"Lily, come on," coaxed Mary.

"No."

"You are getting out of this car in ten seconds or I'll—"

"Curse me with that wand of yours? Mary…I can't! This was a stupid idea. I cannot believe you talked me into this."

"It was your bloody idea, love."

"The party was, if you'll recall. A party, actually … certainly not thisone,in the richest bloody neighborhood in town. And this costume," she complained, gesturing at herself, "was definitely not my idea."

"It's the party we were invited to, Evans, so we'll take it. And you made me go to the cinema six times to watch that damned movie, and you've listened to the vinyl every day for two months…"

"Not every day—"defended Lily, but Mary cut across her.

"EVERY SINGLE DAY. I know every bleeding word on that record, Lil."

"But—"

"But nothing. C'mon, Lil," said Mary, switching tactics. Threats hadn't worked, but maybe flattery will. "You love that movie, and I had the wig, and we're broke as fuck so we had to make due. And you look amazing. Have you seen yourself?"

"Leather pants though? Why couldn't I have been the sweet, wholesomeversion of her character…"

"Because, Lily Evans, it's also the prude, stuck-up version of her character, and that isn't you at all, is it?"

Lily nodded, conceding the point.

'Sides," shrugged Mary. "It's Halloween…the one night when we can dress like slags without being called slags."

"A complete and utter bullshit double standard, incidentally…"

"It is, indeed, my little feminist friend. Still true though."

"LEATHER PANTS, MacDonald. And this wig is itchy and ridiculous."

Mary reached out and tugged on a curl, "No, Lily Evans, that wig is amazing."

Lily ignored her, frowning instead at her feet which already throbbed. "These shoes, then. Wherein the bloody hell did you get these shoes?"

"Discount shop. It's four hours. Stop looking for a reason to complain, Lil, it's just a party. Slip them off if you want; no one will notice."

"Like hell I will," countered Lily. "D'you know what'll be on that floor by the end of the night?"

"I'd rather not think about it, honestly," said Mary, her face scrunched in distaste. "Wear the damn shoes then, but stop complaining. Everyone wears painful heels to parties. Mine are an inch taller than yours."

"Yes, darling, but you're completely nutters…"

"I'm short," snorted Mary.

"No one will even know who I am…" Lily was grasping at straws, she knew, but she had to try.

"Of course they'll know who you are."

"It's a bloody American movie."

"The most popular American movie of the year," Mary reminded her, slapping her thigh. "You're going to be brilliant. If anything, you've got to worry about there being four of you—"

"Really? Well I don't want to go if there'll be four of me. That's worse."

"Evans, cut the bullshit, get out of the car, teeter yourself into that house, drink yourself pissed, snog a bloke, and dance your leather clad arse off."

"That's you, dear, not myself. One of us has to drive home."

"At least I have a plan," said Mary as she applied her lipstick in the rear view. "Look, Evans, if you're miserable in two hours, we can leave, alright? But I really, really want to go out tonight…"

Guilt panged Lily. It'd been a solid month of moping on Mary's part since she ditched her last bloke. Cheating wanker, yes, but it still hurt. She'd been so excited about this party, of course Lily said yes. She'd been filled with nothing but regret since they stepped in the car, though, and she had had two exams to study for, a group project to sort out, and a research project due in two weeks.

But Mary wanted to go out, Mary needed to go out, and that was more important than Lily feeling self-conscious in front of a bunch of strangers. She wouldn't have spent the night studying, anyway, if she were honest with herself, so she sighed and relented. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm being a prat."

"Yes, you are, but if you really don't want to go—" said Mary. She really would turn 'round and drive them home, if Lily demanded it, but Lily wasn't the sort to do something like that.

"No, we'll go. C'mon. It'll be fun."

Mary raised her eyes doubtfully. Lily couldn't blame her: she had just spent the last ten minutes whinging, after all, and this was quite the reversal. Lily smiled cheerfully, but pointed a warning finger at her mate, "It will be fun, I promise. But I swear if I break my ankle or rip the arse of my pants out, Mary MacDonald, I'll never forgive you."

Mary laughed. "Yeah, yeah, Sandra D, I hear you. Let's get going before all the good drinks vanish."

Lily had to give it to Mary: every single person at the damn party knew exactly who she was—or her character, anyway.

