Way Back Then
A HariPo oneshot
Note: The Harry Potter characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. This pairing was discovered by me, so please gimme a little mention if you write them! Thanks! It is one of many of Mew and Mor's Weird Pairings, most of which you may find in the M&MWP forum. Check out and join the forum FUN! Read, review, and enjoy!
She met him when she didn't even know he existed.
She had been visiting her brother over at his fiancé's house. Vernon looked handsome, but he was starting to put on some weight. If Marge didn't say something, he wouldn't fit into his tux for the wedding. At least Petunia was thin and pretty. Not pretty like Marge, but still.
She had walked up the walkway to the Evans' home and heard them 'round back. Marge had walked around and discovered Petunia's sister was home, with a friend.
"Let's leave the strange ones here, Tuney," Vernon said, he and Lily exchanging glares.
"We're not strange, Vernon," Lily retorted.
Marge scoffed upon arrival. "Luv, you don't mesh with our crowd."
"You're crowd?" Lily echoed. "I'd be disgusted to be a part of your crowd." She turned to someone sitting on the deck behind her. "C'mon, Amos. James and his lot should be here soon, along with Alice and the others."
"There're more of you coming to our house?" Petunia asked, looking horrified.
The boy with Lily hopped off the deck and looked at Petunia, Vernon, and Marge in turn. "Yes, there are more of us. We're not terrible people."
Marge had no idea what they were on about, but no matter what kind of opinion Petunia and Vernon had about Lily and her mates… Well. This Amos gent was something else. Whereas Marge looked like a product of the '50s in her heels, tweed skirt, pressed blouse, and twill jacket, Amos looked like the lovechild of the '60s and '70s, with wrinkled bellbottoms, a billowy V-neck t-shirt, and light brown hair drawn back into a short ponytail.
Something about him blared "don't get into anything with him" to Marge, and she laughed at the idea. Of course she wouldn't get into anything with him. She had her life to manage—she was a career woman, a woman with a high secretary's job at the drill factory where Vernon would start working someday.
This Amos bloke… He was pretty, almost as pretty as Marge. But Marge knew: Pretty blokes got career women nowhere.
She figured she'd see little of Lily and her friends after that. It didn't bother her. They were Vernon and Petunia's problem, really; Marge was only Vernon's sister. She wasn't invested in many of Petunia's affairs.
But after a hard day's work and with feet that ached in her high heels, Marge couldn't care about any affairs and so she pulled the pins from her coif and kicked off her shoes to take a stroll through the park that was a handful of blocks from her workplace. She hated the late hours that kept her cooped up inside…but these moonlit strolls helped.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Marge looked behind her, frightened. In this day and age, a woman wasn't safe on her own late at night. But when the speaker came into the moonlight and she saw wrinkled bellbottoms and a short ponytail, she didn't know whether to sneer or smile. On one hand, this was an acquaintance of Petunia's odd sister. On the other hand, Marge was familiar with him in the least regard. "Oh…"
"Amos. Amos Diggory," he supplied, slowly catching up with her. "You're related to Lily, aren't you?"
"No," Marge replied curtly. "Her sister just happens to be marrying my brother."
Amos grinned. "Cheeky. Nice. But why are you out so late at night?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
He shrugged. "I don't live around here, but I have a good friend who does. I'm staying with him this summer while my parents travel. I just happen to like the moonlight more than he does."
Marge scrutinized him before nodding. "I just got off work." She held up her heels. "And now I'm heading home. Goodnight, Mr. Diggory."
"Call me Amos."
"I'd rather not."
He stepped forward, his eyes earnest. "Have you eaten yet? I know a place that's still open…"
Marge frowned. "Look, kiddo, you—" She was interrupted by her growling stomach, and her cheeks flushed as red as her cherry lipstick.
"I know not to ask for much from a headstrong, attractive woman, Marge," he said, and she figured Lily must've told him about her a little. "But a gentleman offers to help a lady."
She paused—and then laughed. If a gentleman was a peace-loving bloke and a lady had sores on her cramped feet, then they were picture-perfect. "All right, food it is."
Marge thought she'd humored him. She honestly believed that one evening out with her and Amos would be scared away.
She was far from right.
Amos was good company after dusk. He said funny things—"Those automobiles people drive, they're metal deathtraps, much more dangerous than flying"—he had funny ideas—"I'd wear robes if they were more forgiving than my jeans"—and he had funny quirks—"I look both ways before entering a restaurant—don't you?"
He was a right laugh, this one. It helped to alleviate some of Marge's stress, being entertained by him night after night. Marge thought it funny, too, that he could be so lively, educated, and wise at such a young age. Of course, he wouldn't tell her his age, just insist that he was almost done with school. Marge figured he was Lily's age or barely older, making him a few years younger than or the same age as Marge herself. That only got her to thinking about school and how she'd finished not that long ago and oh, there she went, reminiscing again.
When she sighed for the umpteenth time, Amos asked why.
"Because I feel old," she replied.
