Chapter Text
It's not exactly their twenty-fifth anniversary, not yet, but they'd planned to get together with family and friends on the day of, so a sneaky little date a few days before was to be expected.
Lily holds in a snort as James pulls out her chair with a flourishing flick of the wrist, before turning the display of wandless magic into cheesy finger guns.
"Sit, my love." She says, after an eye roll, hands smoothing out her gown, ankles crossing over each other as she takes her seat. A familiar swell of magic is all the warning she gets before she's been tucked to the edge of their table, chair pushed in.
James grins, wide and rakish, before his expression softens, his dimples fading but his laugh lines remaining. His eyes don't twinkle, nothing so cliche, but there is a certain light in them that she knows is reflected in her own. She can feel it, the love burning under her breast, flames fed by her pulse, her lifeblood.
"Of course," he winks, before finally taking a seat, "Whatever you say," His brow wiggles, a leather shoe teasing along the edge of her calf, "Whatever you say."
The innuendo once would have made her blush, before spurring her on to the defensive, reaction explosive. Now, as his foot traces higher and higher up her leg, hidden beneath the soft tablecloth draping over the fine, round table they sit at, she doesn't blink twice.
Now, all Lily does is motion for the sommelier hovering off in the corner, a wicked smile tugging at her red lips.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Lily's finishing her first glass of wand-wood barreled whiskey, a rare treat, basking in comfortable silence as the both of them take a moment to savor the view, the familiar skyline beneath their feet, when a familiar laugh catches her attention.
She brushes it off. It wouldn't be the first time she'd heard Harry's laugh, phantom in her mind. More so recently. She misses him. Lily knows it's natural, expected really, for children to grow up, fly the coop, but she'd always counted on having a few more years, a few more months, a few more days.
Harry had moved out what couldn't be more than six months ago, and she misses him dearly.
"Lily," James sighs, his hand tightening over hers, thumb beginning reassuring circles on her skin, "He's just a floo away."
She smiles, glancing back at her husband, "That obvious?"
His eyes crinkle at the edges, "And more."
James takes a sip of his wine, doing his little scenting that Lily, even after all these years, couldn't help but consider especially frou-frou, before continuing.
"I get it Lils, I do, but Harry is a grown man. He needs his own space, somewhere without his parents there to watch his every move."
Lily narrows her eyes, "I know that."
James smiles again, a lopsided, wonderful thing, "I know you do."
Then, that laugh. Lily sees James react, a slight furrowing of his brows.
"Did you?" She trails off, knowing that he'd understand.
"Yes."
Both of them begin to look around, attempting to be surreptitious. Lily steps on James' foot the moment he stops glancing and starts whipping his head around, all frantic.
"James," she hisses, unconsciously hunching forward as she lowers her tone, "Stop that."
His response is lost. As soon as he opens his mouth, tongue clicking in a way that signifies his annoyance, both of them finally spot their son.
There's not many tables available here, the magic that keeps them suspended above the London skyline being fickle and taking considerable effort. Each night thirteen couples are guided to their reservation. The layout is circular rather than gridded, the tables gently flowing around, with six in the outer ring, then four, then two, then one right in the middle.
The heart is the only table that stays stationary. They never go for that one, even when it's available. Both prefer the gentle breeze as they hover in the sky, above the smog. Being able to appreciate a new angle of the same view they love, to feel the moon shine on their skin, on both their faces.
Their son doesn't seem to share their sentiment. Right at the heart, back to them, Harry takes a seat.
Across from him, the Minister of Magic does the same.
"Lily," James whispers, hand slapping the top of hers, tap-tap-tap, "Lily are you seeing-"
"Yes!" She exclaims, before remembering herself, "Yes James, I am."
Her husband leans back from his conspiratorial hunch, shoulders slumping as his back hits his chair.
"Merlin," his hand lazily strays towards his near empty wine glass, and as the sommelier comes forward Lily has the mind to signal to leave the bottle, "Merlin, our very own son."
Lily nods, fingers whitening on her glass.
Consorting with the slimiest Minister—no, politician—in decades!
"He's a sugar baby!"
Lily pauses, before staring at her husband with a practiced sort of befuddlement. She worries for him, sometimes.
"Love," she says, abandoning her whiskey to grab James' hand again, "If anything, that dastardly, unabashed social climber is Harry’s."
"You're saying," James continues, absentmindedly swirling his fresh glass of wine, "That the Minister, the very Minister of all Magic for the Isles, doesn't even get paid enough to afford Quidditch box tickets?"
Lily, very solemnly, nods, "They're complimentary."
James shakes his head, "To him, our son must be… Well, like Merlin's bollocks. Both of them. His wand too," he motions with both hands, wine sloshing, "The whole package."
