A/N: Just bought the new Britney CD. This multi-chapter (probably about six or seven) fic will be based on that, will be rated M, and will feature a very different Lily than the one in Quiet Summer.

Enjoy!
Mina :)

There's only two types of guys out there
Ones that can hang with me and ones that are scared
So baby, I hope that you came prepared
I run a tight ship, so beware

I'm a like the ringleader, I call the shots
I'm like a firecracker, I make it hot
When I put on a show...

All eyes on me, in the center of the ring
Just like a circus
When I crack that whip, everybody gonna trip
Just like a circus
Don't stand there watching me, follow me, show me what you can do
Everybody let go, we can make a dance floor
Just like a circus

Britney Spears, "Circus"

The Three Broomsticks. Eight o'clock. Light snowfall. Heartbroken.

I kick the snow off my boots and push the door open. The abrupt switch from bitter cold to warmth swells my fingers and is almost suffocating, especially as the scarf around my neck seems to tighten, ready to strangle me to death before I can rip it off. I end up pulling out some of my hair as I wrestle it from my throat, but at least I can breathe again. There are few people here tonight – most Hogwarts students are holed up in the castle, studying for exams and too cowardly to brave the cold – and I suppose the rest of the Wizarding folk are afraid of the same. Still: there are a few people peppered about the room, and Dorcas and Siobhan catch my eye from our table in the corner.

"Hey," I say, pulling out a chair. "Sorry I'm late."

I don't offer up an excuse, and they don't need one. Dorcas does shoot me a look of empathy, one that I'm prepared to avoid, and Siobhan only nods her head in greeting as she continues to stare at the bloke behind the bar. I look more out of obligation than interest. He's cute, I'll admit it, but he's too… muscled. Too stocky? Too blonde? I don't know what it is, exactly, that makes me turn away from an obviously handsome guy, but I am pulled like a magnet to the butterbeer that was awaiting my arrival. It's hot, a welcome relief to the winter swirling around outside, and I wrap my hands around the mug, for the moment at ease.

It's been a long week.

"You holding up well?" Siobhan asks as she turns away from the bartender. She looks at me with those unremitting brown eyes – because of course she sees right through me, because of course I'm transparent as fuck – and sips at her Firewhiskey.

The real answer is no. They know that's the answer. I don't know why they bother asking, as it's written all over my face: no, I am not holding up well. To have fallen in love (lust?) with the biggest ass in the school and then have him deny me? To have him strut about the castle with a girl on his arm like he's punishing me? To have him sing her praises when I know – I know – he doesn't fancy her as much as he thinks he does? He's being a prick on purpose, and not that that's at all out of the ordinary, but he's doing it to me.

I've been fluctuating between being hurt and angry for the past few days. Sometimes I get to the bitter stage, where I blame it all on myself – after all, he's with her because I wouldn't be with him – but that soon turns to either tears or fury.

Turns out I'm only good with extremes.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I say. The sad, emotional stage is settling in, and I sink further into my chair, further into the heat of the room and the depth of my mug, waiting for it to pass. The butterbeer helps cool the ache in my heart, but there's still that sour feeling that's tinging my attempts to calm down.

Because he's nothing. He's nothing. In five, ten years, who the hell is going to remember James Potter? He'll be a burnt-out bum relieving his glory days at Hogwarts, telling stories about his Quidditch days to people who don't care, all while he rubs at his beer gut and gives dirty eyes at women twenty years younger than him. He'll be secretly miserable but he'll gloat about his estranged wife and bratty kids like they make his life whole, and as he's sitting in a bar at night, gambling all his money away and wondering where his life went, nobody is going to remember who James Potter is.

Nobody.

"I'm fine," I say again, sitting my empty mug down. It slams into the wood of the table just as the door of the Three Broomsticks hits the wall, snow swirling in along with the raucous sounds of rambunctious teenagers.

Siobhan rolls her eyes, her jaw jutting out as she shakes her head. "Of course."

And in they come. Garrett Yates, from Hufflepuff; that stupid dog, Black; the bastard; and tucked under his arm, his new girlfriend, Isla Richards.

Of course.

They don't notice us in our little corner. I'm not sure if I care or not. My heart certainly cares, beating all out of order like it is, but my mind keeps telling me to push it away, Lily, push it far, far away. I'm still watching the other side of the room, watching him pull out her chair, watching her smile up at him like he's some kind of damn saint, watching Yates and Black make fun at him for his chivalry, when Dorcas pokes me in the side.

