Authors note: I'm back and writing again. It has been years, but these stories are not abandoned. I am in a place where I can write consistently again. Thank you to the reviewers who gave me reason to not doubt myself and stayed with me throughout my absence.

Warnings: In which Lily hilariously misinterprets a Seer's prediction of her murder.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

April 1980

Lily lay looking at the ceiling, mouth twisted bitterly as she listened to James roll over in his sleep. The room was dark and silent, pine and lavender drifting in gently from the open window; the sheets were warm and soft, and still she could not sleep.

Despite what Regulus thought, she did love James. As much as she could love anyone but Severus really, which wasn't terribly much. Heart aching at the thought of her stern friend, she rolled to the side, lips pinched together tightly to keep from crying.

She had thought, when she made the decision to let James court her at the beginning of seventh year, that Severus would come to his senses and realise what he might lose by letting her go. He didn't, still pining ineffectually after the dead-eyed Black boy, and still indignant over her (perhaps ill-thought of) ultimatum to choose either her or Regulus at the end of their sixth year.

She hadn't heard from him since he'd asked if she was happy with James, standing stiffly next to a bored Black in the hallway after Potions.

Perhaps it was stupid of her, perhaps it was a flash of the brashness that had landed her in Gryffindor, but she couldn't stop herself from lashing out a little.

Happier than you'd ever make me, she'd told him, with someone worth my time.

She'd seen the flash of hurt in his eyes, the disgust that turned his lips, but he'd only smiled thinly at her, nodding tightly. And then James had bound up to them, and she'd stood there quietly as James greeted Severus with the same malicious slur he'd always used, laughing as Sirius pushed roughly past his brother to stand next to him shoulder-to-shoulder.

Severus didn't even say goodbye as he turned abruptly and walked away, and as she stood and watched him leave, she was hit with the profound thought that perhaps she'd shattered something irreparable.

And now here she was, married to the boy who'd bullied her best friend to the point of violence, pregnant with a rapist's child, and for all intents and purposes a jobless, no name house-wife.

And James, dear stupid, gullible James, would hear nothing from her about the evil she could feel growing in her womb.

She had done as she intended and sought out the only credible Seer known in Britain, intent on finding something-anything- to support the fear that grew within her at the thought of birthing the child.

She had seen the seer, and the seer had delivered.

She had been promised her revenge, belated and struggled for; the thought of it filling the hole where a mother's love should be. Free from a child she already hated- dead before his sire could find him.

She had been promised a life where Severus no longer hated her, and she was free from the shackles a loving marriage cast.

So why, when promised a future she had dreamt of, was she still apprehensive?

Why was she so scared?

Flashback

The door swung open, and with a bow, the woman who had escorted her to the office disappeared. She blinked rapidly against the change in light, starting in surprise at the modern and friendly interior. The far wall was entirely glass, lending itself a very nice view of Hyde Park where (despite it being one in the morning) she could see people out enjoying the paltry sun. An original Monet took a place of pride on another wall, the pastels contrasting nicely with the cream carpet and pale leather furniture. Almost directly to her right a man was standing from his seat to greet her, and she was struck by his appearance as he took her hand.

"Lily Evans" he murmured. "A pleasure to meet you in person."

"Potter" she corrected, heart hammering painfully as his lips quirked in a terribly familiar way.

"Of course" he soothed. "Lily…Potter."

"I don't mean to be rude" she said quite suddenly, "but have we met before?"

There was a beat of silence, before laughter filled the room, rich and deep.

"Why," he asked in amusement, "do I remind you of someone?"

He tucked a strand of limp black hair behind one ear, sharp features surveying her intently as she scrutinised him. He stood tall and silent as he waited, and she found herself thinking she was very grateful his eyes weren't black.

"No, it's nothing," she whispered, folding into herself.

He smiled politely as they took their seats, surprising her by pouring them both tea.

"No house elves" he said simply, answering her unasked question. "Horrid practice".