Lily doesn't bother suppressing her reaction—she's earned it, the ability to freely mock her husband—letting out a long sigh.
"You could say that."
They take a moment to stare at their son in their peripheral vision, the intent way the Minister stares at him, before returning focus to each other.
"How long do you think?" She asks.
James hums, "Well, you and I both know what it takes to come here."
"Two years of dating." Lily says, right as James adds, "A big, bloody pile of galleons."
"That too." Lily concedes. Financial investment is a notable measure of any relationship. Her train of thought quickly derails— she can't help but factor in the implicit meaning of the Minister willing to be seen publicly with their son. Such a simply grand gesture.
Not a fling then, she concludes.
"Look," James whispers, urgent, "Harry just took right off his plate!"
Definitely not a fling.
"Speaking of," Lily grabs hold of her wand, tapping their table and signaling to their waiter, "Where are ours?"
James looks down, as if just realizing he didn't have food to ignore, before a righteous sort of fury seeps into his tone, "We ordered long before they did!"
"That's right," Lily agrees, lips thinning, "What a blatant show of favoritism. And to think! We've been patrons for two decades."
"Two decades!" James echoes.
The Minister puts down his glass, and with his free hand reaches out and dabs at Harry's chin with a napkin. Harry lets him, completely pliant, as if used to such behavior.
"Bloody hell." Lily mutters. James is wide eyed, staring at both of them in complete bafflement.
Then, their waiter finally deigns to make an appearance, and his confusion morphs into annoyance, brow ticking up as he stares them down.
"So sorry," James imitates, voice going nasally, "So sorry that I can't be off licking the Minister's arsehole!"
"James!" Lily stomps on his foot, interrupting his scorning of their waiter, "Don't say that!"
"What? Arsehole?"
"No," she furtively looks at her son, the one who'd given no indication to them whatsoever that he played for more than one team, "Licking."
Realization dawns quickly, a faint grimace twisting his face.
"Good idea."
Both of them take the chance to eat a few bites from their recently arrived food, but the veneer of actually eating their dinner doesn’t last long. After a few moments James drops his cutlery with a clink.
"Do you think it's offensive?"
"What?" Lily stops the aimless wandering of her fork, taking a decisive stab at her greens.
"Insinuating that ingratiating ingrates lick the Minister's arse." James clarifies.
"Well yes," she flicks her eyes up at him, "That's the point."
"No," James groans, before going silent as he chews his pasta, still in the horrible habit of eating when speaking, "More so, since he's," His hand gesticulates in the air, conveying a meaning lost to her, before he comes out with it, "Gay. Or, an open hearted opportunist, at the very least."
She thinks this over, stealing a bite from James' plate in the process. His appreciative expression made the pasta seem so good and she knew he wouldn't mind, "Only if you make it."
James contemplates this, before making a faint agreeing noise, taking a sip of wine.
Harry laughs again, the sound melodious and traveling in the air, all the way to them.
"Why him," Lily rants on, having finished her tirade about the Minister's horrible foreign policy, defined by a distinct lack of multilateralism or anything that could be vaguely described as cooperative, "There are plenty of good looking snakes!"
James raises an eyebrow, "Who are currently the Minister of Magic?"
He doesn't wait for her response, knowing the faint downturn of her lips is all she'll give, "You have to give it to our Harry. He certainly has standards."
Lily scoffs, hastily chewing her sirloin before speaking, "Perhaps, in a certain sense. But morally? But concerning his dignity?" She shakes her head.
"Lils," James implores her, making his eyes go big and sparkling in a way ridiculous for a man of his dignified age, in a way that has no business working, "We have to give him the benefit of the doubt. For Harry."
It works.
She doesn't bother signaling for more whiskey. Lily reaches across their table and snags James' half-empty wine glass. He lets her down it without interruption.
"Better?"
She stares at him over the rim, his features looking funny through the reflected light of the crystal, "Eh."
Their dessert rots as they drink, more and more. They don't indulge very often, not anymore, but both of them have retained the high tolerance of their youth, and both of them silently agreed on making use of it tonight.
"So," Lily finally says, "We should go say hello. Goodbye." She waves a hand in the air, frustrated with herself, "You know what I mean."
James slams into their table with his torso in his haste to look back at her, to untwist from where he'd been staring at their son and Tom—Lily thinks she can call the Minister by name now, considering the way he’d been eye-fucking her son all evening—horror evident.
"No, Lils, no we shouldn't!"
Lily wags her finger, "Oh yes, yes we should." She’d have grandchildren by now, considering the vigorous intent of Tom’s gaze, all fully formed and miraculously appearing, if that’s how conception worked. She’s owed some recompense.
"No," He hisses, "No!"
