Chapter Text
Prologue: Begin, Again
Lily was running late. Significantly late. Some would call it irony when considering the career in which she made a living. She too would see the humour if she wasn't desperately trying to avoid breaking the cardinal sin of all event managers.
Tardiness was intolerable.
How many times had she said that to a vendor running behind on a delivery? Or a designer who delayed getting artwork created for the printers?
It was her job to be punctual to the point of annoyance, to be regimented and precise.
But she was certainly going to be twenty minutes late for her first day at her new job at Hogshead Publishing House. And she wouldn't even have pastries to soften the blow.
She had nothing to blame but her alarm.
Well, okay , if she was being technical there wasn't anything wrong with the alarm itself. It didn't force her to hit the snooze button four times. Though in her defence, she was pretty bloody tired from unpacking moving boxes.
And to add insult to injury, she had decided on an outfit that did not lend well to a rapid walk to the office: a tight navy pencil skirt with matching jacket and a pair of grey heels a couple of inches taller than the normal (sensible) flats she defaults to.
The sleek silver watch on her wrist told her she was seventeen minutes late when she arrived at the dark-blue painted brick facade of the publisher.
Pressing through the spotless glass door, she didn’t have time to marvel at the sleek modern design. The office building had sharp-edged furnishings, pops of colorful artwork, and shiny well-lit rooms. But just when she didn’t expect it, splashes of exposed brick or distressed wood popped up, a juxtaposition that worked splendidly.
Unfortunately tardiness tended to snowball. Despite the ease with which she checked into the office, met with human resources, and was escorted to her desk, she was still late for her meeting with her boss Horace Slughorn, who previously she had only met over Teams. A portly fellow with a large, bushy mustache, Horace ushered her into his office with a booming hello that did not seem to align with Lily's lateness—though she would be the last to complain.
Afterwards, he introduced her to several other members of the team who had been waiting dutifully since they heard she had arrived. (She was going to need to bring loads of pastries tomorrow.)
The thoughts of food were unrelenting as she hurried through the hall to one of the meeting rooms on the far left of the building, a hike from her office, of course.
She slipped in through the door which was left ajar, hoping she could silently slide into the nearest chair and introduce herself when a natural pause in conversation happened. Instead, of course, her bloody heel (truly, what was she thinking?) got caught in a loose thread of carpet, causing her to stumble forward, letting out a highly professional "oomph" before she thankfully caught her balance against the wall.
"Sorry!" she blurted, righting herself as smartly as she could in front of several sets of eyes. "So sorry I'm late. I'm Lily—"
Her voice died in her throat when she spotted a pair of hazel eyes. Not just any hazel but the kind that stayed with a person for years .
She tried to swallow down her heart which persistently resisted her attempts. "Evans. Lily Evans."
Oh fuck.
Some days, James wished he could see into the future.
Not every day, by all means; most of the time, life was balanced enough between the fun and the not-so-fun, and he’d never been the sort to try to find out the plot of a film before he watched it. Spoilers, well, spoiled things.
But some days, it would be useful. And this was one of those days.
(His brother and best mate claimed to be able to predict the future. Sirius had decided he possessed the ‘inner eye’ back when they were seventeen and he happened to correctly guess what they would be having for dinner that night. If this was a skill that Sirius truly possessed—which James, for the record, did not believe—then he certainly wasn’t making the most of it by playing the lottery every week or anything like that. He liked to airily claim things like, “just because I can predict the future, doesn’t mean I should,” and, “with great power comes great responsibility, mate.” Knob.)
It was possible that, if James had taken the time to reflect on it first thing this morning, he might have realised the direction the wind was blowing. Things were off to an inauspicious start when he’d arrived at FHP Solutions, the PR firm that his father owned and where he was steadily, tediously, climbing the ranks. A highly successful stint (if he did say so himself) doing PR for a beleaguered football team had made James’ name better known in public relations circles, as well as impressing his boss, Minerva McGonagall—a woman not easily impressed. Unfortunately, his good work had meant that he was the first person who popped into her head when famed author Gilderoy Lockhart had been in contact, looking for new representation.
Everyone knew Lockhart, if only by reputation. He’d parted ways with his previous agent and their in-house PR, because, Minerva quoted wryly, “they just didn’t understand me”. James wondered whether it was more the case that they didn’t understand Lockhart’s unpredictable social media presence, or his dubious relationships with some of his more ardent groupies.
Still, they’d been summarily fired, and more fool them, because Lockhart was a big earner. He spent more on PR than most of their other author clients combined, and evidently, over the years, it had paid off: his star had risen, his books flew off the shelves, and you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who didn’t know who he was.
James, personally, thought his books were over-wrought. Ham-fisted. Banal, a word he didn’t enjoy using, since it made him feel like an elitist prick who’d swallowed a thesaurus. But unfortunately, it really did fit.
And so, when McGonagall delivered the news to him—that Lockhart would be his client, and his main client, the highest priority—James hadn’t been filled with the joys of spring. Working with a hack of a writer, someone known for being off the wall and hard to manage? Great. What more could he ask for?
When the day started like that, he should’ve known that it was a portent of darkness to come.
“You’ll need to get a move on,” McGonagall had said, checking her watch. “His new publisher is having a meeting to coordinate the publicity tour and it starts in thirty minutes.” She paused. “Twenty-nine, if we’re being precise.”
Bloody good thing the offices were only a few roads over, then. He hated being late.
So he was sitting there, in the conference room of Lockhart’s new publisher, surrounded by people acting in varying levels of sycophant towards the author himself—preening at them via video-link—and wondering if the worst that was going to happen today was that he’d forgotten to have any breakfast, when the door swung open.
And in walked the last person he expected to see.
Maybe, the last person he wanted to see.
Fourteen years earlier.
“You know,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music; she leaned in even closer, and he felt that familiar fizzle of electricity, something exciting and, crucially, reciprocal in a way it hadn’t been before they’d started sixth form. Something had changed over the past few months, and James was not going to waste time working out what it was. He just knew he liked the way she looked at him now: like she enjoyed his company, like she wanted to be near to him. It was intoxicating. “I’m glad you decided to come out tonight after all.”
She’d been telling him, earlier that day as they sat in the common room at school, idly making notes for their Psychology class but mainly watching their friends take part in an arm wrestling contest, that she wasn’t sure she would go. An end of term party, when it was bound to be cold and wet, and Bertha Jorkins’ parties were always a mess. “I’m just not sure it’s worth the effort,” she’d sighed, tucking a red curl behind her ear. “You know, getting all tarted up only to get rained on and have someone throw up on my shoes before nine o’clock.”
He had tried not to let his disappointment shine through too brightly. “Fair enough,” he’d said, but couldn’t help but add, “we’ll miss you, though.”
She had smiled at that, the same fond smile she wore now, crammed into Bertha’s living room and clutching a rum and coke.
“I’m glad I did, too,” she agreed, not dropping her gaze even as she took a long sip of her drink. “I should’ve known. You always do make things more fun.”
He grinned. Compliments from her could stoke his coals for days on end—Sirius would tell him later that he was insufferable. But he couldn’t help it. “We both do,” he decided. “Potter and Evans. A winning combination.”