Wearing the tart version of Sandra D, even with the leather pants—though she'd dug her nails into the wrist of some pissed arse who thought, quite unwisely, that her arse needed grabbing—was a good call; she would've felt a right idiot in a knee-length skirt and cardigan.

Lily sipped her cola and surveyed the crowd. It was like any other party—sweaty, loud, crowded, but not wholly unpleasant. It would've been a hell of a lot more fun if she knew anybody or thought she could manage to dance in these blasted shoes. Mostly, she wished they'd brought Bridge along so she didn't have to drive…these things were generally better in proportion to the alcohol consumed.

Mary seemed to be enjoying herself, at any rate, and that was the entire point of coming. So, you know, a sacrifice Lily was willing to make.

"Oi, SANDY!" Lily turned 'round to find a glassy-eyed bloke—zombie soldier of some sort— staring at her.

"Sorry….erm, were you talking to me?"

"Yah." The impatient look on his face told her he'd been trying to get her attention for awhile.

"Well, what did you say?" prompted Lily when he did not elaborate.

"I said," he slurred thickly, "you' b'fren lookin' for ya."

"My what?"

"Your BOY-fren'," he said, trying to enunciate.

"I think you mean someone else, mate, sorry. I came alone, yeah?"

"No, he's def' lookin' for ya," he slurred, pointing toward the back of the house.

"But—"

"Tha' way," he said again. It was no use arguing with someone so intoxicated, really, so Lily nodded politely and headed in that general direction.

It looked like the bar might be back there, even if her fictional boyfriend was not.

One drink wouldn't hurt her.

Really.

After Lily had finished her second drink, a fruity thing, and checked on Mary, cosily intertwined with a blonde bloke in the front room, she wandered the house aimlessly. Eventually she found herself in the dining room, which was miraculously vacant, save for three girls sitting on the table.

A brunette dressed as a slaggy something or other pointed right at Lily and said to her friends, "See, Liz, I told you there was a Sandy here."

"Are you here with James?" demanded the girl Lily could only assume was Liz. It was more an accusation than a question, and Lily didn't appreciate the way her eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing her. She privately named her Slaggy Liz.

Also, she didn't know what in the hell they were talking about.

"Who?"

"James!" she said loudly, impatience lacing her voice.

"Who's that?"

"The bloke whose house we're in, who's hosting the party," added the third girl, whom Lily named Purple. "Duh." Slaggy Purple, then.

For fuck's sake, were they primary school or uni students? Lily bit back a retort and replied with a civil, "No, I'm here with my mate. I don't even know who James is."

"Did someone say my name?"

She startled at this, nearly stumbling as she whipped around, and nearly bumping into the bloke standing immediately behind her.

James, apparently.

She craned her neck to look up at him because he was taller than her. Considerably taller. So tall it was kind of obscene.

Obscene in the best possible way, though.

Damn her for fancying tall blokes.

He was definitely smirking down at her.

Also, he was checking her out.

Kind of a lot.

Which should have offended her, really, except she was eyeing him, too, and she wasn't being subtle about it.

He was…fit. She'd leave it at that, or else she'd flush, which was the last thing she needed at the moment.

The leather jacket draped over his shoulders helped, though his hair was a mess—his hair, which Lily worked out was supposed to be a pompadour. The pieces clicked into place.

"Your boyfriend's looking for you."

"Are you here with James?"

She'd come without a date, dressed as Sandra D, and the owner of the bloody house, the host of the party she was attending, perhaps uninvited, the unfairly fit bloke staring down at her, was actually dressed as her fictional boyfriend.

Danny bleeding Zuko.

He was really, really fit.

Shit.

Though it'd been a half an hour since they'd met, she hadn't yet been able to properly speak to him. She hadn't been able to get away from him either, but she wasn't entirely sure that she wantedto get away.

Except, this was so bloody awkward.

The attention, that is, for everyone had pressed in around them nearly immediately. Then the requests had started.

"Quote us a line or two, yeah?" was the most common request. Their impressions of their respective characters were easy to appease. A line or two, or an exchange of dialogue, and they moved on. James was apparently a fan of the film, and he did a hilarious American accent…much better than her own, though he lied and said it was brilliant.

They'd received a dozen variations of "YOU TWO ARE SO BLOODY CUTE TOGETHER" and "JAMES, I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD A BLOODY GIRLFRIEND!" Lily blushed at most of these, especially at the latter type of comment. When James had apologized to her out of the corner of his mouth, she'd told him not to worry about it—this wasn't his fault any more than it was hers. At first, they'd tried explaining that they weren't actually together at first, but either no one got it, or no one cared. It was easier to say thank you and move on, so that's what they did.