"You don't look old," he said as he sipped his water. They were at the restaurant he'd first mentioned because it was always open and she always worked late and he was always waiting for her in the moonlight.
Marge grimaced. "Yes, but…" She finished the mouthful of her alcoholic beverage. "I feel as though I wasted my childhood, at least."
Amos shrugged. "Wasted childhood, or your teenage years?"
She paused for thought, thinking about the few good memories Petunia had with her sister from when they were little, about how Vernon had enjoyed growing up more than Marge seemed to, about how Vernon and Petunia were enjoying being engaged even though they were young and there was no ring and no set date. "Wasted everything," she finally replied.
Amos raised his eyebrows, and his hands that had been resting in his lap appeared on the counter where they ate. His hands that had been twiddling were now scooting close to her cold hand that was still wrapped around her empty glass. His hands that she hadn't realized were so big and strong and worn—one of them rested on her cold hand.
Marge shivered, catching sight of her reflection in the glass. She saw a young woman who might still have youth in her, with her once-permed-now-messy hair curling around her face and her lips looking blood red.
Amos' hand told her he saw it, too.
The night, she reveled in the moonlight with him, kisses scorching, eyes blazing, breath melting, and hands warming every last part of her. She might've been a child of the '50s, but she figured it was okay to jump ship for one night and be in Amos' world with him.
When they awoke the following morning, the sheets on Marge's bed in her apartment half covering them, her heart dropped through her stomach. What had she done?
And yet, she couldn't immediately hop out of bed and leave the heat of his arms. He slowly opened his eyes, and even though her back was to him she knew he was smiling. He smiled against her shoulder, his stubble tickling her white skin. "Good morning."
Marge stuttered out something that sounded like "good morning," but she hastily moved, showering, dressing, and tossing his clothing at him. "I—I have work," she stated, as though that was enough to sum up the night and the morning in one.
He didn't remark about her behavior. He seemed to understand how she felt. He didn't even needle her about what had happened between them. But he couldn't leave without saying one thing: "Have a good day at work, Margie." And he kissed her—so sweetly, so tenderly.
When Marge closed the door behind him, she fell against the back of it, her makeup ruined as she cried in frustration. She knew then that it wouldn't be the last time she saw him.
She was right. It wasn't.
She saw him more often, and he even appeared at her work sometimes to take her out on her lunch break. He had the other secretaries giggling and whispering even when Marge didn't have her back turned. It was strange, being the center of attention like this, but…it was also kind of nice. Amos cleaned up nicely, even if he insisted on keeping his hair a tad on the lengthy side.
"The summer's halfway gone," she mused as they dined one afternoon.
"Yeah," he agreed, frowning. "It's a shame. This…this feels like I've been living someone else's life."
Marge admired him from across the table. "You have. We both have." She didn't say what she was sure was running through bother of their minds—that this would probably end with summer, that he'd eventually forget he'd ever known a Marge Dursley and she'd push aside the idea that she'd ever known an Amos Diggory. But it—it was okay with her. Because she was at least enjoying now. She was living it up with someone who seemed to know how to live it up the best way possible.
"Margie…" But Amos smiled gently, reaching out and pushing a stray curl behind her ear. He sighed. And then he leaned across the table and kissed her, not caring what the other patrons thought of this scandalous display of affection. She left work early that day.
She loved it when he called her "Margie."
As they say, all good things come to an end.
Marge had been dejectedly counting the days until the end of the summer, knowing she'd lose the best thing that had ever happened to her soon. She threw herself into her work because of it, but she didn't let Amos know just how horribly she felt that she doubtful would see him again once he left for his last year of school.
During one of their remaining moonlight walks, Amos took her hand and pulled her close to him. "Let's not talk about it," he said abruptly, obviously knowing what things had been bothering her lately.
Looking into his dark eyes, Marge felt like crumbling. It was a relief that he was a bit taller than her and had worn a jacket that night. She needed to be enveloped in his warmth, and he provided it.
"Hey. Hey, Margie."
"Hmm?" She lifted her head and saw him frowning.
"Oh, Margie, don't cry…" He touched her cheek and she blinked, because she hadn't realized her cheeks were wet. He hugged her tightly, burying her face in his neck, his hand cradling her head.
The words spilled from her: "I—I don't want to be separated from you…!"
"Shh, it's okay…" Amos pulled back and looked her in the eyes, and she had never loved that ponytailed sight of him more. "Hey, we can write letters…"
"But with my work—"
He frowned. "Then…" He took a breath, thinking. Suddenly, Amos gazed up at the moon. "Then look up at the moon. Whenever you look up at the moon, know that I'm looking at the same heavenly body."
She furrowed her brow. "But—but it's not enough…!"
"I know, luv." He kissed her, and it was an all-consuming, soul-devouring, being-transcending kind of thing. "I know." And when they took their separate ways under the moonlight, Marge knew she loved him.
But love couldn't withstand what she saw.
