“So, James, do you play sports?”

The answer was automatic. “Yeah, Quid--” Remus’s sharp elbow to his side, acting as a reminder, almost made him choke on his cake. He turned it into a hybrid of a cough-sneeze that would have made Sirius howl in laughter.

“Gesundheit,” Lily said sarcastically, her lips twitching in amusement.

She didn’t eat hearts for breakfast, per se. (She liked to maintain a figure.) No, she littered broken hearts like half-finished cigarettes on the sidewalk: used, abandoned, and stomped on, usually by the heel of the aforementioned stiletto.

Potter was a black espresso shot, bitter and sudden and jolt-inducing, and Sev was a milk cappuccino, sweet and familiar and calming.

Dorcas claimed that she was completely over Remus Lupin. But Lily could see the chinks in her armor, even if her friend was trying to cover them up with too-vibrant red lipstick and too-ostentatious leopard print.

“Be my plus one instead,” James blurted out, and his sod of a best mate looked unnecessarily triumphant. He, on the other hand, was horrified at this lapse of self-control.

“Well, well, well, Jamesy,” came the sing song. “If you have a little crush on Evans you could have just said.”

What were her words? That he was worse than crucio? Well, the same could be said for her, he thought bitterly: she could hurt him more than that damn spell ever could.

James Potter had never been a purveyor of blind optimism. (Just blind reckless stupidity; sometimes, that was the same thing.)

“So, friends?” he continued, extending a hand.

“Friends,” she confirmed, and like the complete dorks that they were, they shook on it.

He wondered if witches knew, if blokes sounded differently when they were speaking with their stomach at their feet.

“Remus Lupin, that must be the most backwards way someone has ever asked me out.”

They kissed to the backdrop of fireworks against a starry night sky.