Four people, each at varying levels of drunkenness, had asked that they sing a duet. They'd politely declined each request. Did she technically knew all the words? She wasn't nearly intoxicated to admit that, or to humiliate herself by actually singing a duet with a stranger before a crowd of strangers.

Requests for photographs came, also. No one wanted a picture of Danny and Sandy standing awkwardly side by side, so they were forced to touch for these. She had an excuse to touch him, more like, though she kept that to herself.

"Summer Lovin, please do Summer Lovin'," pleaded the girl standing in front of them—an incredibly pissed girl with a lopsided, earnest smile on her face.

Seven requests, then. It'd been an hour, maybe, though Lily was quickly losing track of time.

"Erm, no, sorry," said James.

Someone to their left—a pirate—piped up. "C'mon, Prongs, humor us. You know every bloody word to that damn vinyl. Hell, I know every sodding word."

Several people laughed as his ears tinged pink and he buried his face in his cup. As the pirate sidled up to them, however, James gave a sharp elbow in the ribs. They were mates, then.

"Story of my life, darling," said Mary to the pirate. What an incredibly and horribly ill-timed appearance. "She knows all the words, too. I think they should do it."

"Mary, my ex-best mate, so nice of you to show your face. I'm not going to sing. She said this to Mary, and maybe to James, and definitely to the pirate.

"SING," said a random party goer, and the sentiment was immediately chorused by Mary—the traitor, her who was definitely walking home—and James's pirate friend, and everyone else in their immediate vicinity. They took it up like a battle cry, as if their nights would be ruined if the two unfortunate people before them didn't sing a duet together.

James said to her in an undertone. "I don't think they're going to leave us alone, erm… Damn, you know, I don't even know your name…"

"Sandy. Shit, no, sorry. Everyone's been calling me that all night. Lily."

"Sure about that?" he teased.

She smacked his arm. "Yes. I'm sure."

"So, right. Lily. I'm James, but you seemed to know that already…"

She felt the compulsion to explain because all this—her showing up at his house, possibly uninvited, dressing as his fictional other half—it could so easily be misconstrued. It was suddenly, for reasons she couldn't fully explain, imperative to her that he didn't get the wrong impression. Although everyone was chanting, no one was paying particular attention to them, so she launched into her explanation, "Listen, James. I came with Mary…the witch," she said, nodding to her friend who was dressed like a witch, though she'd lost her hat, "and all this," she pointed to their matching attire, "was a coincidence, nothing more. I didn't do it deliberately or anything. And I didn't know your name, or who you were…those girls in the dining room were questioning me about you. They thought we were here together…"

"So does everyone else, apparently," he said wryly, though he was smiling. She could've done without the swooping sensation. Thanks, stomach.

She smiled back; couldn't help herself. "You know, of all the things I envisioned tonight, I never imagined this."

"That some bloke would come dressed as Danny?"

"That, or that everyone would care so much."

"They are very invested in us."

The way he said 'us' made her stomach swoop again."Oi, why areyou dressed up as Danny?"

"Can't I just like the movie?"

"Erm, no. Or maybe, yes. You've got to admit it's an odd choice."

"You'd be right, then. I lost a bet."

"You did?"

"More a punishment than anything."

"I'd would really to hear that story."

"Would you? Maybe we should da—"

He'd been about to ask her to dance, she was sure, but he was interrupted by Mary, who was clueless to this fact, and who'd had enough of their private conversation, and who felt the need to say loudly, "At least dance with him, lovely, he's delish."

And she was red, bright red, redder than Mary's lipstick. She glared daggers at her. "Sodding fuck, Mary, go find a boy to snog."

"Already did," she said matter-of-factly, but then she saw Lily's obvious embarrassment and softened. Tugging on her hand, Mary led her a little bit away from the pirate, and James, and the people gathered around them, some of whom were stillchanting. She said earnestly, maybe to make up for the delish comment. "I know I'm teasing you here, but a deal's a deal. I said two hours and it's been three. D'you want to go home? We can."

It was ridiculous, all of it. Then she looked over James with his stupid hair and lopsided grin. He was whispering with his mate, stealing glances her way, the way she was doing with Mary right now.

No, she didn't want didn't want to go home. Not yet, anyway.

