You stare at the pair of dark green eyes that meet yours unflinching, challenging you to speak a word against her. And sure, you can tell yourself you've gotten over her, you can play the words in your mind a thousand times over as if it were your creed, but when it comes down to it (when she's reduced you to nothing but a pool of awkward glances and embarrassing rejections), you can't honestly tell yourself that you wouldn't drop everything to be with her. Because in the presence of Lily Evans you are weak. You feel horribly incompetent and like a complete jackass, and your friends call you desperate and maybe even a bit pathetic.
You tell yourself you're going to quit her, give her up like the bad habit she has become, and it will be easier than when you gave up cigarettes in you sixth year, when you quit cold turkey. But you tell yourself this is different, that surely it is only reasonable to phase her out little by little, until she is just another background player in your life; a girl who is fun to be with but whom you do not constantly, constantly think about. And of course this "phasing out" plan sounds good and well until she looks at you with those damn eyes and smiles at you and laughs because you made her laugh, and suddenly you realize that you (James Potter Quidditch Captain Head Boy) are completely fucked.
And aren't you just the world's most beautiful bleeding-heart romantic when you think of her and come up with poems in your head, wondering if you'll ever have the chance to impress her with your nearly useless knowledge of old Muggle poets. Indeed you are a tortured soul when you shamelessly stare at her nylon-clad thighs and notice that the top two buttons of her blouse are undone.
You try to remember when— or if— you've ever felt like this before, and with a pang of realization you realize that (oh God, please, no) you are in love with her.
This epiphany comes to you when the two of you are alone in a corridor, patrolling late at night, and her hands are on her hips and she is fixing you with a heated stare (a stare that makes your skin burn, a stare that makes you think of all the unmentionable things you would do with her if she let you).
"I'll ask you again," she says, her patience growing thin, "why the hell are you staring at me like that?"
You can see that she is about to snap, can see that you have tested her one too many times with the way you unabashedly gaze at her with desire. You know you are wrong for doing so, and perhaps another night you will regret it, but tonight you think "fuck it" and decide it is time to stop wistfully pining and hoping that she'll one day come around to you, eager and asking for your forgiveness.
So you take a step closer to her, then another, until her back is pressed to the cool stone wall and she looks as though she is about to speak, about to yell at you and send your confidence sulking back to a hole with its tail betwixt its legs. But you quickly cut her off by leaning in dangerously close to her, and you see her expression change from anger and confusion to want and anticipation. You kiss her, quickly and softly on her rosy lips, lips that taste like honey and fire all in one. You end it as quickly as you started it, and the look in her eyes is one you cannot quite make out.
"I think you know why," you whisper against her lips.
"You are an arsehole, James Potter," she breathes, seemingly angry.
As she storms off you reckon you should feel defeated, feel like a complete idiot for kissing her, but there is a flame in your chest because you swear to God you saw her smile just before she turned to leave.