milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Lily comes into the bar this evening in her favorite Muggle dresses, hair pulled back with a vaguely floral gold barrette set with a very sparkly, deep blue stone. It doesn't exactly match the green dress she's wearing (as Petunia pointed out three times on the way to Christmas Eve services earlier), but it was a Christmas present from James and Lily likes it, so she wore it regardless (and will likely do so again, and frequently).

Bar presents her with both a mug of hot butterbeer and a copy of the Christmas edition of The Daily Prophet, with a note clipped to the front that reads see page four.

There are two things on page four, and both are distracting enough that Lily is completely ignoring her drink.

The first is a pair of photographs of 'Father Christmas' visiting the children at St. Mungo's on Christmas Eve. And while he's not identified by any other name, it would be more or less impossible to not recognize the headmaster.

The other is a long report of the Minister for Magic's Christmas party on the 23rd, which sounds like quite the event. The paper goes into great detail about the elaborately decorated Christmas trees, the animated dancing ice sculptures, the snow that fell from the ceiling but evaporated before hitting the floor, the special performance by Celestina Warbeck.

There's a partial list of the guests, as well, though Lily only knows some of the names – Professors Slughorn and Dumbledore (the latter as himself this time), textbook authors Bathilda Bagshot and Miranda Groshawk, a couple of Quidditch players Cliona has mentioned, a few last names she recognizes from Hogwarts classmates. And, of course, 'Mr and Mrs Harold Potter and their son, Mr James Potter.'

Lily will stop staring in a moment or two.

Though probably not before her butterbeer has gone cold.

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"Not t'me personally. I've always walked out precisely where I came in. But t'friends of mine, it has. Whole seasons have passed."

Awkward doesn't even begin to describe it.

She smiles and shakes her head, nonjudgmental.

"I've grown lax my own self. When my father was alive, we always attended Sunday services; since his death, I grew more infrequent. Now I can't even remember the last time I heard a service. I always loved Christmas, though. Our little church would shine."

"It's one of my favorite parts of Christmas. Everything in church is shiny and bright and joyful. Hopeful. But ... simple, you know?

"School's stunning this time of year. We have these great huge Christmas trees and the fairy lights really are fairies and it's all dazzling, but ... I dunno. Sometimes the things that aren't magical are more magical than, say, dancing ice sculptures."

Yeah, that part of the article made an impression.

Because ... dancing ice sculptures.

Her smile widens, and the more Miss Lily talks, the more her eyes widen as well.

"Maybe for someone used t'magic," she points out with a chuckle. "I mean, I understand what you're sayin'. An' I agree. For all the shine an' whimsy of the bar, it doesn't hold a candle to — well, candlelight. Or starlight. The kinds of things that remind me of home."

Beat.

"Dancing ice sculptures?"

Lily nods. "At the Minister for Magic's Christmas party."

She hands the Prophet over to Miss Barlow.

"There's a picture and everything."

The photograph in question -- which is, of course, moving -- shows a handful of partygoers watching an exquisitely carved ice couple, in Victorian garb, waltzing on a small platform.

She takes the paper, and if it's possible for her eyes to grow any wider they might, in fact, stick that way. She points at the picture.

"Goodness gracious, look at that!"

She's seen all manner of modern print, from 'notebook' computers to telephones with television screens — even holographs — but there's something truly awe-inspiring about a newspaper with moving pictures. Her eyes scan over the article.

"I've never seen anythin' like it; not even here!"

"There's a special potion for developing film, it makes the printed photographs move.

"Painted portraits can move, too. Or go visit other pictures in other frames. And talk.

"It took me the longest time to get used to it. Of course, my friends who grew up with Wizard parents find it bizarre that I have pictures that don't move."

She arches her eyebrows.

"Sounds almost ghoulish. Paintings that can move about an' speak? I imagine it would take me quite some time t'get used to it as well."

She might have to cover them all with sheets.

"Your parents aren't Wizards too, then?"

And Lily hasn't even mentioned the time she got lectured by a showerhead.

"No, they're not," Lily says, with a shake of her head. "Neither is my sister. Just me.

"It's not exactly common -- most of my classmates have at least one parent who's a wizard or a witch -- but it's not exactly uncommon either. I'm hardly the only Muggleborn witch at Hogwarts."

