Don't Go To Four Star Restaurants - a guide by 'play-on-a-graveyard'

Rating: T

Genre: Humor/ Romance

Pairing: Lily Evans and James Potter

Summary: Lily knew she shouldn't listen to her crazed TV like mother. But she didn't think that going to one dinner could cause this much trouble. Join the unfortunate Stevie Nicks impersonating, spy obsessed, and Transfiguration lacking witch for the time (or hell) of her life.

You know when your parents tell you something will be 'fun'. Here's a warning - it won't.

You'll end up stuck in some fancy restaurant in a dress you borrowed from your sister, uncomfortable heels that are way too small, wearing your mothers pearls and facing your childhood enemy.

But I've gotten ahead of myself. We'll start at a better place - the beginning.

I walked downstairs in an absolutely FABULOUS mood. I'd received my package (containing the book I had especially ordered - Layla Earknighte's new book on spies), my sister had asked me if I knew where her shoes were (her exact words were "Do you know where my shoes are?") and my hair for once was absolutely gorgeous.

Of course it all went downhill from there.

Mum was in the kitchen. That was my first sign that this day was sent by the Devil himself.

My mother never cooks. Never ever. Not because we're so rich that we have piles of servants and therefore no need. Not because someone else who inhabits the house is absolutely amazing at cooking and loves it and therefore banishes all forms of life from the kitchen. Oh no. Because she cannot cook.

I love my mum. Swear to God and on my grandmothers grave. But she is the worst cook in this world. Last summer my dad invited his coworker and secretary over. Mum decided to cook biscuits. Biscuits. Needless to say the secretary excused herself five minutes after choking on one.

So faced with this disturbing sight I stiffened. "Mum." I gave a forced (and extremely nervous laugh). "What are you doing?"

"Well your fathers promotion is a big thing." Mum grinned, looking like a TV ad in her lavender skirt suit and surrounded by the cream and yellow of our kitchen. "And I decided that the domestic thing to do was to bake a cake."

Domestic. Oh good lord. The mention of that word should of sent me running out of the door, screaming for Queen Elizabeth to get her guards down to #27 Elderberry Way as fast as possible.

But instead (because I'm the worlds biggest idiot) I went to the fridge and got out one of the small bottle of milk my mother gets delivered (on the occasion of my return home at summer). "Couldn't you just buy one from the store?" I had asked, unscrewing my milk bottle, before muttering to myself. "Then the only person that you could harm is yourself."

"Lily." My mother warned with a glare (obviously I hadn't been working hard enough on my spy whispers).

Rolling my eyes as discretely as possible, I proceeded to chug the bottle of milk, ignoring Mum's scandalised gasps (honestly I do it every day!). After I finished the bottle, and wiped my mouth, I looked over to see Mum had returned to her baking and was now examining a sieve.

"My letter's gonna come today." I grinned, popping a piece of bread into the toaster. "Emmy was wondering if I wanted to go to Diagon with her next week. S'that okay?"

"That sounds lovely." Mum looked at her 'cake' through the glass in the oven. Well I should say attempted to look, as it was concealed by a thick black cloud. Hesitantly she opened the oven door, letting out enough smoke to lift a hot air balloon off the ground. Causing the fire alarm to go off.

"Oh dear."

After I explained to the annoyed firefighter squad (that some pesky neighbour had called) what had transpired, I walked back into the house, planning on spending my afternoon waiting for my Hogwarts letter, while curling up and reading a good Stephen King or my new 'A Guide to Espionage'.

Unfortunately when I walked into the bathroom to wipe my face down, I realised that my previously FABULOUS hair now looked like a piece of cotton candy. That had already been attacked by a preschooler.

In other words I looked hideous.

Let me tell you something about my hair. It's red. Oh yes. Not as in the pretty Janice Dickinson I have 'aurban' hair because I'm an exotic and beautiful model. Oh no. It's red.

So after successfully letting out a half scream, I went about attempting to calm it down, although of course that didn't happen. Instead Petunia poked her head in the bathroom and proceeded to be her usual catty self, flicking her nice, blonde, silky, smooth hair everywhere.

Then I decided to go back to my room and seek refuge from my crazed sister and her taunts. I'd put my Fleetwood Mac record on (Rumors was Alice's gift that I got because I was 'simply a marvelous friend') and my Cher and Blondie records were next to my player, ready to start singing.

Only then I heard the tapping on my window. Annoyed that my alone time had been interrupted, I stood up and to my surprise the owl that flitted into my room was unfamiliar and didn't belong to any of my friends.

Of course I should of been expecting it. Heck I'd even gone to my mum "My Hogwarts letter is coming today" but I forgot about it myself, until it was right in front of me.

Singing along to Dreams (and doing a killer impersonation of Stevie Nicks) I absentmindedly opened the envelope, sliding my letter out, only realising that my envelope had extraordinary weight in it when it dropped out.