They had little more than a week left before he'd leave. Marge was in the kitchen, trying her hand at cooking. Amos was patiently and expectantly waiting on her to make them dinner. She cursed under her breath, wishing she'd taken Petunia up on that offer to cook together once before.
"Everything all right, Margie?"
"I'm fine, it's fine, everything's fine," she assured him. But when she took her eyes off the pan in front of her for one second, not only did the pan catch on fire—so did the rag in her hand. She screamed.
Amos ran into the kitchen. He blanched, but he kept moving. He moved so fast that it didn't quite register with Marge what was happening, but somehow water spilled from his hands and the fire was gone and the minor blisters on her fingers had disappeared. "Margie, are you all right?" he asked, panicked.
Marge gave him an odd look. "How…how did you do that?"
Any color that had returned to his face faded once more. "I…er…I threw water on it…"
"No, how'd you get the water?" She looked at her hands, fingers still slim and white. "And my hands—the pain's gone."
"Well, yes, that…"
"Amos, what did you do?"
He grimaced and drew a stick from the back of his jeans. Though, upon closer inspection, the stick had been whittled to a blunt point and it—it had—it had a hilt, like the body of Marge's favorite fountain pen or something…
"Amos, what is that?"
Amos sighed. "It's—it's a wand. I'm…a wizard."
The scene before her grew shaky and she dropped to her knees. Amos knelt beside her, rubbing circles on her back. Was he joking? He was talking magic? And here she thought that she loved this unique man… Oh, he was "unique," all right.
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked at him, backing away. When he tried approaching her, she yelled at him to get out.
Now Marge knew what Vernon and Petunia meant by "Lily's people." And Amos was one of them.
More than a year later, at Vernon and Petunia's wedding, Marge overheard Lily talking to the single friend she'd been allowed to invite to keep her company.
"Did you hear? Amos and Katia had a child right out of Hogwarts, Alice," Lily told the girl with spiky hair.
Alice blushed. "Wow… I can't believe it. I mean, Amos had seemed so down when returning for his last year… I wasn't sure that he and Katia were going to reconcile. Now a baby?"
"Amos wrote me and sent a picture. His name's Cedric." Lily showed Alice something—supposedly the picture.
Marge excused herself early from the reception. She was feeling rather sick.
Back at her apartment, she kicked off her heels and sighed heavily. She didn't want anything to do with families and babies and relationships, she decided. It just made her head hurt and her heart ache and—
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.
Amos stood in the doorway, looking so much older. Marge almost wanted to laugh, thinking that he was probably at least eighteen now…or nineteen…either way still much too young for her… "Margie."
"Don't call me that, you—you freak," she hissed, but she felt a new wave of tears crashing into her. No, she could control their release, she could!
"Oh, Marge…" Amos sighed, looking as though he might sob, too. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I don't know what for—I was a summer fling." She walked into her kitchen, hoping she might not have finished that bottle of bourbon that had been a Christmas present from a coworker.
"Marge, I just—"
"You what?" She wheeled on him. "You wanted a taste of the prim and proper life and then say you could make it even better with magic?" She laughed. "Magic doesn't exist, Amos. And don't try telling me it does."
Amos' mouth was a thin line. "…I…could let you continue to think that way, Margie."
Her eyes met his, and she felt a little scared. "What?"
"There's one spell—it can wipe some or all of a person's memories…"
Her hackles went up. "I don't want to be mental! I don't want to be in a hospital! I like my memories, I—" She huffed, catching her breath. "…I…I don't like all my memories…"
Amos looked as hurt as she felt, but that was impossible. He was the one who had had a relationship he might've been repairing on the side. He was the one who knocked up his girlfriend. He was the one who was a family person now.
And Marge wanted nothing to do with him.
"I'm…I might still be young, but one of my professors always said I was pretty handy with charms…"
He paused. "Are you sure?"
"Clean up your remaining loose end, Amos," she snarled, though her voice cracked when she said his name, so her anger had little effect.
"Margie…" He drew closer to her and kissed her gently and lightly. "Margie…you were my moonlight, luv, I swear it."
But she wouldn't remember that he'd albeit said he loved her, too, after a flash of light and being placed easily on the couch in her apartment. She wouldn't remember ever having loved an Amos Diggory.
Marge went on to live an okay life, sure. But one evening when eating with Vernon and his young family, his blasted toddler nephew included, Marge took a step outside for herself, sipping a glass of bourbon.
Her eyes searched for the moon on their own. But something about the moon bothered her, disgusted her, and she didn't know why. She returned to the house when Dudley called for his aunt, pushing the useless thoughts about that heavenly body out of her mind.
D: I actually really like this pairing, especially set in the Marauder era. I can Marge as having once been beautiful and then just letting go of herself at some point, not understanding that she'd done so because she'd already lost the love of her life… And I don't want Amos to look like a bastard. Technically, I did have him separated from his girlfriend, unsure if she'd be in his life again. But hey—for one brilliant summer, he had Margie. And Margie had him. Now I want more Margamos fics…! Dx
Thanks so much for reading—please drop a review!