they struggle to make their way through the crowd, which is haphazardly filtering towards the exit. On the pier, they can make out rows of grim police officers awaiting them, unbuckling truncheons from their belts and starting menacingly towards the gangplank.
It’s immediate chaos— the coppers collide violently into the mass, and Sirius tightens his hold on Mary’s arm as an elbow slams into the side of his face. He feels her twist away and loses his grip on her; as he turns to try and find her, he finds himself staring into a familiar face.
“Miller?” shouts Sirius.
Miller looks back at him, brow creasing in confusion, and then is immediately swatted aside and out of Sirius’s field of vision.
“Let’s get out of here!” Mary has reappeared and they manage to break away from the crowd, ducking under flailing limbs and around a corner. They can hear boots thundering behind them but Mary grasps his arm again and they turn on the spot:
Just like that, the pier is gone and they’re panting heavily in the back alley behind Mary’s house.
“Sorry, it got a bit hairy at the end there.” Mary wipes blood from her chin, and Sirius notices she’s sporting a nasty gash down the side of her face. “Someone hit me with a can,” she says in answer to his look. “You?”
Sirius gingerly touches his cheek, which is painful. “Not too bad,” he says offhandedly. “Is it always like that at these things?”
“No. Well, sort of.”
“Brilliant,” Sirius says. “Honest— I loved it. The Muggles are mad, but it’s brilliant,”
Mary nods knowingly. “I thought you’d feel that way. Anyway, I had better get in and get this cleaned up before Mum starts worrying.”
Sirius nods and watches her go, leaning against his motorbike and lighting up a cigarette. It’s almost full circle; he first came to Mary’s after losing Miller, and now, seconds after finding him and then losing him again, here he is at Mary’s once more. Funny, Sirius thinks to himself, pulling his leather jacket closer around himself. Funny the way fate works.
The only good thing about the Jubilee is that Sev is allowed to close up the shop early. Of course, he would have preferred to have the whole day off, but Salman was convinced that customers would be pouring in to buy overpriced Union Jacks and celebratory foods; so far, this has not been the case. The sad little basket of cheap flags has remained relatively untouched, and Sev can count on one hand how many stragglers from the main street parties have wandered in all day. It’s just his rotten luck that one of those stragglers happened to be her.
He could’ve been home all day instead, up in his filthy room smoking endless fags and waiting for Avery’s promised invitation, which never arrives and probably never will.
A bust all things considered, Sev reflects vindictively as he locks the till. He gropes under the counter until his fingers close on the neck of a dusty bottle, which he tucks into his jacket, just as the bell over the shop door jangles.
“We’re closed,” Sev drawls, not bothering to look up.
“Really?”
He recognises that voice. It’s an unwelcome one.
Petunia Evans runs her hands along the glossy magazines near the door. She eyes him beadily, her neatly curled hair framing her sour, thin face.
“I didn’t think you freaks were allowed to work normal jobs,” she says nastily.
“We’re allowed to do whatever we want,” Sev replies derisively. “And if you Muggles don’t let us, we just curse them.”
Petunia scoffs, ruffling the pages of a gossip rag. Sev’s gaze flicks to the door, which Petunia doesn’t miss.
“Wondering if Lily’s waiting outside, are you?” she says scornfully. “Yeah right. She’s probably busy kissing her freaky boyfriend goodbye.”
There’s a familiar lurch in the pit of his stomach— but this time Sev wills himself to control it, to not let it show on his face. He knows Petunia seeks to wound him, wind him up, this dance they’ve danced together ever since they were kids.
“Yeah, I bet you didn’t know about that, eh?” she continues, eyes glimmering with malice. “Lily and her freaky boyfriend from school in Cokeworth… she’s probably giving him the grand tour now, the slag.”
Sev does his utmost to not let his mind stray towards Lily and Mockridge, getting up to whatever it is that Petunia’s insinuating.
“What do I care?” he snaps.
“Oh, you care. You care so much it hurts.”
“Cunt.”
“Creep.”
“Hag.”
“Loser.”
