El amor en Barcelona

A/N: Writing this has been quite the experience, and I know I'm just getting started. I've just fallen in love with the possibilities in AU, and I scribble down random bursts of thought I have in class. No other story I've written has gripped me like this one. I'm hoping that's a good thing.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all the familiar faces and places and things.

Dos

Yep, that is definitely Lynn Potter, my former boyfriend's mum, who's not even supposed to be in this country. But here she is, in Spain, in Barcelona, at my boss' party.

It's a mad, mad world.

"Lynn! What are you doing here?" I'm not even thinking (never a good sign) as the words just spill out from my mouth. My voice is loud and an octave higher than normal: I'm squealing. I'm squealing, and I'm hurrying toward her with a huge grin stretched across my face. I smell flowery perfume as she laughs shrilly, hugs me ferociously.

I met her on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters back in Sixth Year. I had just started seeing James. We were both going home for the Easter holidays, and James, spotting his parents as we stepped off of the train, tugged hard at my hand.

"C'mon, they want to meet you."

"What? But I—" I groped for an excuse. "I look a mess! And what do I say!" He didn't seem to hear me as we started making our way over toward the couple. "James!"

"You look pretty. You always do," he dismissed, shooting me a grin. "Don't worry. It's just my mum and dad."

But I hated making first impressions. I believed that I was a very multi-faceted person, and my mood at the moment dictated which side of me was reflected. If all went badly, I could even pull off a remarkable act of clumsiness or a careless comment, misinterpreted as offensive. I was scared stiff. They were his parents! His parents! What were you supposed to say to the man and woman who raised your boyfriend?

"Relax," James said as they came closer. "They're not going to interrogate you or anything—Mum!" He released my hand as his mum came flying at him.

"James!" She gave him the longest hug known to the history of mankind. I'd never felt more awkward in my life while standing there and trying not to look too out-of-place.

"James!" A tall, tall man that could only be James' dad strode over and clapped him on his back. He caught my eye and smiled warmly. "And…?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but James' mum was quicker. "Lily Evans, yes? Finally!" She instantly locked me into the same hug she'd given her son. Quite the hugger, even with strangers.

"Lily, meet my mum and dad." James' face was awash with amusement. I'd no idea why. The circumstances far from amusing. I would've glared, but the sensible side of me commanded focus. Good impression…good impression…good impression, I repeated to myself. I could do this.

"Hi, Mister and Missus Potter," I edged my first words into the conversation.

"Pleasure to meet you, Lily," his dad nodded, offering a hand. I took it and shook. He remarked to James, loud enough to ensure my hearing, "She's just as pretty as you said," and winked. My face warmed in the breezy spring air.

"She's absolutely gorgeous!" James' mum said. I felt my eyes widen a bit before I lowered them, all the while willing for the tingling heat on my cheeks to disappear. "But James, why didn't you tell me that we were inviting guests over the holiday! The house is a mess! And yourroom!" she exclaimed. Mister Potter rolled his eyes as James stifled a laugh and at the same time attempted to look ashamed. I, meanwhile, was thrown. This woman wanted me to stay over during the holiday after knowing me for less than five minutes?

"Oh, but I'm not staying," I said, a bit too quickly. Did that sound rude? I panicked for a recovery. "James just—er, I just wanted to meet you."

"Bosh and tosh!" Missus Potter waved a hand dismissively. "We'll have you over!"

"Mum, really," James cut in. "I didn't invite Lily for the holiday. Her parents are here, too. They're probably looking for her."

"Oh, all right," she said, before quickly adding, "But next time, huh?"

I couldn't help but laugh a bit, my tension dispelling. She sounded so much like a little girl begging for her friend to spend the night at her house. I found myself grinning, "Sure, next time."

"Oh, Lily, Lily, Lily," Lynn sighs, then jerks me in for another tight hug. "It's been so long. You look gorgeous, darling!" She steps back and looks me up and down.

"You too," I say. She shoves my shoulder playfully in response and rolls her eyes. Dark, flyaway hair bounces over her shoulder in her laughter. "Really!" I insist. I do mean it. She's wearing dress robes with glowing pinks and greens and yellows, not unlike paint splashed and alive on a canvas. She's like a rainbow beam in the darkening evening; somehow, someway, the outfit flatters her, as it would no one else. She reminds me of those glossy models, graciously flaunting wondrously stylish but highly impractical garments.

"I love your dress robes, by the way."

"I thought you might." She grins. "So? What are you doing here? In Barcelona, of all places to see you again!"

"Well, let's just say the British would have none of me, so they transferred me here," I say. "I like to think of it as a promotion of sorts."

"Oh, you were too good for them, the old bores," Lynn says. "So is this the reason I haven't heard from you in such a long time? Because you've been here?"

