The Man With The Devil In His Smile
Lily Evans P.O.V
The nightclub on the edge of muggle London was made up of the Northern Lights. Underneath the mawkish smoke of cigarettes whirled a giddy concoction of frigid blues, sour greens, sizzling pinks, and flighty golden hues.
The dance floor was alive with the drumming colours, pulsing and throbbing until Lily Evans felt as if she too were rendered with the shimmer and shine of the aurora borealis. Stardust in her bones, and sunlight in her hair, and danger in her heart.
There was a hunger in the air. A primordial need that pervaded everything around her in this backstreet nightspot. The yearning for connection, for sweat and heat and joy.
That was what this nightclub was all about. Connection. Fleeting and ephemeral, without cause or effect. What happened there this night in the pounding lights would forever be that night, with no tomorrows and no what-ifs and no, thank Merlin, consequences.
And that was what Lily Evans, newly nineteen, fresh from her Transfiguration Mastery, chased. For one night, she wanted to pretend she was not inevitable, that her life, so young, had not already been mapped out before her in a slick slope she was tumbling down.
She could see it now. Lily Evans, the girl so predictable she married her Hogwarts sweetheart, and pumped out two and a half kids behind a white-picket fence.
It was not cold feet. She loved James Potter. She loved him dearly. She wanted all that which she ran from that night. She wanted it so much it hurt some days.
The marriage and the little house in Godric's Hollow. She wanted children, with James's hair and her eyes, a little boy called Harry that Sirius would teach swear words, and Remus would sneak chocolate underneath the dinner table to. It was not cold feet… Not quite.
It was one last rebellion.
Lily was allowed that much, wasn't she?
And she found her rebellion in the heart of a dance floor, in some rundown nightclub on the fringe of muggle London, alone. Beggars can't be choosy, the old saying went, and Lily was, in a way, begging for… Something.
Freedom? Mischief? To dance so hard she fell down dead? She didn't know, and that, she thought, was okay. She had time, a whole night, right until the sun rose and the Northern Lights went away, to find the tip of the mountain of pent up need. Dancing was a good place to start.
Lily couldn't see the dance floor in entirety, it was wall to wall with leaping bodies swirling like the smoke hanging about her. It was strange, she thought, how it matched the beat of her bouncing heart.
There shouldn't have been room out there for her to wiggle into. There was hardly any scope for air itself, never mind a five-foot-nine redhead. Yet, somehow, she made it, space opening up in the swell of bodies to welcome her in. To welcome her home. Lily dived right in headfirst.
The music thrashing between the sticky spaces was all eighties, popping and bursting, but Lily paid it no mind. She danced to the music inside her, a tune only she could hear, and she was swaying as if it were jive, weaving, spinning, free.
Lily was all grins in that instant, spinning like her own pulsar star, and maybe she looked like a right bloody idiot. Maybe she bumped into one too many people and earned her fair share of scowls. Maybe she stepped on toes and knocked a drink out of hand, but she did not care. Not then, not ever.
Inside she was just happy. Happy and alive. So alive. For the first time in her life, she felt alive and it was glorious. There was something within her, something small and secret but no less substantial, that came out that night. It felt the music, felt it right down deep, felt the colours tingling on her skin and the sweat on her top lip and the heat in her chest, and it took and it consumed and it howled for more.
Lily would always remember that feeling, that hunger finally slated, and when her life was quiet, when she was married and pregnant and perfectly happy in her perfectly predictable life, she would still relish the memory of it like a Goblin savoured precious gemstones.
The one night Lily Evans let loose.
The one night perfect, predictable, prim Lily Evans made a mistake.
She was still dancing when she spotted him. Floating across the speckled floor, twisting across space and time, as if she were made of silk and song. Lily couldn't see him properly in the dark, skulking at the flanks of sight, between the bounding bodies, faceless, nameless, free from the crowd. She saw enough, however.
He was blonde and lithe, and made up of sharp, keen lines, and so very different to James that it was almost jarring, the barb of heat in her belly when they locked eyes across the dance floor. He grinned at her then, full of teeth and trouble.
He had the devil in his smile, Lily thought. The real devil, not the little red man with horns and hooves, but a dark seduction enticing her in. She was hooked, pulled, caught on his line of Lucifer allure. Somehow, someway, they made their way to each other in the dark, underneath the Northern Lights.
They danced as if they were making love, slow and carnal and starving, and then, in the back alleyway the man with the sprite in his grin guided her to, they made love as if they were dancing, with and ebb and flow and sharp shocking tug.