She’s come all the way to the register now, right up in his face, her baby pink nails clutching the wooden edges of the counter like talons.
Sev rolls his eyes. Then, holding her gaze, he extracts the bottle of whisky, uncorks it and takes a long draught. He looks her right in the eyes as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, the liquor burning its way down his throat.
“Drinking on the job… wait ‘til I tell Salman.”
“Like I said, we’re closed. You’re just trespassing.”
Petunia narrows her eyes, and then snatches the bottle with a baby pink-taloned hand. She takes a swig, coughing as the liquor goes down.
Sev laughs harshly at her misfortune, then ducks out from behind the counter and crosses past her towards the door. He pulls the shutters closed.
“What are you doing?”
“Locking up,” Sev replies, turning the key. He regards her, there leaning against the counter, and jerks his head towards the storeroom in the back. “Come on.”
He leads her through the shop and into the storeroom, stepping over a few haphazardly arranged crates and boxes towards the very back, where he flings himself into the faded armchair Salman sits in to do the books.
“Where am I supposed to sit, exactly?” Petunia snaps.
He reaches over to yank the bottle out of her slackened grip. “Figure it out.”
Petunia rolls her eyes and finally perches on the desk, arranging the folds of her skirt under her bony bum before leaning back against the wall. Sev regards her for a moment, then takes a swig of whisky and passes it over to her.
“I should just get out of this pisshole,” Sev says into the silence, leaning back against the armchair and lighting a fag. “Don’t know why I don’t. I’ve got magic. I’m of age. Could just rob a bank or something, move to London.”
Petunia waves his cloud of smoke away. “As if the likes of you could afford London.”
“What d’you know about it anyway?”
“Well I live there, don’t I? I’m only back for a couple weeks to help Dad around the house, then I’m well shot of this place.”
“Congratulations,” Sev replies drily, taking a long drag. He lets it out in a single continuous stream, right in her direction.
“Actually, Vernon and I are thinking of getting a flat together.”
“Who the fuck’s Vernon?”
Petunia draws herself up haughtily. “He’s my boyfriend, if you must know. He’s a junior executive.”
Severus snatches the bottle from her and takes another swig. “Ooer, junior executive, is he?”
“Yeah, well it’s more than you’ve ever achieved.”
“You after his money then? He setting you up as a good little housewife to cook him his supper and spread her legs when he comes home from work?” Severus sneers. “Pathetic.”
“Give me that,” Petunia snaps, reaching over to wrest the bottle from his hand. “Don’t see how it’s any of your business. So what if he does want to marry me? He’s got good prospects. I could do a sight worse, like some blokes I needn’t mention.”
She gives him a disparaging once-over as she raises the bottle to her lips again. This is enough to incense Sev, who pushes himself up out of the armchair and into her space, flicking his drooping fag end away.
“You think you’re better than me,” he snarls, slamming his hands on the desk either side of her. “But I know your sort, always cosying up to money and influence, putting on airs, faking your accent... You’re still Cokeworth, you’re still from the same dirt as I am, even if you come from the nicer end of the dungheap. We’re both just looking for the fastest ticket out of here.”
Petunia lowers the bottle from her lips and carefully sets it aside. For a sliver of a second Severus thinks she’s about to smack him, and then she grabs his face and furiously presses his lips to hers.
Severus freezes, a million thoughts going through his head— and then one of her hands, baby pink nails and all, rakes downwards across his chest and cups his groin— suddenly, something else takes over, a sort of furious urgency that Sev has never known.
He yanks her roughly towards him, pushing her stupid flowery skirt up to reveal a good few inches of white calf and even a flash of whiter knickers; groaning, he pulls her head back by the hair and buries his face in her neck as the sharp nails of her other hand scrabble against his back. And there’s something…
A familiar scent there, under layers of girlish perfume, a scent of her… of Lily…
He inhales, trying desperately to draw more of it in, to envelop himself in it, to somehow believe that the bony body writhing against his is really that soft, supple one his mind knows so well, that the thin, dry hair between his fingers is really full and sweet-smelling and deep red…
Petunia pushes him backwards and he goes staggering. “Don’t you dare leave a mark, freak.”