"Come check on me in an hour, yeah?"

He wasn't the best dancer. Really, he was rubbish, and she told him so, though good naturedly. She hadn't stopped laughing or smiling. He was funto dance with, and to talk to. Wasn't that more important?

She'd fallen twice, nearly spraining her ankle on the second, before she'd given up and ripped her shoes off. She half-apologized, but he was sympathetic, even applauded her for making it that far.

Sirius. The pirate. His mate. His name was Sirius. They'd been best friends since they were eleven. He's lived here with James since they were fifteen. He was an obnoxious drunk, maybe, but an otherwise solid mate…Halloween parties excepting, apparently.

She could appreciate the sentiment.

She told him all about Mary, how they'd been mates since they were fourteen. Her childhood stories—the classics, and the obscure.

It's appallingly easy to tell him things.

She'd spent their fifth song, a slow number, running her hands through his hair. Not to massage his scalp or to be overly sexual, though there was a bit of that, sure. No, she was on a mission to undo that ridiculous half-pompadour. He'd pouted and winced when she pulled his hair, but he let her do it all the same. The result was a veritable rat's nest, hair sticking up in all directions. It seemed more like him, and it was strangely, ridiculously endearing. She told him that, too.

When he asked if she wanted another drink, she requested a cola. She no longer felt the need for alcohol to spur on a good time. She still had to drive home, anyway, though that prospect was less and less appealing, the more time she spent with James.

She knew she was in trouble, actual trouble, when returned with their drinks—two colas, she noted—and a pair of socks. For her feet, so they wouldn't get sticky from beer spilled on the floor. They were hideous, the socks, but the gesture was ridiculously sweet. If he didn't mind her attire, she didn't, either.

He tugged at her wig during their ninth dance. Or was it their tenth? Didn't matter, really, because he'd been begging and pleading for a while to know what her hair colour was. It was so silly, that she wouldn't tell him, but it'd turned into a game, and he was incredibly fun to tease. He'd lost patience and tugged at it, unsettling a few bobby pins in the process. He groaned against her shoulder, actually groaned, before pulling back to smile at her in that way that made her stomach do somersaults. He pulled her closer, which she didn't know was possible, but it was because he was closer.

He had freckles on the bridge of his nose.

"So," said the pirate, Sirius, to the witch, Mary, who was also his current dance partner, "do you think we'll ever be able to tell them?"

"That this was a setup?"

"Yeah."

"Hell no. Do you have a death wish?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Lily doesn't do blind dates, I told you that." When he looked at her skeptically, she continued, "This is an awfully big ruse, you know—with the bet, and the bet he had to lose, and the party, and the girl who just happened to show up as his fictional other half."

"You had a key part, too," he reminded her. "I recall something about a pretend cheating wanker boyfriend breaking your heart? Moping for a month? Playing to her sympathies? It's a brilliant plan, MacDonald. Truly devious." He nodded at her.

"If only we had chemistry, Black, I might snog you for that." She paused, staring at him expectantly before laughing at her own joke. They were Chem partners, she and Sirius, that's how they'd met. They'd tried a date and a snog, and after laughing at what little chemistry they had, became quasi-mates. Over long lab hours they'd complained about their respective best mates, realized they might actually be perfect together, decided to set them up, remembered that neither of them 'did' setups, and spent weeks finding a workaround.

The deviousness had worked, hadn't it? Because they'd known each other for three hours and they were already nauseating. They'd disappeared a half hour before, up the stairs and into who-knows-where to do who-knows-what.

Snogging fiercely in the boys' shared toilet, turns out, because Sirius had walked in on them by accident. He'd come to find Mary and tell her all about it. So here they were, dancing, reveling in their victory. The party had thinned significantly in the intervening hours, and while the front room was still respectably full, it was no longer suffocating to be there.

"You owe me for that, MacDonald. It was bloody traumatizing to walk in on them…"

"No, stop, please.It's enough to know we were successful in our mission. I don't need details."

"I don't want to relay those details, so we are in accord."

"Do you think they'll make a real go of it?"

"They both know every single sodding word to the Grease vinyl, MacDonald. And James 'lost' a bet but he didn't fight me that hard about being Danny bleeding Zuko, and Evans was the same about Sandy, wasn't she?"

"What's your point, Sirius?"

"It's a start, innit?" he asked, dipping her with a flourish. "It's a start."