Petunia Evans

Gilderoy had written the number on the inside of her cigarette carton in loopy, overconfident handwriting. "Your lifeline, darling. Or mine. Depending on the day."

It was their landline, he'd said, whispered like it was something forbidden. His mother didn't like him giving it out, not even to school friends. She liked control. Petunia understood that well enough.

She'd only used it once. Just to test if it worked. She hung up before anyone answered, but he'd called her back an hour later with an easy, knowing voice. "Thought it might be you. Thought you might need air."

Now they were at a bonfire by the sea.

The sky was streaked with the last embers of dusk, purples and oranges curling into each other like bruises. The bonfire crackled high, sparks kicking into the wind. Someone had brought a portable radio. The music was fuzzy but loud, some mix of Bowie and Blondie warped by the wind.

Petunia wasn't sure who had invited her, or how Gilderoy had known where to find her on a night like this. He'd pulled up beside her as she was walking by the cliffs, leaned out his car window, and said, "Beach? Fire? Escapism? Let's be tragic together."

Now they were sat on the sand, shoes off, bottle of something golden and sharp between them. The alcohol burned but made everything feel looser, like her bones had melted into her skin.

She was giggling too loudly at something Gilderoy had said, probably not even that funny, and he was sprawled out beside her, head tilted toward the sky like he belonged in a painting. His curls were a mess, the sea air tugging at them in all directions, and his shirt had sand ground into the sleeves.

"You ever feel like you're always acting?" she asked suddenly.

He turned his head toward her, slow and thoughtful. "Darling, I'm never not performing. The trick is to never let them see when it's real." He smiled as he said it, but it didn't reach his eyes.

A girl from the party wandered over, cheeks flushed, bottle swinging from her fingers. "Gilderoy, there you are! Come dance with us, your Bowie impression is legendary."

He was already on his feet before Petunia could respond. A flash of white teeth. Shoulders back. Posture flawless.

"How could I say no to such a tempting offer?"

He turned to Petunia, gave her a wink. "Back in a tick."

She watched him melt into the crowd like he'd been born for it. Every word he said landed perfectly. Every gesture earned laughter or sighs or admiration. He moved like he belonged to all of them, like he was made of glitter and charisma and storybook charm.

But Petunia had seen it, that shift, the moment his spine straightened and his mouth pulled into something carefully shaped. It wasn't real.

When he finally returned, maybe twenty minutes later, he looked tired around the edges. He dropped beside her in the sand again with a groan, the performance falling away like a costume that had grown too heavy.

"God, I hate them all just a little bit tonight." She handed him the bottle without a word.

He took a swig, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Don't get me wrong," he said, "I like being adored. I just wish it didn't cost so much."

Petunia rested her chin on her knees. The firelight danced across his face, casting half of it in gold and the other in shadow.

"You could just... not do it."

He huffed a laugh, soft and bitter. "You don't not do it when it's the only thing you've been praised for since you were four."

They were quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt shared. Trusted.

Petunia glanced sideways at him. "You're very complicated for someone who sparkles that much."

He grinned without showing teeth. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all year."

They watched the waves for a while, the radio stuttering into a new track. Someone yelled behind them, chasing a dog or a friend into the surf.

Petunia leaned back on her elbows, the stars blurry above her. She didn't know who most of these people were. Didn't know where she was meant to fit in. But Gilderoy had found her on a night she didn't want to be found, and he hadn't looked away from the parts she usually kept hidden.

She didn't know he was like Lily. That he could do things impossible to explain. That he came from a world she wasn't meant to belong to. All she knew was that he was broken in places that looked familiar. That he smiled like a mask but listened like it mattered.

The Kinks blared from the radio like they were trying to save someone's soul. Gilderoy had leapt to his feet when the first chords of You Really Got Me started up, yanking Petunia up with him.

"Come on, Pet, you must dance to this," he slurred, grinning like a madman.

"I don't dance," she protested, already swaying in her spot.

"You drink, you smoke, you cry in alleyways, but dancing is too far?"

He spun her before she could argue, his hands loose but confident. The sand shifted under her feet. She stumbled, laughing, hair whipping into her mouth as he sang along far too loudly and off-key.

They danced like idiots, arms flailing, Gilderoy occasionally tripping over seaweed, Petunia laughing so hard her ribs hurt. Someone threw sticks into the fire. Someone else whooped as they stripped to their underwear and ran into the water.

Everything was bright and strange and too alive.

By the time they started walking home, the sky was a black sheet pinned with stars. Petunia had taken off her shoes and carried them in one hand holding a half empty bottle in the other. Gilderoy had sand in his hair and a faint smear of lipstick on his cheek from someone who wasn't her. He hadn't noticed. Neither had she.

"You're better company than most of the twats I go to school with," he said suddenly, voice thick with drink.

"High praise coming from someone who owns a mirror the size of a wardrobe."

"You wound me." He placed a hand over his heart. "But I suppose it's deserved. I do like myself quite a bit."

"At least you're honest."

They walked quietly for a moment, their arms brushing now and then. The town was half asleep. A streetlamp flickered above them. The sea was still loud, crashing just far enough behind to sound like memory.

"You know," Gilderoy said, pausing at the end of her road, "you're not forgettable, Petunia. That sounds weird, I mean, you think you are. I can tell. But you're not." He grinned again, crooked and messy this time.

"I'll call," he added, already walking backwards. "We'll drink terrible wine and talk shit about our families again. It'll be divine." She watched him stumble up the street, his silhouette bouncing slightly as he waved with both hands. The night swallowed him in pieces.

Petunia sighed, still smiling, cheeks warm from liquor and praise.

As she turned toward the house, she spotted someone sitting on the front steps. Quiet. Folded in on himself.

Lily's friend, the one with the long cardigan and the gentle voice. The one with the tired eyes and the scars down his face like someone had taken a blade to him and decided to stop halfway through healing.

He didn't look up until she got closer.

"Hello!" she beamed, voice too loud.

He blinked, startled. "Sorry," she added, less confidently now. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's alright," he said softly, eyes kind even through the surprise.

"Remus, right?"

He nodded. "Petunia."

She plopped down next to him, ignoring the throb in her knees from the alcohol and the night. "You look like someone stole your puppy."

He huffed a laugh, rubbed the back of his neck. "Something like that."

She offered him the dregs of whatever bottle she still had in her hand. He hesitated before accepting.

"Why're you out here?" she asked, head tilted.

He took a slow sip before answering. "Unrequited love."

Petunia groaned. "God. Don't we all have that."

"You too?"

"More than once. Mine usually come with emotional repression or a controlling personality. Bonus points if they hate themselves."

"At least yours are consistent." He smiled again, this time for real.

They sat there, shoulder to shoulder on the steps, streetlight buzzing above them. Two very tired hearts in very different shapes.

"Do they know?" she asked eventually.

"Probably. Doesn't matter. It wouldn't change anything." She nodded. She knew that feeling too.

Remus looked at her then, really looked, and said, "You're not what I expected."

"That's good, right?"

"It is."

They clinked their bottles together like it was some kind of pact.