I could be there. That could be me. I just… some part of me wanted it – really wanted it. Perhaps it had just been a boyfriend in general and not necessarily Potter. Perhaps I had just wanted someone to pull out my chair for me. Perhaps I was waiting for someone to sweep my off my feet in some kind of grand gesture. Perhaps I just wanted a good snog. Whatever it was, it had just taken me too long. He ran out of patience, waiting for me to decide if I hated him or not, and moved on. And now he sits with a fairly pretty, very charismatic girl who is wickedly witty and actually enjoys his company and where am I? Nursing a butterbeer on the far side of the room, staring at them like a bitter, lovesick spinster.

And that is not who I am.

Dorcas pokes me again, this time landing a finger right between my ribs. I flinch, uttering curses, and turn to glare.

"What?"

Backing down from my sudden snappiness, she points to Siobhan, who raises a slender, pierced eyebrow before leaning over the table and grabbing my neck to bring me to her level.

"Cut this shit out," she says.

I immediately try to pull away – I'm not doing anything – but her grip is fierce. "Listen to me. That blonde bloke has been watching you – no, don't look! He's been watching you since you got in here. When I tell you, I want you to get up, saunter over to the bar, and order a Firewhiskey."

"I can't drink, I have an exam – "

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I'm aware of how much of a goody-goody I sound like and how it reminds me of yet another row with Potter. Goody-goody. Just because I'm responsible enough to be mindful of my future –

"You sound like Dork – "

"Hey!"

"And that's not necessarily a good thing in this situation," Siobhan finishes. She presses her forehead against mine as if the gesture will imbue some of her self-assurance through our skulls and into my brain, whispers, "be sexy," and then pushes me away.

Stumbling out of my chair is not the sexiest thing ever, but luckily neither Potter nor Bartender Bloke are paying attention yet. I'm not in the most flattering outfit, either, but a nice pair of jeans and a sweater is hardly frumpy, so I run a hand through my hair and remind myself that it's not the outfit that I need to show off, it's the fire. It's that confidence I feel only on the best of days, when everything goes right and I feel invincible. It's the feeling when I know I have the attention I want. And somewhere between the table and the bar it clicks – I stand up straighter, push my chest out a bit more, sway my hips, and smile – nay, smirk – as I feel a few new pairs of eyes on any given area of my anatomy. It's my saunter, just marginally more effective than Siobhan's (it's been field tested and proven), and I only break it out in the most desperate of times.

And just like that, the sadness is gone, replaced by determination and revenge.

Lily Evans does not get turned down.

I feel his stare on my back as I sit at the bar, and it's just what I need to be able to lean over and catch Bartender Bloke's arm. He is muscled, almost ridiculously so. More than Potter's stringy arms, at least.

Ass.

"Mind if I ordered a Firewhiskey?" I ask, drawing my hand away. If I'm not mistaken, there's a little blush growing on his face. His cheeks are rounded, his eyes a dark blue, his lips thin, and he looks to be only a few years older than me. Definitely better looking than I had initially thought.

"You old enough?" he asks. We both know he's going to give me one anyway, but I nod, drawing my wand just in case he'll ask me to prove it. He waves it away. "Nah, that's good. I trust you."

I laugh. "More than some."

Something catches his eye behind me. Potter.

Mission one accomplished.

I stretch my arms behind my head, giving Bartender Bloke a generous chance to glance at the goods while I'm pretending to be oblivious, and internally, simultaneously giggle at my audacity and wonder what the hell I'm doing. This is an innocent bystander here; am I just doing this to get back at Potter? To get my confidence back? To impress Siobhan?

I'm… having fun. That's all this is. I'm sick of being a downer and wasting my time on that waste of life.

"Here y'are," Bartender Bloke says, sliding the Firewhiskey down the bar into my waiting hands. He smiles pretty, tossing his cleaning rag over his shoulder and not hiding his stare anymore, and I rest my head on my arm, staring right back. Mission two accomplished, and he is definitely better looking.

"How about a deal," he says. "That drink's on me if…"

I cock my head. This could be dangerous. "If?"

"If you tell me your name."

The grin, this time, is involuntary. He's a sweet guy. I should probably turn back now, go back to my table, tell Siobhan I did what she told me to, and call it a night. There's no reason for two broken hearts in one night, right? And the way this guy is watching me…

I really don't want to hurt him.

But then the snickers start behind me, and when Isla scolds, "James! That's not very nice," I can't not take a chance. Potter made his choice, Potter moved on; why shouldn't I?

I take my hand from my Firewhiskey and offer it to him. "Lily."

And Bartender Bloke, bless his heart, wipes his hand on his jeans before taking mine. "Cal."

The Three Broomsticks. Eight twenty. Heavy snowfall. Naughty.

TBC!