Dropping on my hands and knees my mouth hung open. There in all of it' s golden glory was the badge. A fantastic badge that I totally did not deserve. Struggling to come to terms with what was happening I picked the thing up, examining it in the sunlight streaming through the window.

"Oh my God." I said, looking at the badge in shock, before scrambling through the pieces of parchment that were standard, and sure enough I found the piece of parchment that was Professor McGonagall congratulating me before proceeding to warn me of just how easy it was to loose if I made a stupid error.

This was yet another sign I should of seen coming.

I'm sure you're thinking look at this stupid girl. Fishing for compliments. Vain. Thinks she is cursed with bad karma and luck.

But I can assure you that my line of thinking was perfectly logical. Because I'm not a leader. Or exceptionally smart. Or particularly rule abiding. Or social. In fact I'm the perfect example of the classic 'INTROVERT'.

I can't talk to people. Especially people I don't know. I clam up. Start talking gibberish. Make a fool of myself and whoever has the misfortune of being in my company.

So when I started walking down the stair, I examined the badge I did not deserve.

It was a gold thing. Sparkly and shiny. It had 'HG' sprawled across it (I was fairly sure it was engraved) in fancy, calligraphic cursive, that even my sister would of been jealous of.

"Mum. My letter came." I said dully as I reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the lemon and lime lounge room.

"Yeah that's great." She nodded absentmindedly, flicking through a book on home decorating. "What do you need to buy?"

In response I held out the badge.

After a couple of minutes of silence, she looked up. It took another half minute for what she was seeing to register with her. "Oh good lord Lily!" She exclaimed, jumping up. "Well done! You didn't tell us you were being considered to be Head Girl!"

"I think it's some sort of prank." I said bluntly.

Mum rolled her eyes (just like she tells me not to). "Don't be ridiculous! After all you completely deserve it! Your grades are amazing, you're always studying and I have never received a letter informing me of you receiving a detention!"

"Yeah and I'm the biggest introvert that had the misfortune to grace the Earth." I muttered as my mother chattered on and on about how she was thinking of getting me something nice to help for the year.

In the middle of my mothers talk about how proud she was of me, the phone rang loudly. I didn't think anything of it. After all, we get phone calls during the day all the time. So when Mum got off the phone with a bright smile, I didn't immediately have thoughts of suicide.

"That was your father dear. He met an old friend of his today, and asked if he and his wife would like to go out for tea." I sighed at this. Instead of studying (or examining my letter for signs of forgery/ tampering) I would be dragged along. My mother and father believed it inappropriate for a girl my age to remain at home by herself for longer than an hour, and especially not at night (even though I had repeatedly reminded them that not only was I of age in my world, I also carried a wand that was in perfect working condition). "They have a son your age. It should be lots of fun."

And that should of sent me running to Zimbabue with an alias and a brand new passport.

One of the downsides to being a teenage Muggleborn witch is that you spend the majority of the year locked up in a castle in Scotland and wearing robes. Therefore you generally do not have a vast amount of Muggle clothes. Especially not clothes which are appropriate for a dinner in a four star restaurant in one of London's nicest areas.

So therefore my Mum had whispered to me to 'borrow' one of my sisters dresses. Unfortunately she was a great deal taller than me. So I had to looking the back of her wardrobe for something a little closer to my size. To my surprise I found something actually halfway decent. A smaller dress, which was a classic LBD, with a little bit more class than the rest of her dresses.

Hanging the dress on my arm, I shut the door of her closet and crept back to my room (just incase she decided to come back because she forgot her purse or something. And also because it looked cool).

After slipping into the dress, I found my hair was still not cooperating, so I stole some of my mums hair cream, to help it defray as much as possible, and pulled it into a bun at the nape of my neck. then my flats decided to break, so I resorted to squishing my poor feet into my pair of black heels that were half a size too small.

Not bothering with any make up I grabbed my purse and book.

In homage to a prom girls mother, Mum started gushing about how beautiful I looked (after snapping at me to leave my book behind). Then she insisted I wore the three strings of pearls she had been given when she was sixteen, before my dad started grumbling about how we had to go.

I sat in the back of the car, and despite the excellent reading light the setting sun provided, was forced to make small talk with my parents, as my book was currently on the kitchen counter at home.

We were late, in true Evans style, so the server led us to the already seated couple (slightly older than my parents) and a boy in his late teens, whose head was looking at the table, like he was extremely bored.

Mum and Dad greeted Mr and Mrs Potter, who gushed over how 'beautiful' I supposedly looked, while I smiled appropriately.

"James be a good boy and say hello." Mrs Potter frowned.

To my shock a pair of hazel eyes, framed with glasses, met my own. "Nice seeing you Evans."

"Oh hell no.