She found herself relaxing a little more, and surprised herself by smiling at him as he made her tea perfectly without her having to say a word.

"The child is not the father"

She flinched, eyes snapping to the seer as he calmly sipped his tea.

"The child is not the father," he repeated, eyes locked on hers.

"James?" she questioned coyly, carefully.

He smirked. "Well, no, he is not James. Nor like James. Nor even of James. But that isn't what you meant to ask is it?"

She frowned, before flinching as the baby kicked. Unbidden, anger rose over her, hot and violent. She didn't want to play games. She wanted answers. She wanted vindication!

Pale hands reached over to unclench her fists from where she'd bundled them, one in the fabric of her robes and the other clawing at her stomach.

"My powers are not retroactive" he told her regretfully. "I cannot tell you who the father is. But I can tell you something that will ease your mind, just a little. Now drink your tea."

He squeezed her hand when she went to protest, and she raised the cup to drink deeply from it, managing to not spill any despite her shaking.

"My poor girl. Still so young, and all alone. No one on your side in this world that is still a stranger to you." He poured her another tea, smiling kindly at her as she reached blindly for it, cupping her hands desperately around it as she curled up in the chair, looking remarkably fragile for a woman known for her temper.

"James will not listen to you of course, but you knew that. And truly, there is no way for you but forward now."

He looked at her, barely able to keep the sneer off his face as she began to cry. She looked up at him, wet eyes bleak and hopeless, and he felt a shiver of warning run insistent fingers down his spine.

"Two years" he said, and the feeling stopped. He relaxed just a fraction, and continued, frustrated that he needed to take this route.

"You will birth the child, raise it as if everything is normal, and within two years from this day, the problem will be no more."

"The problem…will be no more" she muttered, staring at her stomach where the hated child grew.

"Your hatred for the boy," he clarified, and she frowned.

"You expect me to believe it will magically disappear? That I will suddenly wake up and love the monster as if he was my own? As if he wasn't made to trap and torment me?" She glared at him, frustrated that this was yet another person unable to accept the hate and fear that grew within her. Telling her, again, that she would change. That things would be alright.

"No." The room grew colder, the light outside the window fading. "I am saying death will visit. I am saying that on that day, a day in the not so distant future, death will come, and the problem will…die."

Silence, long and heavy, before "…die?"

Barely breathed out into the room, it sounded like a prayer.

He smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. She found herself mesmerised by it, leaning forward to see if better, to chase the feeling of fate she imagined she could feel around him.

"Yes," he murmured, deep and low, and it sounded like the tolling of a bell. She felt relief crash into her, drowning the fatalistic thoughts that had begun to breed like snakes within her. She couldn't remember ever feeling this light and untroubled. Suddenly, fighting against the peace that filled her, another thought arose.

"After the death?" she questioned urgently, needing to know. Needing to make sure she wasn't assured a future worse than she could handle still.

The seer paused, looking at her hard for a long time. His face flickered for a second, cruel and hateful, before calming so she would not catch it.

"You will cement your place in young Mr Snape's heart" he said, face placid, "and James will bother you no more."

She breathed in sharply, hardly daring to believe the words. Hardly daring to hope. But the Seer, like all true seers, spoke only truth. Laughter bubbled out from her, filling the room with her clear delight.

"Thank you!" she laughed, smiling widely as she rose to shake his hand. "Thank you so much!"

He rose to his feet smoothly, smiling at her indulgently as she giggled breathlessly.

"I did nothing but give you the truth" he said.

She smiled wider, so wide her face hurt. "It was a truth I needed," she assured him, brushing her robes down giddily. "You are the only person who has listened."

He said nothing, watching as she bowed before him clumsily, burbling goodbyes and thank yous as she made her way rapidly towards the door, driven by a need to leave, to go home, to bask in the future she knew was coming. He kept smiling placidly, the perfect image of an indulgent host, right up until the door clicked closed behind her. He waited there, a minute, two minutes, five minutes, until the painting on the wall flashed red three times, and his assistant slipped in.