Sev stares back at her hatefully, painfully aware of the strain in his trousers.
She unbuttons her blouse, sliding it off one shoulder to reveal a hint of frilly pink lace. Lily would never wear something as ridiculous as that. “Take your trousers off.”
He unbuckles them, shimmying them down his legs and tugging them roughly off his feet— his trainers flop onto the ground and one leg of his trousers gets stuck around his ankle, forcing him to hop in an ungainly fashion so as not to lose his balance. When he manages it, he stands there, in his pants and socks, feeling awfully exposed before her critical gaze.
But she slides off the table, coming towards him, blouse pulled down off one shoulder. He can see her breasts, not nearly as full as he imagines Lily’s to be, rising and falling sharply.
She pushes him backwards; his legs buckle against the armchair and he falls into it, before he can adjust himself she’s on him, one hand fishing into his pants and then somehow she lowers herself down right onto him.
“Do something, you idiot!” she snarls through gritted teeth into his ear.
Sev hastily begins to jerk his pelvis upwards, which seems to be what Petunia wants because she starts making odd shrieking noises. He buries his face in her neck again and her nails claw at his back.
“Don’t you dare think about her when you’re inside me.”
Sev inhales savagely, screws up his face and he thinks about her more than he’s ever done before, Lily, Lily, Lily… he can see her, Lily, in his mind’s eye now, her summer dress, the dusting of freckles across her thighs…
And it happens all too quickly— he lets out a guttural, choked yell into her hair and collapses forward against her, his heart beating so fast and loud it must be bruising the inside of his chest.
Petunia gingerly extricates herself and adjusts her skirt, hooking a finger under it to move her knickers back into place. Sev flops backwards into the armchair and watches her button up her blouse again. He lights another fag, the momentary rush of pleasure quickly giving way to sullen apathy.
She looks up. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone—”
“Like I’d want to tell anyone I shagged you.”
Petunia says nothing, now carefully fluffing out her blonde hair.
“Don’t worry,” Sev sneers. “Your posh London boyfriend’s not going to find out.”
“Shut up. I shouldn’t even be here. I only came back for the funeral anyway.”
“Funeral?” Sev says listlessly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “What funeral?”
An hour later, Severus creeps through the darkening street, picking his way around the last vestiges of the Jubilee street parties. His eyes still feel tender and the cooling air feels sharper on the still-fresh tear tracks that run down his face. He hasn’t wiped them away yet. He owes Rosalind that.
Rosalind Evans… the woman who was always so kind to him, fed him, treated him like a child worthy of compassion rather than a freak of nature in his patchy, oddly-fitting clothes… Rosalind is gone. And nobody told him. As he turns onto the grimy street with its familiar rows of terraced brick houses, Severus reflects how unjust it is that such a good mother lost her life when his piece of shite waste of space parents still live and take up precious air. He’d gladly trade either one of them for Lily’s mum. If only Lily knew that.
Filled with sudden anger at the unfairness of it all, Sev kicks at the rusty iron gate in front of his house, causing it to bang open. The door, too, flies open at his touch.
Eileen greets him on the stairs. Severus regards her, how different she is to Mrs. Evans, how much of a disgrace, a disappointment she seems by comparison. How ashamed he is of her.
“You’ve had a letter,” Eileen says, holding it out. “You know your dad doesn’t like the owls. You know how much of a racket—”
“Fuck if I care,” Severus says, snatching the letter from her and barrelling past her up the stairs and barricading himself in his room.
Finally— finally, here it is. The letter he’s been waiting for, promising an invite into Avery’s world and all that lies beyond. Severus lies on his bed, clutching the unopened letter to his chest. Last night, this letter would have been cause for celebration. Today, however, the world feels different.
He isn’t a virgin anymore.
Rosalind Evans is gone.
And he, Sev, just shagged her daughter. Only trouble is, it was the wrong one.
“Those bitter sorrows of childhood!-- when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.”
-George Eliot