That, perhaps, is a story for another time. A time when Kate can be properly gobsmacked.

"Oh, I see. So, there's no barriers between the two? No ... segregation?"

She's heard 'Muggle' used as an insult before, but not for a long time. Given what little she knows, she always thought the two communities were separated from each other.

"Well, I don't think I'd say that," Lily says.

"I mean, the average Muggle doesn't know wizards exist. My parents only know because you can't exactly take someone's eleven-year-old daughter off to study at a magical boarding school without telling them she's a witch.

"There's a Statute of Secrecy, both because of persecution in the past because, and because magic really can't solve every problem, but if someone's frame of reference for it is ... fairy godmothers and Prospero, it can create unfulfillable expectations. And things got nasty, sometimes, before the Statute.

"And as for wizards ... there's definitely a class of wizards who consider it important that they're purebloods, people who have all magical ancestors. Or at least as far as they'll admit. Not all purebloods care, of course, but some of them ... well, there's defintitely prejudice.

"And to them, I'm be an aberration and somehow 'less', and my boyfriend, who is a pureblood, is blood traitor."

She listens with all attentiveness, nodding along. She'd never thought about the possibility of non-magic-practicing people trying to take advantage of those who do, but the moment Lily mentions it she thinks it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Statute of Secrecy. Sounds complicated, havin' t'keep somethin' like that secret. Though, now that y'mention it, I guess it's not uncommon. I know mutants an' superheroes in different worlds hafta have the same thing. I'm so used t'Milliways I wouldn't even think about forcin' someone t'use their gifts for my benefit — or hatin' them for it."

Though, she understands that, too. 'Witch' is an ugly word in her world, and for anyone practicing magic the punishment would be severe. She came to Milliways with a lot of fears and prejudices that have taken years to understand. But one thing she doesn't need help with is Lily's final remark. A line forms between her brows, and she looks down.

Traitor.

"Are there laws against you two bein' together? Is it dangerous?"

"No laws, nothing so formal. Raised eyebrows, maybe, and probably unkind remarks. Not from everyone, you understand.

"As for dangerous ... well, the people who feel that way tend to feel that way very strongly. They don't necessarily control our society, but some of them are not exactly without influence, either. And people who define themselves by the ways they think they're better than other people can be dangerous when that idea is threatened. D'you know what I mean?"

She breathes a very small sigh of relief.

Her lips twist crookedly, and she nods.

"Yes, I think I do. I went through somethin' similar myself."

"Did you?

"What happened? Can I ask?"

She sets the paper down.

"In my world, white men tend t'look down on men of other colors. For a long time, those with black skin were only looked at as slaves. Now that they're free men, they still don't have the same rights as white people do.

"I — fell in love with a man of color. He was one of my dearest friends. I'd been pursued by many men, includin' one of our most prominent land owners. His daddy owned half the town, an' he spent his whole life thinkin' he was better than everyone else. I turned him down, and when he found out Sam an' I had been kissin', he came with torches, an' a mob.

"Y'see, it is against the law, in my world, for a black man t'kiss a white woman. An' so this young man — Charles Walker — burned down my school, Sam's cart an' mule, an' chased us out to the middle of the lake where I used t'live before he shot Sam t'death."

She looks down, chewing on her bottom lip. After all these years, she still can't tell the story without tears coming to her eyes.

"And it was all perfectly legal."

"Oh, Miss Barlow, that's horrid.

"I'm so sorry."

Lily produces her handkerchief and offers it to Miss Barlow.

"I don't even know what to say beyond that's horrid, which doesn't even come close, does it?"

She waves off the proffered kerchief, reaching to an inside pocket for one of her own.

"Thank you," she says, regardless. "It's all right. Well, it's not all right — it's awful, an' unjust. He was a sweet man. The kindest man I've ever known. He didn't deserve that."

She dabs at the corners of her eyes, quietly clearing her throat. She smiles weakly, and shakes her head.

"I know what it's like t'know men who think in ways like 'pure-blood' an' 'half-breed'. T'somehow justify thinkin' less of a body who comes from different roots, or mixes company with those who do. It's all a load of hogwash, Miss Lily. You hold on to what y'know is right."

Lily nods. "I will."

Even when it's not especially easy to do so.

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