Without a word by either of them, the room shuddered and cracked, changing back to its default appearance. The window disappeared, shrinking rapidly and changing until a fireplace emerged in the middle of the wall opposite the door, already lit with a roaring fire.

The carpet rippled and muddied, firming into wooden slats. Red exploded on the walls, the furniture melted into a woven rug, and the Monet, still hanging proudly by the door, did nothing but shimmer with protective wards.

"Was the tea not effective?" The apprehensive voice of his colleague questioned him, and he looked over to see the girl frown. She was one of their Lord's lower level brewers, and he had not bothered to learn her name.

"Effective, but not sufficient" he allowed, examining his hands with the same fascination he always did as the colour stripped away from them, the nails sharpening and blackening as his appearance reverted. "The girl had a remarkably strong tolerance to mind altering substances.

"Was it all true?" she asked hesitantly, and he looked to her sharply.

"The bit about the baby…was it true?"

He swung around sharply, hitting her with an open palm, nails catching and cutting deep.

"I must apologise" he said, scowling in distaste as he flicked the blood from his fingers. "That is somewhat of a sore topic for me. My own child-to-be was killed two months ago, in a manner much like Mrs Potter was considering."

He ignored the girl's whimpering, knowing she wouldn't dare retaliate.

"She only heard what she wanted to hear. What we needed her to hear I suppose. This really was a fortuitous occurrence."

He cut cold eyes to the witch as he strode to the fire, watching as she pulled herself together.

"Have a report drafted for me by the time I return in the afternoon. Make note of the averted suicide and her unstable mindscape. Touch my Monet again and I'll skin you alive."

Before she could respond, there was a flash of green and the Seer was gone.

"Fuck you" she breathed, fear still thundering through her.

"And fuck your painting."

End Flashback

Present

Harry took great delight in watching the twins try on new robes. Fred had settled quite quickly into the excursion, showing a heavy preference for soft pastels in what Harry thought to be a cotton/silk blend. He liked robes that were easy to move in; elegant, practical, and cut in a way that flattered his shoulders nicely. He hadn't bothered to ask Harry why he'd dragged them into the store, or why they were trying on clothing while Harry watched and drank tea with the shop assistants, and Harry appreciated that.

George while not questioning him, had been reticent to try on any of the ludicrously expensive clothing until Harry had reminded him about the meetings they'd just come from.

Heir to house Potter through a Goblin blood adoption (and though it hadn't surprised him, he'd still been a little unsettled), he'd only gained access to the Potter family vault through a technicality in the will. Whatever had happened during his inheritance had reversed the adoption biologically, but the legal documents were ironclad; the Goblins had been foiled by their own pedantic procedures. As a result, he now had access to a small fortune in gold ingots, and what looked like several very valuable books on potions.

Also not a complete surprise, was his inheritance of the Black fortune. He looked enough like a Black now that his parental suspicions were easily vindicated. He was unsure of who his parents had been, but his inheritance as Heir Black let him know his father had been one at least, and a member of the main branch at that.

There were no clues offered by the Goblins, but Harry had been much more interested in the Black portfolio offered to him than who his parents might have been. The Black fortune, unlike the Potters who seemed to have let their gold gather dust, was almost entirely invested in Shares and property. Managed by the goblins, his brief glance over the state of his stock profile was enough to increase their investment margin. He'd read the profiles later that night, but the figures spoke for themselves.

What had been a surprise was the last folder given to him, slipped to him by a pale faced Goblin as he made to leave the bank. The Goblin- breathless and shuddering as though he'd run to catch him- had slipped away before he could think to ask anything. The twins had jockeyed to see it, but he'd slipped it away before they could see the name emblazoned boldly on the front.

Slytherin.

He caught the reflection of his pale face in one of the shop windows, and sighed as Tom stared back.