"I know. I've been so incredibly busy. It's been an adjustment period." An utterly pathetic excuse. I've been here since September, four months now. Even after James and I went our separate ways, Lynn and I kept a steady correspondence. She was like my best friend, only a generation older, a godmother with whom I could gossip and shop and laugh and share secrets.

Now that I think about it, I really can't put my finger on why I haven't written. Some part of my insides twists in guilt.

"Ah, I know, I know, darling. Moving to a whole different country! But you look like you're doing splendidly. Are you working for Alvarez?"

"Indeed." I lace a slight sigh in my response.

She leans forward with a hint of secrecy. "Don't you think he's a flattering fool? He said I looked like one of his twenty-year-old secretaries. Hah!" Lynn snorts, but I can detect a faint, pleased look on her face.

I laugh. Alvarez definitely has quite the flattering tongue. "How do you know him?"

"Oh, I know his wife, Maria. Lovely, darling woman. We worked together ages and ages ago. I let her know I was just, oh you know, stopping by, and she of course forced me here."

"Ah."

A brief silence.

"So? How are the boys?" she asks with a teasing tone.

"What boys?" I scoff automatically, with my best I-don't-give-a-care smile.

Lynn laughs again. "Oh, you can't be serious! A looker like you?"

"Maybe they're scared of a woman with power," I smirk. Her eyes smile, waiting a beat. I continue. "But really, there is no man. Hasn't been one since I've gotten here. Well, at least one that's lasted for at least a couple of dates."

My admission comes out easily, more so than I thought it would. I know it's because it's Lynn I'm talking to. I never did have problems telling her things. She presents herself as so open and somehow so careless of others' judgments, in everything from her style of dress to her political opinions. How could that not rub off a bit?

"That's terrific!"

I'm almost offended. "It is?"

"Oh, Lily dear, you haven't asked why I'm in Spain in the first place."

"Why are you in Spain, then?" I say, cautiously, because she's grinning that slightly frightening grin. And—oh no—I realize in a flash. It's got to do with him—

"James is here!"

The shock freezes me for a moment. I lower my voice and start scanning the crowd of faces over Lynn's shoulder. "Here? As in, herehere, right now?"

"And what if I say yes?" she says, the question posed in a light tone. When I don't answer, still searching the faces, she chuckles and shakes her head. "He's not here, darling. Do you wish he were?" A sly look on her part.

"I, er…" Against my will, I feel heat flame from my chest to my neck and face. I've got to think of a good response, and fast. Nothing that would reveal any degree of being desperate – because I'm not –, but nothing too offensive. "Well, ah…to see him again would be…nice," I finally say lamely.

I mentally slap myself. "Nice"? It would most certainly not be "nice." Not that it would be horridly unpleasant, but it would be – I can't describe it. It could be a lot of things. Awkward, for one. Maybe the meeting would be filled more with empty pauses than conversation. Then I'd feel helpless and clueless and try to connect the pauses with nervous laughter while he babbles on pointlessly, perhaps about something like, oh, I don't know, speculations on the Quidditch World Cup. Or it could be reminiscent and not much more, simply "Remember the time that…?" and laughter, but not possibly rebuilding all of the empty space that the last years have created. It could be a lot of things, but not simply "nice." Not that.

"Nice?" Lynn says.

But I can't tell her all these things. I make a neutral "hmm" sound and avoid eye contact, staring instead down the beach. It's beautiful tonight, the thick, black waves rolling forward and back, forward and back.

"Just nice?" she prods after a moment. Her tone, thank goodness, is not disapproving, but curious.

"Yes," I say slowly, a bit faintly. "It would be…nice."

The ocean breeze tugs on the remaining pieces of the conversation and scatters them into the night. I'm still watching the black waves climb forward and crumble back, and I remember the last time I heard from James – about half a year ago. A brief, but still charmingly warm birthday card, enclosed with a gift of a beautifully bound sketchbook. He never forgot my love for art and how, even though I was less than average at drawing, I would constantly doodle and try to emulate lights and shadows and balanced curves. I replied with an equally brief thank-you letter, and that was all.

"Because, you know, he wants to see you again," she says, her voice airy-light, like the breeze. Somehow she caught the conversation again from the wind brushing through our hair.

But her statement is anything but light, and I blink. "He does?" I say, stunned. James Potter wants to see me again? What does this mean? Does he simply want to see an old friend from school? He can't possibly be looking for something more?

"At least, I think he wants to."

A/N: Phew. That was an interesting chapter. I kept on getting these crazy, random ideas, but having to go back and connect them all together. Then, ta-da! This chapter. Please review and tell me what you think! (Yes, you, I know you're reading this! Muhahahah.) (Um, ignore that. The laugh, I mean.)

.mische.