Somewhere between the moment the last of Lily's final orgasm was thrumming out in her blood like the last chord of a long loved harmony, and her heartbeat skipping a beat in exhaustion, pressed against a stained brick wall in the alley, the shame came. Hot and hard, washing over her. Perhaps it was because the man, the man who was oddly cold, the man she did not even know the name of, began to nuzzle her throat, placing snappy little kisses that bit just on the wrong side of pain.
James did that. Dipped his chin between where her shoulder met neck and dug in, holding her, laughing, grinning in his lopsided handsome way as the Sunday morning dawned and-
Morgana, what had she done?
Lily apparated in desperation, just as the man began to sink down into her neck in earnest. With a wink, and a crack, it was over. It was stupid, and dangerous, and the poor muggle man could have been castrated, and Lily could have splinched herself badly, but the shame came and Lily-
Lily had to run.
She landed in her dark, lonely flat in the middle of the night, half naked, finger shaped bruises on her thigh, and crushed under crippling guilt. She didn't sleep that night. She cried, and wept, and hated herself. Hated herself so much it burned inside her.
She cleaned herself up the best she could, wiped away and showered what might be scrubbed off, but the guilt refused to dribble down the drain like her sweat did. When James came around in the morning, he was met with a mess.
She told James, told him it all before he even sat down, the club, the man with the devil in his smile, the alley, it all spewing forth like vomit. It tasted like sick too, a weight in her stomach that burned as it came up her throat. She left no part out because, in the end, James deserved that much, to know just what sort of mistake his fiancé had made. James yelled in the beginning. He asked why, though Lily could not answer, not really. He stormed out too, slamming her flat door.
Yet, he came back. Three weeks later, still hurt, still wounded, he came back, her James. He didn't leave again. Not when, two months later, a pregnancy test came back positive. They both knew who the father was. She and James hadn't been together since-
Since she stomped his heart into the concrete for a quick high.
It was not a happy time for Lily, not the way she thought her pregnancy would be. Instead, she cried, apologized, over and over and over and-
James… James stayed. He loved her, he said, loved her enough to see them through this. They married when Lily's stomach was rounded, in a beautiful close-knit little wedding her parents, if they were still alive, would have loved to see.
The child was born five months later, on a Wednesday, in the onslaught of a dreadful thunderstorm, and it was not the little boy Harry Lily had always imagined. There was no James black hair or her grass-green eyes. Just him, the man that was Lily's greatest mistake.
She was angelic, her daughter. A plump little thing of golden white curl and big-bright blue eyes, as cold and brilliant as she remembered the man's, and in the end they called her Wilhelmina.
Lily didn't know why that particular name came vaulting out her mouth when asked by the Healer of Saint Mungo's so they could transcribe it on her birth record, it was neither an Evans or a Potter name, she didn't even remember ever hearing that name before then, only that she had been halfway to saying William, and caught herself in the last possible moment.
James had merely smiled warmly, rocking the slumbering babe in his arms, a child he promised, though he shared no blood with her, to protect as any father would, and fondly dubbed her Mina.
Wilhelmina Potter, their child. Their child they would never get to see grow up.
A year later, both died in the nursery, in a fetid flash of green, trying to live up to the promises they made that day.
author's note; I just wanted to give a quick big thank you to GoWithTheFlo20 for being a Beta reader and editor to this fic, and helping me tweak it here and there. She has been a massive help, and I just wanted to give some love back.
In regards to this fic, it is going to be a relatively Dark story, tackling a lot of topics others might not want to read about, such as the nature of Sin, guilt, souls and morality in all shapes and forms. The Fanged Four (Darla, Angelus, Druisilla and Spike) are going to be in full glory, so expect blood-shed, swearing, smut and overall Demonic antics, including both het and slash. When I say Darla/Angelus/Fem!Harry/Druisilla/Spike, I really do mean every iteration of that pairing. The Fem!Harry in this fic will gradually grow to be a darker counterpart to what is prescribed in Canon, also. So if a spotless, saintly Potter is your cup of tea, please be warned.
And, to perhaps what is going to turn a lot of people away from this fic, it does include incest. That means Spike/Fem!Harry. This does NOT mean I condone incest in real life, at all, but this is fiction, and it does play into the plot of the story, the development of the characters, and is not only there for incest sake. I just wanted to give everyone, before we move into the actual story, a clear and concise heads up of possible triggers.
The majority of this story is set after all the Harry Potter books, and around early season 2 of Buffy.
For those who are staying for this deep dive into a Hellmouth, welcome and I hope you will enjoy it!