"What do you think?"

George stood a few feet away, in a robe that he could have stolen from Snape's personal wardrobe. Black and high-necked, with dozens of tiny hooks that ran from crotch to chin, it was a great deal more conservative than what his brother had chosen. Standing next to Fred, who looked every inch a well-bred pureblood in pale blue, George looked delightfully intimidating.

"It suits you" Harry smiled. Something in George's expression lifted, and Harry realised belatedly that he'd been worried he wouldn't approve.

"Don't hold back just because you think something's too expensive, or I won't like it," he said, scowling lightly. "I'm not giving you anything more than you should already have. You're geniuses; like Mordred I'm going to let people have an edge over you because of clothing. You're individuals, not Fred-and-George, not yet-another-Weasley, but people don't see you that way. This is the easiest way to fix that."

"Besides" he crooned, fingers idly stroking a piece of suede "don't they feel good?"

One of the assistants giggled, and he smirked at her.

"Fred, George?"

George nodded, eyeing himself in one of the mirrors. He relaxed a little and smirked.

"Five duplicates of these please," he said to the girl pinning his hem. She nodded, smiling with pins between her teeth, "and the boots I put aside earlier."

"Two pairs of the boots" Harry interjected "and the cloak he was eyeing as well."

Fred snorted, holding his hands up in supplication as both Harry and George turned to look at him.

"I'll take it all," he said, looking hastily to the young man who'd helped dress him. The boy laughed at him good naturedly, and Fred blushed.

"What about you?" George asked, and Fred looked at their friend where he was sprawled comfortably on the chair, cup of tea still in hand.

"Ah. I gave the Madam a list of materials and cuts I wanted when we first arrived. She took my measurements and sent them off to be made while we sat and talked."

He looked at their outraged looks and shrugged.

"I already knew what I wanted when I came in. The colours still suit me. And now," he stood and stretched, back cracking loudly, "I suppose I should put one on." He looked at Madam Malkin, who nodded, eyes amused. She spoke into the end of her wand, which vibrated slightly.

"Laura, bring one of Mr Potter's casual sets."

After a few seconds, the curtains parted, and a girl came in carrying a bundle of material. Taking them and thanking her, he put them on his chair as he began to strip, ignoring Fred's sputtering as he knelt to take off even his underwear.

"Dragon hide" he explained as he pulled them on, the rough black hide clinging to his strong legs as he buckled them in place. "Spell resistant, deceptively easy to move in, and impossible to wear anything under."

He chuckled, pulling a dark gray sweater over his head, curls springing everywhere as he pulled the knit down.

"I don't need a cloak" he told the girl. She nodded, taking it away to wrap with the rest of their clothing as he sat down to slip on his boots.

Next to the silk-clad Fred and buttoned in George, he should have looked underdressed. But he didn't.

The jumper, while casual at first glance, looked immeasurably soft and well woven. The fabric had a lustre that spoke of expensive yarn, and George was quite sure it had cost an obscene amount. He had no doubt that to the upper Echelon, Harry's outfit would scream casual wealth and elegance.

And it fit him very well, George noted, rolling his eyes as the tips of his brother's ears turned red.

"Cosmetics and then lunch" Harry said as he paid, smiling politely as the willowy male attendant bid them goodbye, flustered and giddy as Harry brushed past him to leave.

"You could have got his floo address" George noted as they walked out, tucking the shrunken bags into a pocket.

"Too...boyish" said Harry decisively. "And too girly all at once. Is that odd to say?"

Fred laughed at him, nodding emphatically. "A bit like a gay Colin Creevy."

"Or just Colin Creevy as is" George muttered "creepy little stalker."

They all grinned at each other, laughing and joking until Harry ducked into a small shop a short way into Knockturn alley known as Hair, there and Everywhere- according to the plaque above the door.

A pale woman with dark brown eyes and a slightly strained expression came to greet them.