Lily has quite a fantastic argument on the tip of her tongue, but suddenly, everything goes quiet. She watches as her son grabs Tom's hand, lifting it to his lips. The Minister doesn't blush, but there's a warmth to his eyes, to his cold, dead fish eyes, like a salmon that’s been dropped back into the river, renewed by a second chance at life.
She's staring blatantly, and neither appears to notice. It's like they're in their own bubble, lost to the world. Really, she and James have been obnoxious, one of them, both of them, should have seen them. Noticed her and James going through the various stages of grief.
But they only have eyes for each other.
Lily sees this, and inexplicably she smiles, turning back to her husband. Noise filters back in, but she doesn’t pay it any mind.
"Okay."
"Okay?" James repeats, a hand reaching out to hers, as if to steady her, reassure her, and not anchor her if she makes a run for it. He’s a bit of an anxious drunk.
"Yes," Lily repeats, brimming with love, because she's an emotional drunk, squeezing his warm hand back, "Yes, it's all okay, love."
Lily taps her wand on their table, and ensures their waiter knows to pack their dessert very carefully for the floo home.
"I still think he has a horrible, sociopathic look to him, but he does make it work." She's tossing her heels off, both of them having managed to not faceplant out of the floo, or stumble on the stairs.
"He does," James tugs off his tie, dropping the bag of their very carefully packed dessert carelessly to the floor, "Very fishy."
Lily brightens, turning to her husband, "That's what I thought!"
She turns, and then she's walking towards him, a sly little smile on her lips, recalling earlier, before their son had inadvertently crashed their date. Before a slice of her life had been turned upside down and smashed into her face, frosting up her nostrils.
"Anything I say?" She's got an idea for a different sort of frosting, and a different sort of body part.
James smirks, looking back at her through the mirror.
"Anything."
They manage to keep their lips sealed about the whole affair. They have dinner with Harry every Sunday, and there's not a mention of a significant other, or a certain special Minister.
Both of them keep an eye on various papers, tabloids and gossip rags and the like, but strangely, there's not a single whisper of them there, either.
"He's suppressing free speech!" Lily declares over her morning tea.
James looks up from their mail, the Daily Prophet and an oddly marked envelope in hand, brow quirked, "How'd you figure?"
She gives him a look. Her nose scrunches in distaste.
"Yeah," he says, obviously having recalled what they'd seen, been forced to bear witness to the last time they'd been to Diagon, their favorite side-alley claimed, practically pissed all over by their very own, very eager offspring, "That's fair."
Then, one dinner, Harry doesn't floo in alone.
"Mum, Dad," he begins, looking a bit nervous but mostly defiant, chin raised, "I need to tell you-"
James cuts him off, already at Tom's side, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Harry doesn't have control over the vaults until we both die, and if you don't take both of us out in one blow, the other will ensure your entire bloodline is unable to touch a single galleon of the Potter inheritance for as long as it exists. Which won’t be long if you kill only one of us."
Lily opens her mouth to add more, but finds her husband's explanation to be satisfactory.
Harry's jaw is on the floor, and his cheeks are flushed an adorable pink, but Tom seems to have taken this at face value, appraising them.
Lily smiles at him, meeting his gaze.
"One blow?" She says, enjoying the shock that brings some life to his cold, dead fish eyes—what did all those mental barriers matter when expressions said so much?—before turning to her son, "At the very least, I'm glad you picked a strategist."
Lily takes Harry by the arm, patting him reassuringly, leading him to the dining room and leaving Tom and James to stew it out, "Merlin knows you need it, taking your secret date to our favorite restaurant, days before our anniversary."
Harry sputters, before breaking out into laughter. His eyes glimmer with realization, before dampening into something softer.
"Yeah," her son looks down at her, making use of the inches he's got, relief so evident in his eyes, her eyes, "Yeah, you're right."
Lily pats his arm again, before splitting off to take her seat.
"You'll find I often am," she pivots the direction of her sentence immediately upon seeing Tom and James enter, "Which is why," She waves both of them over, "I wanted to talk to you about your domestic agenda, Tom."
Tom is unflinching, but the way his eyes dart to her son, as if testing the waters through his reactions, doesn't escape her notice. The Minister is known for his cool charisma, his unfaltering nature.
He falters as her house elves fill their glasses, as he sits at her dinner table, welcome only because her son has taken an interest.
"Well?" James prompts, sharing a glance with her, ever on her wavelength.
She expects Harry to defend him in some way, to change the subject, but oddly enough he stays silent, simply reaching out for his glass. Lily watches the moment he realizes his glass is actual wine, and not the grape juice they'd been teasing him with for years. His reaction is small and controlled, and very interesting. He’s exuding a calmness, an inner peace she’d only ever see him wear alongside his dueling robes.
Lily's smile grows larger. She makes deliberate eye contact with the Minister of Magic, with Tom.
By Merlin, am I going to enjoy this.
She does.