"Welcome to Hair, There and Everywhere, the country's best potion-based beautician and salon. My name is Suzanne, how can I help you today?"

"We have an appointment" said Harry. Her face visibly lightened. Looking past her, to the row of doors against the wall that all said 'busy', George could guess why.

"Fantastic!" She looked down at the book on the front desk, stiffening a little as his name shimmered into view. To her credit, she said nothing else, mask of professionalism slipping back into place like it had never slipped. "I'll just tell Marigold your party is ready."

They watched as she slipped into one of the rooms, door closing quietly behind her.

"I made the appointment for myself several weeks ago, but I'm sure they won't mind fitting you both in as well."

Coming from anyone else, he would have accused them of arrogance, or ignorance, or both. Coming from Harry, who was usually so ridiculously polite it was pedantic, he felt relaxed enough to accept the answer for what it was.

The door opened again, and Suzanne came back out, along with a tall, black woman with a shaved and oiled head.

"Mr Potter" the woman- Marigold- said, smiling broadly at him and shaking his hand firmly. "You look nothing like you said you might."

"I know" he said apologetically, "I hope that won't make anything too difficult?"

"Not at all" she snorted, rolling her eyes at the other woman's horrified look.

"And who are these delicious tag-alongs?" She smiled at Fred and winked at George, who startled a little, not used to being treated much differently to Fred.

"Fred and George, my very good friends."

She shook their hands and began to lead the party back to her room, chatting comfortably with Fred as they walked.

"So what can I do for you boys? I already know what Mr Potter wants- unless you have changes?"

"Not many" Harry allowed, and she smiled, turning back to Fred, who looked contemplative.

"I suppose this is on you as well then?" George murmured, sighing as Harry rolled his eyes.

"Alright, well it's your money. I don't actually need much besides a trim, but I think you've unleashed a monster with Fred." He smiled sadly, watching his brother, who was practically beaming with excitement. He hadn't seen him this giddy outside their experimentations for years. How much had he missed under the shadow their mother and her expectations had cast?

Harry touched his elbow briefly in comfort, before they ducked into a room easily twice the length of the burrow, lit dimly by a soft light emanating from the walls. Three other women stood patiently against the back wall, dressed in plain but well-tailored robes, faces calm and welcoming as they bowed.

"It's just as well I have all hands on deck today," Marigold hummed. She squinted a little, before waving two of the girls over, introducing them to Fred and smiling as they led him over to one of the corners. The room rumbled, and another wall rose out of nowhere, hiding the three from view. George let out a shaky breath as he felt the warm flat of Harry's palm on his back, and made himself focus on the last girl, who had come over to be introduced without bidding.

"George, this is Mary. She'll take care of you today while I attend Harry. Don't let her bulldoze over you- she has more flair in her little toe than most wizards do brains in their skull, but it's your body. Even if you make her serve you coffee for the next hour or so, she'll do it."

"With a smile" Mary added.

"With a smile," Marigold said, "and gratefully".

Harry and Marigold watched as the two wandered over to another corner.

"She's my niece," Marigold admitted quietly as the second wall went up. "Brilliant with hair and potions, but arrogant and a tad naive. I doubt she'll be getting her way with your friend there, so it'll be a good learning experience."

Harry said nothing, trusting the reputation of the establishment and the warm professionalism of Marigold herself.

"And now…" brown eyes focused on him with deep intensity, "let's finalise your amendments and make you even more handsome.

Tired after the utter fuckery his life had been through over the last few days, Harry could only smile gratefully and push the roiling ocean of his thoughts down and away, excited for an appointment he'd been looking forward to since he'd made it.

If only for a little while.

Next chapter: Dumbledore finds that his attempts at salvaging the best of the worst situation are a bit impossible when the situation isn't all that terrible (yet). Harry faces the order, who can't see beyond his age and moniker. Snape decides that broken dreams are still dreams, and sometimes not so broken.